practice.”
She stared at him. “But you must marry a woman of your own station. It is your duty to your family.”
He stopped smiling. “My family hunts monsters, Virginia, not foxes or deer or squirrels. What is more, we do it for money whenever possible. It is, as I made clear to Mrs. Crofton, the family business. I’m afraid that there is no getting around the fact that we are in trade. Where does that put us on the social ladder?”
“I hadn’t thought about it in those terms,” she admitted.
“Sweetwaters are not bound by society’s conventions when it comes to marriage. We cannot afford to abide by them. For us, too much depends on finding the right woman. I have found you. You are what I need to help me survive the night.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sweetwater men must marry women who can accept the talent and the compulsion that drives us to hunt, strong women who can be our partners as well as our lovers. We must choose women who can keep and protect the family secrets.”
“Well, yes, I can understand how trust would be of paramount importance in a Sweetwater marriage, given your family’s eccentricities, but that’s not my point here.”
“It goes far beyond trust,” Owen said evenly. “It is a matter of survival.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I am going to tell you the greatest Sweetwater secret of all. The men of my family can survive the hunt over time only if we succeed in finding the right women. Each of us must find the one with whom we can truly bond. If we fail to establish such a connection, we are doomed.”
“To die?” She gasped, horrified. “I can’t believe that.”
“Death is not what we fear. In the end we all die. What the men in my family risk is far worse, the slow, cold, empty doom we call nightwalking. When a Sweetwater becomes a true nightwalker he is consumed utterly by the passion for the hunt. Nothing else matters. The bloodlust is the only emotion he can feel, an absolute obsession that can never be satisfied. There is no peace, no rest, no other passion. The darkness takes over. He seeks the only escape available to him.”
“Suicide?”
“You could call it a form of suicide, perhaps.” Owen straightened away from the bed. “The Sweetwater who becomes a true nightwalker starts to take great risks. He shuts himself off from the family. He begins to hunt alone. He goes out again and again, seeking prey. Eventually he miscalculates. Some say deliberately.”
She shuddered. “That night, after you were attacked, one of your nephews said something to the effect that your family was worried because you were starting to walk the streets at night. Now I understand the concern. Are you sliding into this dangerous obsession you speak of?”
He smiled. “Not any longer. I have found you.” Methodically he began to unfasten his shirt. “Now all I have to do is convince you to marry me.”
This was the one man she could trust, she thought, the one she had been waiting for. If he said he loved her, she could believe him.
She smiled slowly. “Well, when you put it that way, I can hardly refuse.”
His hands dropped away from the unbuttoned shirt. His eyes burned with a stark hunger.
“Virginia—”
“I love you, Owen Sweetwater. You are the only man who has ever understood me, the only one who can handle my talent. I need you as much as you need me. I will love you to the end of my days and beyond, if such a thing is possible.”
He smiled his dangerous smile. “That’s how it’s supposed to work.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed. One boot hit the floor, and then the other. Virginia watched as he unbuckled the leather sheath containing the knife and placed it on the nightstand.
He stood long enough to remove his trousers, and then he came to her in a fever of passion. She shivered when he touched her, thrilling to his touch, as she always would. A great longing built deep inside her.
She felt his strong fingers move on her, stroking all the secret places. When she touched him intimately he shuddered in response. She could feel the perspiration on his sleek back.
He lowered himself on top of her and slowly, reverently joined their bodies together, generating the intimate currents of the most powerful force on the spectrum — the energy of love.
FORTY-FIVE
How did you find us last night?” Mrs. Crofton asked.
They were gathered once again in the tiny parlor. The space was crowded. Virginia and Charlotte occupied the sofa. Mrs. Crofton sat on one of the dainty chairs. The four Sweetwater men ignored the spindly furniture. They lounged around the room like great cats or propped themselves gracefully against the walls and mantel.
“I discovered that a woman named Alcina Norgate was the sole beneficiary of Lady Hollister’s will,” Owen said. “But it appeared to be a dead end. So I went back to the start of the case and considered events from another angle.”
“What angle?” Nick asked.
Owen gripped the marble edge of the mantel. “It occurred to me that the killer was too sure of himself, too certain that his experiments with Ratford and Hackett were not likely to be disturbed. Later, after I did disturb them, he felt confident enough to place the curiosities on guard.”
“I understand,” Virginia said. “You wondered why he felt comfortable returning again and again to the scenes of the crimes.”
“It is not uncommon for a villain to do that,” Owen said. “But this particular killer seemed especially casual about it. There was one obvious reason why that might be true. If he owned the houses, he could make sure they remained empty as long as he wished.”
“Of course.” Enthusiasm leaped in Nick’s eyes. “He did not need to fear that a new occupant would move in.”
Owen looked at Virginia. “I paid a call on the agent who rented this house to you. It took some time, but I eventually discovered that Welch was your landlord. I also learned that he owned the two houses that had been rented by the glass-readers who were murdered.”
Tony grinned. “As my father would say, that is an example of the importance of basic detective work. No paranormal talent involved.”
“It wasn’t proof that Welch was a murderer,” Owen said. “But it did raise some interesting questions and suggested some answers.”
Virginia winced. “No wonder Mr. Welch was so helpful when I signed the contract with the Institute. He was delighted to find another glass-reader. He directed me to the agent who rented this house to me. I expect that is how the other two glass-readers came by their leased houses as well.”
“Yes.”
Charlotte looked at him, intrigued. “How did you discover Mr. Welch’s address?”
“That was not so easy,” Owen said. “The agent did not have it. He simply deposited the funds into a bank account. But I was fairly certain someone else did know where Welch lived.”
Mrs. Crofton’s brow wrinkled. “Who was that?”
Owen looked at her. “Gilmore Leybrook.”
Virginia raised her brows. “You called on Leybrook?”
Owen smiled his Sweetwater smile. “He was very helpful.”
Virginia groaned. “I doubt that. Please tell me that he is alive and in reasonably good condition.”
“Leybrook is recovering from a shock to the senses, but he is fine,” Owen said.
Virginia decided not to pursue that subject. She turned to Mrs. Crofton. “What did you learn from the Hollister housekeeper?”
