When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (17 page)

An invisible noose tightened around Matthew’s throat.

He’d protect her.

If Harwick didn’t kill him first.

Not that Matthew didn’t already live with that danger. Like an ever-present executioner shadowing his movements, the knowledge that Claude Harwick might turn on him at any moment was always with him. If his cousin discovered Matthew’s true reasons for throwing in his lot with the gang of smugglers, Harwick would attack, remorseless as a wolf savaging its prey. Matthew would wind up face down in the Thames with lead in his back. If he were lucky.

But he’d long ceased caring about his own fate. There were times when he didn’t give a damn if he lived to see the next sunrise. He’d been torn from a bare-bones existence in the foulest slums of London to a far more refined purgatory.

Christ, he couldn’t blame Claude for what he’d become. Growing up, they’d both been desperate to escape the rookery of St. Giles. Rat-infested houses, little better than prison cells. Filth and squalor all about. Underfed souls, stinking and squabbling, doing whatever it took to survive.

As a lad, Matthew had taken to the streets. He’d become quite an adept thief, lifting whatever he could to supplement his grandmother’s meager purse. Until she had died. And he’d been thrust into a brutal hell under his uncle’s miserable roof.

Claude had been a scrawny lad sprouting his first whiskers when Matthew was shuttled to live with Uncle Bert’s family. His cousin had possessed a quick fuse and a cruel streak, taking bloodthirsty sport with vermin unlucky enough to venture his way. Killing the unfortunate creatures hadn’t satisfied Claude. No, he’d toyed with the pitiful beasts, ensuring they’d suffered as he had slowly snuffed out their existence.

Claude had come by his vicious ways naturally. Uncle Bert had seemed affable enough at first, when he thought Matthew could be used to ply money out of his high-and-mighty father. After all, what member of the House of Lords would want it known that his son was picking pockets in St. Giles? When the sterling hadn’t come, the beatings had followed.

And then, his father had claimed Matthew, whisking him away to a luxurious Mayfair home. Thrust into a world of privilege and sophistication, Matthew had found the sense of being an outsider another torment, inescapable, and somehow even crueler than Uncle Bert’s leather strap.

But now, Matthew had more to worry about than himself. Jennie was playing a dangerous game. Damn it, what was the woman up to? Trying to protect her seemed as futile as attempting to restrain the wind. She seemed utterly fearless.

And that reckless courage scared the hell out of him.

Harwick was getting edgy. He hadn’t caught Jennie’s scent. Not yet. But it was a matter of time before he noticed her snooping around. If she stumbled onto something that could hurt him, he wouldn’t give a damn that she was a woman.

And now a reporter was asking questions. Blast the fool. Trent was determined to find himself in the river. Harwick would silence the bastard without blinking. Matthew would do what he could to keep the bloke alive. Odd, how even after Trent had used his position to crucify him in the press, Matthew still possessed enough of a soul to care if the bastard lived or died.

But why the hell had the reporter shown up at the Lancaster now?

It seemed too much to be a bloody coincidence. Was Jennie feeding him leads? Was the bastard her goddamned lover? Had her breathless act been just that—an act?

He had to find out what she was doing. And fast.

A figure approached through the shadows, sneaking from the recesses behind the
Herald
’s offices. His informant was little more than a child. Matthew stared down at the sweaty urchin who’d offered up Jennie’s secret for a few pence. What could this scrap of a lad tell him about Jennie that he hadn’t been able to ferret out himself?

“Hey guv’nor, read this.”

Sweat and filth assailed Matthew’s sense of smell, but he ignored the pungent stench and took the newspaper from the printer’s apprentice.

The boy’s grubby hand remained outstretched, palm up, his thin, dirty face set in a scowl.

“Did ye forget somethin’, guv’nor?”

Matthew glared over the folded newsprint. “You’ll get your due when I’m convinced you know what you’re talking about.”

Scanning the page, he shook his head in disgust. The filth-covered lad would try his best to get money out of him, even if it meant lying through his teeth. Once, in a life Matthew never allowed himself to forget, he would have been tempted to sell his soul for a sovereign. He’d been a fool to believe a boy barely out of knickerbockers would have knowledge of Jennie Danvers.

Still, his gut insisted he follow this through. Had Jennie sought out Trent, seeking to use the bits of information she’d gleaned at the tavern for her own purposes?

“There’s not a blasted thing here,” he muttered, restraining the urge to crumple the paper into a ball and pitch it to the ground.

The apprentice wiped a bony hand through his greasy hair. “It’s there, I tell ye.” He jabbed his finger at an article on the front page. “Right there.”

Children Labor in Filthy Death Traps.
The lad wasn’t making a damned bit of sense. There wasn’t one word about Jennie Danvers, not a single mention of her name.

“This is worthless.”

“Look, guv’nor. Look ’ere,” the apprentice urged in an excited voice. He poked an ink-stained fingernail at the byline.

J. Q. Knight
.

“What of it?” Matthew nearly growled the words.

The lad’s thin mouth set in a dour line, and he shook his head as if he viewed Matthew as impossibly dull-witted.

“That’s her.”

Matthew stared down at the page. An image floated to his consciousness. The drunk, babbling on about Jennie. Something about a brother at Oxford. He’d called her by a different name.

Bollocks
.

The bloke’s claims had been more than intoxicated ramblings.

Jennie Quinn.

J.Q. Knight.

“That’s her?”

Nodding his grimy head, the apprentice jutted out his hand again. “I’ll ’ave me money now, sir.”

Chapter Sixteen

Jennie curled beneath her quilt, savoring a wicked dream as she drifted through the warm realm between sleep and awareness. A scratch of metal against metal pricked the surface of that gentle cocoon, but through the drowsy fog, the faint sound scarcely registered.

Another noise. The
creak
of door hinges.

Good heavens! She bolted upright, only to be pressed back to the pillow, a strong hand secure against her mouth. Her muffled scream echoed through her brain as the intruder pinned her to the mattress.

“Jennie…it’s me.” Matthew spoke in a ragged whisper.

Her fear ebbed. Fury surged into its place, and she flailed against him.

“I can’t take the chance you’ll scream. You know I won’t hurt you. Stop fighting me.” His voice, husky and gentle, was infuriatingly calm. Somehow, his rational tone triggered even more anger. Damn the man and his arrogance, overpowering her and then not seeming the least bit taxed by the effort.

She squirmed against his hold for good measure, then nodded compliantly until the pressure on her mouth eased.

“Have you gone daft?” she demanded. “What the bloody—”

“Language, sweetheart. My, you do have a temper.”

She pulled herself up on her elbows and fixed him with a glare. “Why are you here? I’m surprised you got past Mrs. O’Brien.”

He hiked a brow. “Were those her snores I heard as I passed her flat?”

“Most likely. So much for her claims to be a light sleeper.”

“As a lad, I learned a bit about stealth. I assume you’re aware of my thieving past.”

His words set off a quiet but powerful alarm.
Aware of my thieving past.
Quite peculiar. Did he hope to provoke a reaction that would betray her purposes? Fighting a fresh wave of apprehension, Jennie eyed her wrapper, dangling over the side chair where she’d tossed it the night before.

“You’ve no right to be here. Mrs. O’Brien would keel over if she found you…perched on my bed while I’m wearing nothing but my nightdress.”

Moonbeams streamed in the window, casting his features in an intriguing play of light and shadows. “Would you prefer me to remove it?”

The audacity of the man. If only the thought was not so blasted tempting. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, snatched up the wrapper, and bundled herself in it. As if that would shield her from the wicked promise in his dark gaze.

She drew a long breath, allowing her pulse to slow. “Have you gone mad?”

“I’ve asked myself that question more than once recently. I needed to get you alone. This discussion requires privacy.”

Perhaps he
had
taken leave of his sanity. “I cannot imagine invading my bedchamber was necessary to have a blasted discussion.”

His long fingers skimmed her cheek. A sly smile curved his mouth. “Would you have preferred seduction? I could be persuaded to defer our discourse until after I’ve had my way with you.”

So the blackguard thought to taunt her. Well, two could play at his game.

“The prospect is indeed tempting. Doesn’t every woman dream of a mysterious scoundrel ravishing her in the darkness?”

She heard his sharply indrawn breath and knew she’d hit her target. His fingertips slid lower, cupping her chin.

“Am I a scoundrel, Jennie?”

She shifted her gaze to the determined set of his jaw, strong angles coated with stubble, the harsh set of his features softened by a mouth so subtly sensual, her primal reaction set her senses reeling.

“Yes. And a more dangerous man I’ve never met.”

Reason lost the skirmish against her essential instincts. She pressed her lips to his. He answered her caress with a kiss, tenderness and demand twined within his possessive touch.

“You’re enough to make a man forget all his good intentions,” he murmured against her mouth. “A skill you’ve cultivated over the years, no doubt.”

She jerked back as though he’d struck her. His gaze had gone cold. Hard.

“You bastard,” she whispered.

“There’s no doubt of that. We both know full well who I am. My illustrious father’s by-blow, the product of his seduction of a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. Am I supposed to give thanks each day that he finally saw fit to claim me?” Matthew’s tones were low but rife with bitterness, his cadences taking on those he’d left behind on the streets of St. Giles. “What I don’t know, Jennie, is why you’ve decided to toy with a man like me. What’s in it for you, luv?”

Apprehension welled within her, relentless and foreboding. What did he know?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The lie was unconvincing to her own ears. “You must leave. This is no longer amusing.”

“You’re clever, and you’ve got steel in your spine. But Harwick isn’t going to give a damn about that if he decides you’re a threat to him.”

“A threat? My, I’ve never been considered a menace before.” Jennie cocked her chin, meeting his grim stare. “Indeed, I might well spill a tumbler of whiskey in his lap. Or perhaps in my clumsiness, I will leave a spot of ale on his waistcoat. One never knows.”

“You know damned well what I’m talking about, Jennie. Harwick doesn’t deal with problems like most people. He makes sure they aren’t around to cause any trouble.” He raked a hand through his hair. Something that looked like desperation flared in his eyes. “I’ll protect you. But that won’t be enough.”

Alarm dug its talons into her belly, but she donned the calm façade she’d long perfected. “Surely you must realize this is all quite absurd. I don’t know who has filled your head with these nonsensical notions.”

Matthew slowly shook his head. “Jennie, I know who you are.”

The invisible talons dug deeper. She pulled in a breath, steeling herself against the accusation in his eyes. “Who I am? What manner of foolishness—”

“Do not attempt to play the innocent with me. I know the truth. Your secret is not as well-protected as you thought.”

“Secret?” She clipped the word between her teeth. No matter what intelligence he’d come upon, denial was her best defense. “Pray tell what might this deep, dark secret be, Mr. Colton?”

He scowled, his gaze darkening fiercely. “Continue to play this game, and you’ll find yourself beyond my protection. Snooping around Harwick’s territory is not an investigation. It’s a death wish.”

Investigation.
What had he learned of her dealings at the tavern? Jennie wrapped her arms over her chest like a shield and exhaled slowly, as if that would calm her rampaging pulse.

“This is all quite preposterous. Please go. Now.”

His scowl intensified. “I don’t want to see you at the Lancaster again.”

The door closed behind his broad back. As quietly as he’d entered, he was gone.

Jennie sank to the edge of the bed and tugged the quilt around her. The warmth of the hand-stitched coverlet did little to ease the shiver that peppered her skin.

So, Matthew believed he’d figured her out. But precisely what did he know? Was he acting on suspicion, hoping to lead her into an admission she could not afford to make? Or had he uncovered her secret? Did he know the truth? All of it?

He’d left her shaken. She couldn’t deny that, even to herself. Matthew had won the skirmish. But the battle wasn’t over. It would take more than accusations uttered without proof to make her forfeit. Whatever he’d discovered, she wasn’t willing to meekly accept he’d put her in checkmate. Until that time, she’d carry on with her investigation. She owed Mary that much. Truth be told, he’d said nothing she didn’t already know. Claude Harwick was a man to be feared. Good heavens, schoolchildren most likely knew that brutal truth.

I don’t want to see you at the Lancaster again
.

Well, right then. She hiked the blanket to her chin. If Matthew expected to keep her away, he’d best be prepared to give her the sack in full view of the staff. In which case, she’d have an excuse for leaving Harwick’s midst. To simply walk away would raise dangerous questions in Harwick’s ruthless mind.

A part of her, small and quiet, dared to wonder if Matthew was right. Every night when she showed her face at the tavern, she tempted fate. Her brother’s inebriated friend had picked her out of the crowd, despite being deep in his cups. If the sot hadn’t slurred his speech and wobbled like a half-stuffed scarecrow, his identification might have carried weight. How many others would stumble upon her until she could no longer hide behind an alias?

She’d dealt with hardened criminals along the way, but she’d never run afoul of a violent tyrant like Claude Harwick. If he discovered her secret, she wouldn’t be able to run far enough to escape his cruel web.

Jennie slid under the covers. Staring up at the array of moonbeams adorning the ceiling, Harwick’s visage invaded her thoughts, his eyes cold as the silver beams, marked with a steely intelligence. Harsh. Unfeeling. A ruthless predator.

And like a predator, he’d hone in on sudden movement or unexpected change. If she fled, he’d notice. He’d pick up her trail. He’d find her. And he’d silence her.

She’d have to see this through. Any deviation in her actions that drew Harwick’s attention was dangerous. For her. And for Matthew. At this point, there was no way out.