When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (2 page)

Poole grimaced and bit out a profanity. Perspiration beaded his broad forehead, each furtive movement seeming to intensify his misery. “I’ll kill you, you bastard.”

“Unlikely,” Colton replied. “Now, what did you say to the lady?”

Poole sank to his knees. “I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about.”

The steady calm of Matthew Colton’s voice failed to disguise its lethal edge. “Do I need to refresh your memory?”

The big man offered a frantic shake of his head. “I remember now.”

Colton’s brow furrowed as he regarded his prisoner. His mouth set in a stern line. “I think an apology is in order.”

“I’m sorry,” Poole sputtered.

“Not to me,” he corrected in the manner of a schoolmaster growing weary of a dull student. “Apologize to the lady.”

“Sorry, miss.” He gasped a breath. “Truly sorry if I offended you.”

Jennie composed her features and nodded her acceptance.

“That’s better. Next time, keep your hands off the lady.” Colton released his captive’s arm. “Get the hell out of here.”

Eyes glazed with rage, Poole pulled himself to his feet. A smirk twisted his lips. “This ain’t over. Not while ye’re still standin’.”

He wielded his fist like a battering ram. Colton evaded the blow with a quick step to the side. Poole’s balled hand slammed into another man’s bearded chin with a sickening thud.

“Oh, dear.” Jennie pressed her palm to her mouth. Why did Poole’s errant blow have to land on a mountain of a man?

The burly giant rose to his full height, shook his shaggy blond head as if to clear it, and rubbed his hair-covered jaw. His blue eyes narrowed to an icy stare. “Ye bloody bastard.”

He reared back and swung. More agile on his feet than Jennie would have guessed, Poole dodged the impact. The massive fist hooked into a portly onlooker.

Reeling from the punch, the stout man swayed on his feet. Fury transformed his features to a grim mask. “What the ’ell do you think you’re doin’?” He lifted a chair over his head. “Let’s see ’ow this feels!”

Colton seized Jennie’s arm and tugged her behind his back. She stood on tiptoe to see past his broad shoulders. Fists and chairs flew in a frenzied brawl.

“Good heavens, you’ve started a riot!”

“I believe that honor belongs to you,” he said, his voice low and wry.

“Me?” Jennie scoffed.

“As I recall, you struck the first blow. Come on, you need to get out of here.”

He caught her hand and dragged her to the door. A fist slammed into his jaw with a bone-shaking crunch. Colton staggered beneath the punishing force.

“Ye ain’t so tough when ye don’t see it comin’,” Poole taunted. His meaty paw clamped over Jennie’s arm.

Colton’s attention flickered to Jennie. “Watch out.”

He plunged his elbow into Poole’s bloated face. As the big man’s grip went slack, Jennie scrambled out of reach, nearly tumbling over her skirts.

Poole smeared blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, his beady eyes darting about like a cornered rat. He drew a switchblade from his jacket as if he’d pulled Excalibur from a stone.

He lunged. “I’ll carve yer heart out, ye bloody swine.”

The blade etched a slash over Colton’s waistcoat. He retreated a step. His jaw set in concentration. And then, he attacked. Driving a knee into Poole’s middle, he forced the hulk’s paw of a hand down, bending it at the wrist until his fingers were pressed nearly parallel with his forearm.

Poole’s crude bellow tore through the tavern. The ashen-faced cur’s knife clattered to the floor. He met Colton’s dark, unwavering stare.

“Get out of here.” Colton’s calm, quiet rasp did not mask the tightly leashed menace in his words. “While you still can.”

“Ye’d best watch yer back, Colton.”

“Vermin lurking in the alleys are the least of my worries.”

With a muttered obscenity, Poole turned and skulked away. Colton kept his focus on the oaf who lumbered through the tavern door.

Colton turned to face her. A dark streak marred his silver-gray waistcoat. How badly had he been wounded in her defense?

Jennie pulled in a breath. “You’ve been injured.”

He met her concern with a shrug. “Did he hurt you?”

Her fingers massaged the tender marks where Poole’s fingers had latched onto her wrist. “No.”

Colton’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a poor liar.”

“I assure you, I’ll survive. The brute shook me up a bit. Nothing more.”

“If the cur comes in here again, I’ll make him sorry he ever touched you.”

For reasons she didn’t quite understand, his words warmed her. “I believe you’ve already done that.”

Behind them, glass crashed against the floor, shattering the moment. Without a word, Colton wrapped his hands around Jennie’s waist and shifted her none too gently to the side. Two men tussled in the spot where she’d stood a heartbeat earlier. Fists flailing, their expressions betrayed their pleasure at knocking each other senseless.

“Sodding fools.” He ducked to avoid a fist headed straight for his face. “This is no place for a lady.”

Something hard grazed the crown of her head. Her body jolted. Suddenly, the world turned inside out.

The floor wobbled as the walls closed in.

Chapter Two

Jennie’s knees buckled, but strong arms impeded her descent. A heady essence—bay rum mingled with traces of whiskey and something more, something utterly male and intoxicating at the most primal level—washed over her. And then she was in Matthew Colton’s arms, swept up with an effortless motion. The heat of his body seared through the layers of cotton and wool and burned into her skin.

She blinked, struggling to digest it all. Her head spun as if she’d imbibed too much wine. Around her, chaos reigned. Noise cascaded over her, shouts and angry cries and the sounds of fists pounding flesh and bone with mindless vigor. Colton carried her away from the madness, toward the spiral staircase.

She shook her head, as if that would clear it. Colton’s hard-muscled arms held her securely tucked up against his chest, the gesture maddeningly protective. This was a man even brazen criminals feared—a man who might well be the heartless jackal who had ensured Mary would never speak a word against his employer. And yet, he cradled her as though she was fragile and well worth sheltering from harm.

He took the steps two at a time. She should remove herself from his hold. She should force her heavy limbs to cooperate and wriggle from his grasp. She should reject any kindness from this man, if only to preserve herself.

She would do nothing of the sort. Through the fog, her logical mind sprang into action.

What an opportunity she’d literally fallen into—unprecedented access to the reclusive enforcer of the most powerful crime lord in London. Pulling in a breath filled with Colton’s essence, she allowed her head to sag against his chest, her lids fluttering closed.

A few brisk strides later and he stopped at his private office. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, managing to support her body with one arm while he fished a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the door. After depositing her rather unceremoniously on a settee along the far wall, he snatched an overcoat from a standing rack in the corner and draped it over her as she lifted her lids.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he said in a gruff, strangely pleasant voice. “I’ll send for a physician.”

“That’s not necessary,” she whispered, offering a soft shake of her head. “A moment or two of rest is all I need.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Truly, if I could lie here for just a little while, I’ll be right as rain.”

“If you’re certain you need nothing more than a few minutes’ peace, I’ve business to attend to downstairs. It’s high time I disperse the rabble.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him in a feeble voice that bespoke of keeping a stiff upper lip and all that rot. Pressing the back of her hand to her brow, she threw in a sigh for good measure. “I am suddenly so very tired.”

He studied her for a long moment, his deep brown eyes seeming to drink her in. But then, he adjusted his tie and went to the door. “I’ll be back shortly. Try not to start any more ruckuses while I’m gone.”

“I believe I can manage that.” She allowed a small smile. The gesture was far from insincere. After all, taking a blow to the head was a small price to pay for the chance at Colton’s private papers.

The door closed behind him with a soft snick of the latch. Her eyes adjusting to the light of a solitary lamp, Jennie scanned distinctly masculine surroundings. Crackling flames in the fireplace shed an amber glow on a stoneware pitcher and leather-bound books stacked carelessly on a marble-topped table. The room’s unpretentious appointments might have held a measure of charm if not for the Webley revolver on Colton’s gleaming mahogany desk.

Rising on her elbows, she drank in as many details as her haze-dulled brain allowed. Whatever Colton’s sins, he did not share his employer’s taste for extravagance. The rich woods and leathers spoke of refinement and subtle elegance. Not surprising, really, given Colton’s education and upbringing. As Lord Winthrop’s son, born on the wrong side of the blanket, he’d come into privilege after a childhood in London’s slums, gaining the benefit of an education and a cavalry commission before rising in the ranks of Scotland Yard.

Stifling the quiet but relentless alarm in her brain, Jennie pressed her palms to the smooth leather cushions and rose to her feet. The room swirled as if she were a child who’d spun in circles a few times too many. She gripped the arm of the settee, steadying herself as she set her sights on the volume that lay within a hand’s breadth of the revolver.

She tiptoed to the desk. Colton’s personal appointment book. Her pulse did a little jig. She thumbed open the book and glanced over the first page. Turning to the date when she’d discovered Mary’s lifeless body in the West End alley, she scanned entries recorded in a bold, masculine script. Not a single mention of the murdered woman. No clue that might tie him to Mary McDaniel’s death. Only terse sentences regarding banal events at the tavern and a vague reference to a warehouse on the skirts of Whitechapel. Was the decrepit building being used to camouflage some criminal enterprise?

The door creaked. Jennie’s heart catapulted into her throat, but she placed the book as she’d found it and plastered on a guileless mask.

“I see you’re up and about.” Matthew Colton’s smooth baritone warmed her like fine sherry. He lounged against the doorframe, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps we won’t be needing the physician after all.”

She looked into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. Colton was handsome, though not unusually so. After all, good-looking men were far from a rarity in London. His deep chestnut hair was neatly trimmed, while his strong features lacked the perfect symmetry that marked the works of classical masters. A faded scar below his full bottom lip etched a crooked path over his chin. What might it be like to run the tip of her tongue along that slender ridge?

Her mouth went dry. She pulled in a breath, composing herself. “I am feeling more myself, now that I’ve had a few moments to rest.”

His attention drifted to his desk. “I see you’ve been entertaining yourself with my daily journal. It’s quite dull, I assure you.”

Her heart leaped again, but she ignored the flash of panic. Infusing her expression with a pinch of confusion, she met his eyes. “I’m sorry to have invaded your privacy. It seems the blow to my head played a rather frustrating trick on my memory. Try as I might, I couldn’t recall who carried me up here. I knew your face, but couldn’t place it with a name. I’d hoped a peek at the book might identify my benefactor.”

“Benefactor?” He chuckled at the word as he stripped off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a leather chair. Moving to the fireplace, he lifted a poker from its stand. “I suppose it was fortunate you chose my arms to fall into. I wouldn’t trust those other wolves with a pretty girl as far as I could throw them.”

Jennie swallowed hard. “And I can trust you?”

“You’re still dressed, aren’t you?”

Feigning a shocked widening of her eyes, she toyed with her collar, as if to reassure herself the buttons were still fastened. “How very noble.”

“I thought so. Besides, I generally like my women completely awake.” His gaze fixed on her mouth. “And responsive.”

Heat swept from her scalp to her toes. “I don’t find that very comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” His voice took on a gruffer edge. “To my credit, I haven’t sold you to white slavers. Yet.”

“Are you always so impertinent?”

“Only when I am forced to charge to the rescue of a damsel in distress.”

“I assure you I have never been a damsel in distress.”

He arched a brow. “Then allow me to congratulate you on a smashing debut.” He hunkered down by the hearth, prodding the flames to a blaze. “I had to get you away from there. All hell was breaking loose.”

Her gaze trailed the breadth of his shoulders. Drinking in the play of muscles beneath his fine linen shirt, Jennie sorted through the situation at hand. Matthew Colton had defended her from an ogre and carried her from the midst of a drunken brawl. The indefinable air of wickedness in his smile told her he was no saint. So why had he charged to her rescue?

Standing, he turned to her. The crimson of his blood marked a vivid contrast against the silk of his waistcoat.
The drunken hulk had wounded him. And yet, Colton offered no sign of concern for his own injury. Not at all what she’d expected of the man the
Herald
had dubbed the “Sinister Inspector.”

“It appears you’re the one in need of a physician,” she said, her voice cool with a practiced distance. “You’ve been hurt.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“Worse?”

He folded his arms and met her eyes. “Much worse.”

“You may need sutures,” Jennie persisted.

“I don’t need a bloody doctor.” His voice took on a raw edge as his fingers went to his starched collar.

“What are you doing?” She blinked, then blinked again. He appeared to be undressing. Had the blow to her head caused her to hallucinate?

She wasn’t seeing things. Ignoring her question, he opened his shirt to the center of his chest, exposing whorls of dark hair. He shrugged the fabric over his wounded shoulder to reveal an expanse of well-muscled flesh. Tilting his head, he examined the injury. A crooked slice marked the skin below his collarbone. Beads of blood dotted the slash, though the wound did not appear to run deep.

Schooling her features, Jennie prayed she could still form a coherent sentence. “The wound needs to be dressed.”

“I can take care of this,” he said, sliding the fabric up to cover his shoulder. His fingers moved to the buttons. Taking in her reaction, his mouth curved. Sly. Knowing. “My apologies if I offended your delicate sensibilities.”

So, the bold scoundrel thought to tease her. Most unsporting. “Of course not. Since I’m not needed…” She smoothed her skirt, eager for some task to divert her thoughts from her rampaging senses. “I should be on my way.”

“There’s no reason to hurry, Miss Danvers.” Something in his voice shivered alarm along her spine.

Nerves. Nothing more. No need to go all atwitter.

Jennie blinked with calculated surprise. “Have we been introduced?” She’d adopted her grandmother’s name for this investigation. He couldn’t link her to previous exposés.

“It’s my job to know everything I can about the Lancaster’s staff.”

“You must be Mr. Colton. You’re exactly as the barkeep described you. Harry said you’re a man who always knows what’s going on. Odd that our paths haven’t crossed until now.”

“Indeed.” The half smile on his lips didn’t reach eyes that seemed to see right through her. “Before I escort you home, there’s something I need to know—what kind of game were you playing with Duncan Poole?”

Foreboding whispered in her ear, but she met his words without hesitation. “Such an unusual question, Mr. Colton. I served the man. Nothing more.”

The glint in his eyes told her he didn’t believe her. He caught an unruly tendril of Jennie’s hair between his fingers and tucked it behind her ear. A current of awareness shot through her.

He studied her, his focus keen and precise. “I understand what Mr. Poole wanted. It’s your interest I can’t work out. What did you think to gain from playing up to that overgrown sack of refuse?”

She hiked her chin to a haughty angle. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Colton, but it’s high time that I resume my duties.”

“That won’t be necessary. You’re in no condition to navigate that sea of sots.” He placed a hand over her wrist, his hold gentle but laced with intention. “But I’d like an answer to my question. Poole won’t be walking into the Lancaster again, not unless he wants to answer to me. But there are others like him. Men who will read invitation into every smile. Surely you’re not so naïve as to doubt they’ll seize onto the slightest morsel of promise you offer.”

“At the risk of sounding impertinent, I am beginning to debate which one of us suffered the blow to the head.” Her attention shot to the deep red stain on his waistcoat. “Or perhaps the blood loss has affected your perception.”

“I assure you my perception is quite well developed.” His gaze roamed the length of her. Slowly. Deliberately. “I’ve observed you these last few nights. Your manner has been efficient, perhaps even a bit cold, with the clientele. And yet, you smiled your prettiest smile and batted those dark lashes of yours at a repulsive drunkard. The mystery intrigues me.”

Something in the way he looked at her mouth made her stomach do a little somersault, but she forced herself to meet his eyes.

“Mystery? Imagination, most likely.” Her gaze dropped to the large male hand resting on her arm. She needed to escape. And she needed to do it now. “As you do not wish me to return to the tavern floor, I think it best that I make my way home. If you plan to give me the sack, I would appreciate your doing so without insinuating I’ve committed some grievous offense by bestowing a smile and a bit of conversation upon a patron.”

“So, that’s what you call it?” He released her, plowing long fingers through his hair. “I’ve no intention of dismissing you, Miss Danvers. Not tonight, at least. And if you’re worrying about Harwick, you’ve no need to concern yourself.”

Ah, Claude Harwick, Mr. Colton’s suave and brutal employer. Of course Colton would believe she feared the high-and-mighty bastard. The man was known for solving problems in the most permanent and ruthless of ways. Had he decided his mistress was too much of a liability? Had he arranged for Mary’s murder, or had he wielded the blade himself? The unspoken question lodged a burning knot in Jennie’s throat, but she choked past it and affected a barmaid’s concern for her position.

“I’d assume he’ll be most displeased when he learns I triggered a riot.”

“You’ve no need to worry. He doesn’t trouble himself with trivial concerns.” Colton’s eyes darkened to ebony. “I’ll deal with what went on tonight. In some matters, Harwick considers me his right-hand man.”

She hadn’t expected Colton to be so talkative. Did he think to impress her? Perhaps her thoughts of retreat were premature. Time to change tactics.