When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Matthew had always preferred midnight to dawn. But as he awoke with Jennie nestled in the crook of his arm, he couldn’t remember why. Rays of new light streamed through the window, coloring her delicate features with radiant hues that might have been blended by da Vinci. She was perfect.

And she was his.

Burrowing closer in her slumber, Jennie snuggled against him. Her arm draped across his chest. The first stirrings of desire pulsed, but he reined in his hunger. After his thorough attentions the night before, it might be too soon to love her again.

Her lids lifted. She met his eyes with a slumberous gaze. “Good morning,” she said, her voice hushed, shy.

“You’ll get used to waking in my arms.”

“I’m afraid this could become a habit.” Propping herself on one hand, her fingers blazed a lazy trail from his throat to his abdomen.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned with a playful growl. She wore only a shirt—his shirt, no less—skimming the tops of her thighs, draping her delicious curves. The passion-darkened jade of her eyes tempted him to forget his good intentions.

She pressed butterfly kisses to his throat. “I must say, I do rather like this sort of heat.”

“As much as it pains me to do so, I’ve got to leave this bed and get to work.”

Jennie studied him with a reporter’s eye for details. “What do you have planned for today?” Her question might have sounded ordinary if any other woman had asked it. Coming from Jennie, he had no doubt she was formulating a plan to continue her inquiries.

“Nothing that will involve you.”

One delicate brow arched. “Shouldn’t that be my decision? One never knows what might prove valuable to my investigation.”

“Your investigation is finished. I’ll tie you to the bed if that’s what it takes to keep you from roaming the streets of London.”

He immediately regretted the threat. The scathing glare Jennie cast beneath her lashes didn’t concern him in the least. But the alluring image the words conjured shredded his resolve to give her time before he loved her again.

She pressed her lips into a prim pout. “I do believe you would.”

“I intend to protect you. Whatever it takes.” He watched her brow furrow. A less observant man would likely not have taken in the small change to her beautiful face. But he knew her reactions, knew how to read her emotions. She’d trusted him enough to drop the mask that disguised her feelings. The realization pleased him beyond measure.

“Whatever it takes. I shall need to keep that in mind,” she said softly.

“What, no indignant rebellion? At the very least, I expected a reminder that I don’t control you.”

Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug. “What would be the point? You know my position on the matter.”

“You can’t leave yourself vulnerable.”

“I promise to exercise more caution,” she said, a spark lighting her lush green eyes.

Matthew stroked her hair, the strands silken against his fingertips. “Bloody shame I don’t believe you.”

“And what of it? Surely you don’t intend to imprison me here. My, wouldn’t that make quite the scandal.”

“Scandal is the least of my worries. But I don’t delude myself that I can contain you. Promise me you will carry your pistol and avoid men you’ll want to use it on.”

“Fair enough.” She leaned closer, sweeping her lips against his. “But first, let’s do something utterly scandalous this morning.”

Her arms looped around his neck, and she kissed him again, a full-blooded, decadent caress that told him everything he needed to know. He pulled her to him, greedy for every touch, every scent, every throaty little moan. Drinking her in. Memorizing the sound of her voice when she spoke his name in pleasure.

He didn’t deserve her. A thousand lifetimes of good deeds would not repent for his sins. In his heart, he knew that truth. He’d have to let her go. A man like him could never give Jennie a good and proper life. But for now, he’d hold her and love her as no man ever had. Ever would.

A part of Jennie’s heart would always belong to him.

But he had to see this through. This unholy mission to bring Harwick to the fate he’d earned had consumed him for so long, but he’d protect Jennie to his dying breath. He’d ensure no one extinguished the sparkle in her gorgeous eyes.

He’d see the threat to her ended.

No matter the cost.

…

After a morning spent in Matthew’s arms, Jennie prepared for her meeting with Lawrence Bond. She returned to the boardinghouse, changed into a flattering ensemble topped with an elegant feathered hat, and hired a hack to take her to Bond’s posh town house.

Alone with her thoughts, Jennie peered through the slit between the curtains and considered her plan of attack. Bond expected her, but that did little to settle her qualms. Despite her inquiries, she knew precious little about the man beyond his appetite for pretty women and his turbulent relationship with Claude Harwick.

Jack Trent’s interrogation played in her mind’s eye. The ugly innuendo in his words had proven bitter to swallow, but his concern troubled her far more than his venom. He’d looked at her like a woman, a woman he viewed with more than professional respect.

No matter what it takes
.

Trent’s inflammatory coverage of Matthew’s trial had stirred the public against the disgraced inspector. Now he planned to destroy Matthew, one way or another. His quest would lead to disaster. Matthew wouldn’t slink into a corner. When the confrontation came, it would be brutal. Of that, she had no doubt. She couldn’t sit by wringing her hands and waiting for the two men to collide.

The solution was within her reach. There was one way to head off Trent’s investigation. She had to get Mary McDaniel’s diary.

From the start of her liaison with Harwick, Mary had known he’d soon cast her aside, just as he’d discarded other beauties when he tired of them. She’d compiled insurance of sorts against his rejection, or so she’d claimed. Her journal wasn’t filled with memories. The book contained facts, figures and names, evidence that could send Harwick to the gallows.

Before her death, Mary had suspected he’d heard rumors of the diary. After all, she’d been less than discreet in offering up the book to the highest bidder. Terrified her former lover wanted to silence her, she had decided to turn the book over to the
Herald
. Perhaps then he’d be afraid to strike.

But when Jennie had found her, there was no trace of the diary. Had Harwick set up Mary McDaniel’s murder to get his hands on the diary, only to discover she’d given it to someone for safekeeping? Her last protector, perhaps—Lawrence Bond?

If Bond had the book, Jennie intended to find it. Whether she charmed the sot into offering it or stole the book from under his nose, she’d get that journal. And then, she’d pray its contents did not prove her heart had been wrong about Matthew Colton’s true worth.

The carriage slowed as it approached Bond’s elegant Berkeley Square home. The posh brick town house had provided a temporary refuge to many of London’s elite. In her cashmere cloak and stylish suit, Jennie did not appear out of place in the well-heeled neighborhood.

The driver assisted her from the carriage. Dour-faced and wrapped in a heavy overcoat and scarf, he signaled his intention to escort her to the door, but Jennie shook her head and placed a shiny coin in the man’s gloved palm.

She hurried up the porch steps. Grasping the elaborate brass knocker, she rapped twice against the polished oak. No response. Not so much as the shuffle of feet or pounding of boots upon the floorboards. Had the servants been instructed to ignore callers? Quite peculiar.

Jennie lowered her hand to the knob, but the sense that she was being watched pulled her attention back to the coach. Her instincts had not erred. The driver’s curious gaze continued to follow her movements. Drat the luck, why did the bloke linger? She’d made it clear she did not wish for him to wait.

Once again, she tapped the brass ring against the door. Still no response. She steeled herself. An unanswered door was a small obstacle. But she’d need to give the impression she belonged in the home to avoid rousing the driver’s suspicions.

“Lawrence, dearest, I’m home.” She infused her voice with an air of familiarity. Curving her fingers around the ornate latch, she opened the door and slipped inside.

The sound of her entry would undoubtedly rouse some interest. Anticipating a housekeeper or gentleman’s gentleman to approach at any moment, she moved with cautious steps. Certainly Sir Lawrence would have informed his staff to expect a guest.

The draperies in an adjacent parlor rustled. Her heart pounded, and she pulled in a breath. With a bored meow, a cat prowled from behind the brocade fabric. Tail in the air, the calico regarded Jennie with the feline equivalent of a shrug as it strolled into the entry hall.

But where were the servants? Had Bond sent them away because he wanted privacy for her visit? The thought conjured butterflies the size of bats in her stomach.

She padded through the house with a thief’s stealth. “Mr. Bond, I’ve come to speak with you.” Jennie forced confidence she did not feel into her cheerful tone.

Perhaps the sot was already deep in his cups. That might make her task easier. Or, bolstered by an alcohol-fueled bravado, he might become aggressive. The image of Sir Lawrence’s bony, pawing hands churned another wave of revulsion in her belly. No matter. She knew how to douse a man’s unwanted ardor and bring him to his knees. Literally.

Her steps quiet and measured, she stopped at a well-appointed parlor and peered inside. Tasteful furnishings. Mahogany and forest-green velvet. An elegant Aubusson rug in a subtle motif. She continued along the corridor to the carved staircase. Still no sign of the man. How very odd.

She passed a room lined with shelves. Bond’s study, perhaps. A flash of movement in her peripheral vision drew her back. Was someone there?

Jennie turned toward the room. The space appeared empty. Had she spotted the cat making some mischief?

Stepping into the chamber, she glanced about. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing was amiss. She didn’t even see the calico inspecting its territory.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Until she glimpsed a polished shoe jutting out from behind a massive desk. Dread welled in her throat, and she swallowed against the bitter taste of fear.

She caught the scent of Matthew’s cologne before she saw him. He approached her with slow, measured steps, his features unreadable.

“You need to leave,” he said, his voice flat. Empty.

Storm waves crashed about in the pit of her stomach. “What have you done?”

“Not a goddamned thing.”

Standing toe-to-toe with Matthew, her heart pounded with an instinctive wariness. His size had never intimidated her. She’d found his masculine power reassuring. But now, her vulnerability pierced like a dull blade.

Angling her body away from him, she slipped one hand under her cloak. The weight of the pistol secured within the velvet reticule tethered to her wrist provided slim reassurance.

“You’ve got to get out of here.” A peculiar urgency tinged his words. “You must go. There’s no time—”

Jennie read the grim reality in his eyes. Her palms clammy, she bolted to the desk. Trouser-clad legs splayed over a blood-stained carpet. Bile crept up her throat. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, willing herself not to retch.

A single, circular wound marred the center of Bond’s forehead. Blood etched a crooked path to the bridge of his prominent nose. His eyes stared, wide and unseeing.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She tasted the metallic essence of copper. Only then did she realize she’d bitten her bottom lip.

“I didn’t want you to see this,” Matthew said, his voice laced with regret.

Ice slithered along her spine. “What have you done?”

“I did not kill him.”

The sensation of Matthew’s hands on her shoulders tore a hushed, anguished cry from deep within. She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t face him. If she saw guilt in his eyes, her heart would rend in two.

Misery welled in her throat. “I don’t believe you.” The simple words were nearly too unbearable to utter.

“Dammit, Jennie. He was dead when I got here.”

Slipping her reticule from the folds of her cloak, she retreated a step, then another. “What else should I expect from Harwick’s lieutenant?”

Gulping back bitter tears, she stormed away. Matthew followed, inches from her heels. He coiled his fingers over her arms and turned her to face him. Dragging Jennie against his body, he clung to her like a drowning man clutching his last hope for survival.

She pressed her palms to his chest. “Take your hands off me.”

He stared down at her, unyielding as Big Ben. “You’re in danger. Every moment—”

She spun on her heel with all the force she could muster. Wielding the reticule like a bludgeon, she slammed the bag and the pistol within it against his skull. Waves of shock crashed through her arms at the violent impact. The tense strength in his hands dissolved. He staggered beneath the blow.

Shoving him aside, she fled the house.

The door slammed shut behind her with a thud that rattled her ears. Frigid air filled her lungs. She gulped a breath, desperate to compose herself.

Somehow, she managed to make her way down the street. Hiring a hansom to take her to Charing Cross, she shuttered herself inside the carriage. Slipping the curtains open a finger’s width, she peered out as the coach trundled over the cobbles, taking her away from Bond’s home. Away from the horror of another murder. Away from the man who’d nearly duped her into believing he was something other than a ruthless criminal. Ah, Matthew had swept away so many of her doubts, his caress making her so very unwise. She’d been so close to trusting him completely. She’d been such a fool. Burning misery seared her throat, and Jennie wondered if her heart could truly break.

…

A canopy of clouds shrouded the city. The relentless gray sky surrounded Mrs. O’Brien’s well-worn brick boardinghouse with an air of oppressive gloom. Beneath her feet, an icy chill radiated from the cobbles. Battling a shiver, Jennie pulled her cloak tight to her throat and craned her neck to scan the street behind her. With her pistol hidden beneath the folds of heavy wool, she approached the entrance. Still no sign she’d been followed. The breath that hovered in her throat escaped, and she sighed at her nervousness. She’d never allowed herself to feel so vulnerable. Of course, she’d never allowed a man like Matthew Colton into her life. Into her arms. Into her heart.