When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (4 page)

She didn’t seem to be running from anything in her past. Jennie was no scared waif. She’d clobbered the drunken bastard with a blow that would have knocked the average man senseless. And she knew how to handle a bloke’s advances. She’d tempted Matthew to the limits of his restraint without even batting her lashes, then she’d doused his ardor and called him a gentleman. He sure as hell didn’t feel like one.

Breathless and more than a bit flustered, she’d still spoken with the confidence of a woman who was used to having her words respected.

If Jennie didn’t seek a wealthy man’s favor and she wasn’t trying to leave her past behind, why was she eager to hoist trays of ale at the Lancaster? He’d learned at a young age that people weren’t always what they seemed. And he knew damned well Jennie Danvers wasn’t.

But none of that mattered.

He shouldn’t have touched her.

That brief contact, his hand over hers as he pulled Jennie out of the path of a bar brawler’s blow, had awakened a hunger he’d believed long dormant. Not to bed the copper-haired beauty, though his cock might well have disagreed. God only knew he wanted to touch the satin of her skin and breathe in the faint essence of lavender perfuming her body. But he’d unleashed a longing that went far beyond any elemental desire, far more dangerous than primal need. He could appease lust any night of the week. Willing lovelies seeking to curry his favor were a constant in his world. No, this was a deep-seated longing, a yearning he had no right to see sated.

For nearly two years, he’d existed behind a shield, convinced he’d never again see trust in a woman’s eyes. Until Jennie’s eyes flashed with unguarded emotion. In that excruciatingly brief moment, he’d seen a flicker of faith. In that instant, he was a defender. A protector, as he’d once been. Not a man to be feared.

Not the brute he’d become.

He hadn’t seen Poole’s fist coming until it slammed into his jaw, jarring him back to reality.

He’d welcomed the pain. It proved an effective distraction. He’d given up the right to a woman’s regard when he’d made the devil’s bargain that mired him in the brutal world he was looking to destroy.

If he’d had any sense, he would’ve sacked her. A woman like Jennie didn’t belong in a den of vipers. If she attracted Harwick’s attention—if she rebuffed the bastard’s advances—would he be able to protect her?

Bloody hell, this was a complication he didn’t need. He’d no time to play bodyguard to a tavern wench, much less one who was likely not what she seemed. Sending her on her way would be the surest way to protect her. Damn shame she intrigued him so.

He pulled his watch from his pocket, noted the time, and thrust it back into his jacket. Midnight had come and gone, but nervous energy flowed through his veins. Covering the ground with long, restless strides, he headed to his town house. Two fingers of Scotch, a crackling fire in the hearth, and the solitude of his residence would clear his head. Damn shame the whiskey wouldn’t be as effective at muting the need within his soul.

Chapter Three

Nestled in a well-used wingchair in the corner of her room, her stocking-clad feet tucked under her legs, Jennie pored over her aunt’s latest missive from the Continent. Smiling to herself, she raced through the colorful accounts of life in Paris. Gossip’s answer to Joseph Pulitzer, Aunt Philly would be quite an asset to the
Herald’s
Ladies Pages. What a pity the society matron had no plans to leave the excitement of the Moulin Rouge for England’s staid civility.

The new day’s pinkish light streamed in the window, casting the plain-furnished chamber with a cozy warmth. Jennie cast a longing glance to the bed. If only she had time for a bit more rest. Sleep the night before had come in short, broken intervals as most improper dreams of Matthew Colton had invaded her slumber. Highly disturbing, those decadent images and sensations. His skin gliding over her breasts. His warm breath against her lips. The heat of his body stirring a hunger for his touch that penetrated to the bone.

Untangling her limbs, she pried herself from her comfortable perch and considered her quest for the day. Nervous energy flooded her veins, and she stalked around the room, tossing garments into untidy piles on the bed as she searched for her black silk stockings. Finally, she spotted the elusive pair tucked in a drawer, snatched them out, and took a step back to survey the mess she’d created.

My, such a gentle chaos. What might her mother’s housekeeper have said upon confronting the scene? Most likely, the unflappable matron would’ve planted her hands on her hips, reminded Jennie there was a place for everything and everything should be in its place, and left the clutter to the one who’d created it. Smiling to herself, Jennie set about the pleasantly mindless task of putting her things in order.

Not that she’d brought many of her possessions to her present quarters. Her bedchamber at Larkspur Manor, her family’s country home, dwarfed this sparsely furnished box of a room. But the boardinghouse was clean, and furry, four-legged intruders were at a minimum, thanks to the owner’s ever-vigilant terrier. Sacrifices, both small and large, were to be expected in the pursuit of her inquiries. And living in this place was a small sacrifice, indeed.

A soft rap upon the door tore Jennie from her thoughts. Two knocks. A pause. Three taps in rapid fire succession.

Sophie? So early?

Her assistant at the
Herald
wasn’t known for keeping rooster’s hours. One was much more apt to find Sophie Atherton reading by lamplight well into the night than making an appearance before noon.

Jennie shrugged a dressing gown over her night rail, padded to the door, and crouched to peer through the keyhole. A symbol on a small slip of paper met her gaze. An Egyptian ankh, the hieroglyph for life. Sophie’s calling card.

Jennie squeaked open the door. Sophie burst in with the authoritative air of a well-trained governess, a calling to which she’d devoted three years of her life before throwing her lot in with Jennie at the
Herald
.

Sophie closed the door with a soft snick of the latch. “You came in well after midnight. Rather late, even by your standards.”

Jennie cocked a brow. “How very curious. I wouldn’t expect that you could hear me from the fifth floor.”

“I was restless when sleep wouldn’t come. It so happens I looked out my window just in time to see you return.”

“What fortuitous timing.” Jennie bit back a smile. “You were spying on me?”

“Of course not.” A small grin tugged at Sophie’s mouth. “You weren’t alone. You must tell me everything. Every detail of your adventure.”

“Adventure? That’s hardly the word for it. I gained nothing from my inquiries other than a more vigorous appreciation for the temperance movement.”

Sophie offered a solemn nod. “I find few things more abhorrent than a drunken sot.”

Duncan Poole’s alcohol-saturated stench resurrected itself in Jennie’s memory. Revulsion prickled her skin. She shook her head to clear it. She’d waste no more thought on the brute.

Jennie slipped behind her dressing screen, shed her nightclothes, and donned her combination. “You’re up and about rather early today.”

“Out of necessity, I assure you. I’ve news you’ll find most interesting.”

“News I needed to hear at this heaven-forsaken hour?” Jennie stepped from behind the screen. “Please, before you enlighten me, help me adjust this infernal corset.”

Sophie’s pert nose wrinkled. “I truly do not understand why you wear this diabolical contraption. Once you convert to a more rational style of dress, you’ll never go back.”

“There’s no time for that debate now. I only need you to tighten the stays.”

“Even tyrants do not inflict such cruelty on their subjects,” Sophie muttered, manipulating the strings in a series of pulls and tugs and yanks.

“Be certain to secure them properly. The blasted thing came loose last time. I felt sure you’d conspired against me.”

Sophie gave another sharp pull on the strings. “I understand you made the Inspector’s acquaintance last night. He escorted you from the tavern.”

“With so many gossips about, it seems the
Herald
scarcely has need for my services. I presume you refer to Matthew Colton.”

“Precisely.” Another yank on the laces, more forceful this time. “Is he as menacing in person as he appears in the papers?”

“Menacing? Good heavens, where do you get these preposterous ideas?”

“Come now, Jennie. Don’t tell me you didn’t find the man’s dark scowl the tiniest bit intimidating.”

“I cannot say that I even noticed.” The untruth rolled nimbly from Jennie’s tongue. Another pull on the strings compressed her ribs. “Are you nearly finished?”

“
Hmmmph.
” Sophie let out a little grumble. “You wanted this instrument of torture secure. That takes a little effort. As for Colton, at the height of his trial, the
Herald
declared the Inspector a monster. And with good reason, I’d say. The man killed his own partner.”

“There were no witnesses. Or have you forgotten that?”

“When they brought him in, Colton was covered with another man’s blood. And he knew where to find Inspector Crosby, the precise spot at the pier. If he’d had no part in putting the man in the river, how would he know exactly where to find his corpse? Crosby’s widow swore Colton dispatched her husband, in order to protect Harwick.”

The image of Colton’s arrest played in Jennie’s mind. Intimidating and uncowed as he had been taken to the station house in manacles, the Yard man had met the photographer’s lens with a glower befitting a dragon. Yet in his dark eyes she’d glimpsed regret. For his crime? Or for failing to prevent his partner’s brutal murder?

“The man was judged not guilty of the charges,” she pointed out.

“The acquittal reeked of his father’s influence. Or Harwick’s.”

“That may be the case. But then again…” A hard tug whooshed the air from Jennie’s lungs.

Another
hmmmph
. “You believe he’s innocent?”

Jennie threw a glare over her shoulder. “I never said that.”

“Of course not. A reporter must remain unbiased.” Was that sarcasm in Sophie’s tone?

“I’m far more interested in his activities since his acquittal.”

“Indeed. You suspect he is the fiend behind your informant’s murder?”

“It is a possibility.” The words twisted her insides into knots. Most peculiar.

“The corset is a fiendish device. You will never convince me otherwise.” Sophie stepped away. Seeming to assess her handiwork, she planted her hands on her hips. Her brow furrowed. “Did Colton hurt you?”

“Good heavens, no. What would put that in your mind?”

“It’s just that…your arms…it looks as if he’d manhandled you.”

So, Poole had marked her. If only she’d put her knee to good use.

“A brawl broke out at the tavern. I was caught up in the fray.” No need to tell her assistant she’d started it.

Excitement glimmered in Sophie’s eyes. “How I envy your adventures.”

“Envy? I think not.” Jennie slipped into her corset cover, stifling a wince as she discovered another bruise in the process. “My classmates at university would question my sanity.”

“Your classmates are likely married to portly men with gouty feet and far too much money.”

“I venture they’ve never been accosted by a drunken oaf.”
Or kissed senseless by a very dangerous man.

“Well, that certainly does not describe the Inspector.” Sophie gave a little sniff. “What happened between the two of you last night?”

“Colton showed the boor who put his hands on me what’s what. Quite capable, that one. Nothing worthy of the gossip pages, I assure you.”

“But you were alone with him—with Matthew Colton?”

“If you must know, he saw me home.”

Sophie pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, as she always did when she puzzled something out. “When did you part company?”

The lines etched on Sophie’s forehead banished any suspicion that she merely searched for juicy tidbits of gossip. Something was wrong.

“My, so many questions,” Jennie said with a lightness she did not feel.

The creases on Sophie’s brow deepened. “Jennie, this is important. When did he leave?”

“The clock tower had not yet struck midnight. I’d say he left the boardinghouse around a quarter ’til. Why do you ask?”

“There was another murder last night. A performer at the London Palace.”

Dread slithered over her skin. “The theater where Mary McDaniel headlined.”

“The victim was found in a dressing room not long after midnight. Rumor has it she was still warm.”

“You’re sure of this?”

Sophie nodded. “I have it on impeccable authority.”

Jennie quirked a brow. “An impeccable authority?”

Another nod, Sophie’s mouth tight as a seam. “Macalister Campbell.”

The mention of the
Herald’s
managing editor plowed an invisible weight into Jennie’s middle. Surely the man knew better than to initiate any communication that might endanger her assumed identity.

“How?” She managed the single word through nearly clenched teeth.

“I spoke with him less than an hour ago.” Sophie swatted an errant curl off her cheek. “He dispatched his private secretary, poor dear. Not realizing the missive was in code, she thought she was summoning me to cover a dedication at the new Orphan’s Home. No doubt Miss Beddingham wondered at the urgency of such a bland request.”

“She must believe him utterly mad.” Just as Jennie did, at times.

“To the contrary, she’s utterly besotted. She’d do anything for the man.” She let out a breath that seemed a sigh. “But Jennie, there’s more.”

“I presume Campbell needs me to determine if a connection exists between the murders.”

Sophie’s lips pressed together so tightly, they might have been glued shut. Her honey-blond waves shimmied as she gave her head a grim little shake.

“It’s not that.” She dropped her gaze to the knot of her fingers for a long moment, then met Jennie’s eyes. “He’s pulled you from the case. He wants you away from the Lancaster Tavern.”

Heat seared Jennie’s cheeks. Why, the gall of the man. Thinking to curtail her investigation when she’d barely begun to ferret out her sources. Well, she’d see about that. Perhaps Macalister Campbell had lost his bollocks. But blast it all, she would not scurry away like a frightened kitten.

“Preposterous.” Jennie dragged in a breath to clear her head. “You may convey to
His Highness
that I will not cower in an office while he sends in some milksop who wouldn’t dare tread on Harwick’s polished boots.”

Sophie’s knuckles went white. “I will endeavor to phrase your response more delicately. And Jennie, there’s one more thing.”

“Shall I guess? What is it now? Has
His Highness
decreed that I should attend Lady Cavette’s ball and seek out the latest rumors of who’s bedding whom?”

Sophie’s expression grew more dour. “Nothing of that sort.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sophie. Out with it. Now.”

“You are to have no further contact with Matthew Colton. Mr. Campbell will give you the sack if he finds you’ve attempted to use the Inspector as a source.”

“Give me the sack? Why, the blustering windbag! I daresay the man would soil himself if I crossed the pond to join Pulitzer’s rag.”

“He’s concerned for you, Jennie. The Inspector’s not one to be trusted.”

“And what of the others I’ve dealt with? Campbell had no quarrel when I talked my way aboard that smuggler’s ship. And what of Alfred Smythe? Did Campbell believe the swindler spent his waking hours playing bells in a choir?”

“Matthew Colton is different. He’s not a common criminal. The man is smart. Too devious to predict.”

“And that, Sophie, is precisely what makes him such a valuable source. I suppose I shall soon find out if that handsome face masks the devil himself.”

…

Claude Harwick strolled through the Lancaster Tavern, a ruler surveying his empire. Long, lean, and immaculately attired in black, his burgundy silk cravat and diamond stud struck a vibrant contrast against a pristine white shirt. He made his presence known with charming words and a smile not reflected in eyes as cold and hard as tempered steel.

Jennie stepped to the side of the bar. Busying herself with a drying rag, she studied Harwick beneath the veil of her lashes. A handsome man. That truth brooked no argument. Silver threads shot through raven-dark hair, crowning a visage that might have marked a Roman coin. His unmarred features betrayed the truth of his reputation for striking first. Three decades of brutality, yet no blades or fists had left their mark.

He shot her a glance, then another, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat. His mouth curved, a wolf scenting prey.

Smile sweetly for the devil.

The tavern door slammed open. A rakish showman sauntered into the tavern, his diminutive stature accented by an enormous hat Alice might have spied in Wonderland. The producer’s latest paramour and would-be leading lady, a honey-blond doll of a woman draped in blue velvet, whispered something against his ear that brought a lecherous grin to his face. No doubt, her request would involve removing the ridiculous top hat along with other items of clothing.