When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (10 page)

“You have no idea how grateful you should be.” He captured her against the hard planes of his body. A scoundrel’s smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Offering no quarter, he explored her soft curves as his unyielding male body issued an instinctive demand for surrender. “I wouldn’t be able to get enough of you.”

She pressed her palm over his heart. The steady throb quickened beneath her touch. He stilled her hand. Gently. Nearly a caress. His eyes radiated desire. And an emotion infinitely more dangerous.

He dipped his head and kissed her again. Slower this time. Infused with need. Possessing her body and soul without removing so much as a stitch of her clothing. His mouth trailed a sensual path along her throat. Her pulse quickened with each precious second of contact, even as she cursed herself for her weakness. She closed her eyes, savoring the decadent sensations. What would it be like when he finally claimed her?

When he claims me…

Jennie shook herself back to reality. The very notion was madness. Matthew Colton was a key player in Harwick’s empire, a lieutenant in the ruthless cur’s personal army. An utterly dangerous man, no matter how seductive, no matter how tempting his touch.

Breaking away, Jennie gulped a breath. Then another. Through the carriage window, the moon’s smile seemed to mock her.

The conveyance slowed to a stop. Just beyond the team of horses, the boardinghouse loomed in the shadows, dark save for a scattering of lamplight peeking beyond thin curtains.

Matthew took her hand and escorted her from the carriage to the front steps. Staring down at her, he swept a stray curl from her cheek, his fleeting touch gentle and wildly tender.

“Good night, Jennie. Tonight was only the beginning.”

…

Matthew glanced at his pocket watch in disgust. Three o’clock. Another long, sleepless night. He peeled off his shirt and trousers, sprawled over the mattress, and stared at the ceiling. There must be a special place in Hades for fools, and damned if he didn’t feel like he was already in it.

What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Since when had he decided to be a gentleman? The practiced expertise of his last lover, a painted beauty who’d spent most of the time she wasn’t treading the boards engaged in bed sport, didn’t compare to the shy kisses Jennie pressed to his flesh. Sweet Jesus, he could’ve brought Jennie back to his home, spent the night warming her creamy flesh, and kept her close under his protection. Instead, he was alone, the relentless ache in his groin testimony to his ill-timed restraint.

Damn it all, she seemed…innocent. She might affect a worldly exterior, but as he touched her, she watched him with eyes hazed by passion—passion that seemed very new. Jennie wasn’t a girl who merely craved a quick tumble. She deserved more.

And he wasn’t the man to give it to her.

He hadn’t lied to her. Taking her to bed would have only been the beginning. But he didn’t deserve her. Not in this or a thousand lifetimes. He’d keep her out of danger. The shell of a conscience he still possessed wouldn’t allow him to abandon her. But that was all he could ever be, a protector relegated to the shadows.

She’d think him a brute if she knew what he’d done to infiltrate Harwick’s organization. A thug. God only knew he could scarcely stand the man he’d forced himself to become, could scarcely bear to think of the ugly, ruthless violence he’d inflicted. Necessary evil, or so he’d told himself as he had laid the groundwork to ensure Harwick would one day meet the gallows at the Old Bailey. The bastard’s greed—for power, for wealth, for vengeance against any who dared to cross him—had exacted a vile price. So many had died on Harwick’s orders. Good men and criminals alike had ended up in the Thames because they had posed a threat. How many lives had been left in shreds by Harwick’s cruelty?

The cur had shattered Matthew’s life. He’d stolen everything that had ever meant anything to him—his work, his esteem, his father’s regard. Inspector Crosby had been cut down on Harwick’s orders. Of that, Matthew had no doubt. A decent family man had been shot and tossed like refuse into the river, destroying Matthew in the process. Condemned to a pariah’s existence, shunned and in disgrace, Matthew had only one route open to him. He would sabotage Harwick’s operations. He would tear the bastard’s world down around him, and he would obtain the proof he needed to clear his own name, once and for all.

He would see Harwick swing at the end of a noose.

He’d live to see justice for John Crosby.

But he wasn’t fit for a lady. Being a part of Harwick’s band of thugs, seeing the things he’d seen and doing the things he’d done, had branded him. He’d never be the person he was before he’d undertaken this calculated quest.

No, he could never have Jennie. He wanted her. Christ,
want
was too damned weak a word to describe his need for her softness and her spirit and those emerald eyes, darkened with desire. But he had to rein in the longings that heated his blood and taunted his soul. She would always be out of reach. She’d never be his. But now that he’d tasted her passion, knew the flavor of her kiss and the sound of her longing, how could he ever let her go?

Chapter Nine

The stranger enveloped Jennie in his heat
.
Drawn to his warmth
,
she melted into him
.
Shadows obscured his features, but she knew his touch. Knew his scent. She wanted this man
.
Craved him with an exquisite, maddening hunger
.

His dark gaze drank her in
.
She parted her lips in offering
.
Little panting breaths escaped her
.
She needed more
.
So much more
.

The blade slashed through the shadows
.
A gleaming streak against the darkness
,
the razor’s edge tinged with crimson
.
Flickering images
.
Copper-tinted hair
wildly splayed over the pavement
.
Blood pooled beneath her feet
.
Splattered over her white cotton blouse
.

Jennie’s eyes flew open. She snatched the covers up to her chin. Pulling in a lungful of air, she clutched the blanket in a death grip, as if she shielded herself from a flesh and blood manifestation of the man who’d stealthily invaded her dreams.

The tension in her fingers abated, and the blankets sagged over her shoulders. Heaving a sigh, she tossed them away and sat up. Good heavens, she’d become such a silly chit.

Pressing her bare feet to the chilly wood planks, she allowed the coolness to seep through her, as if that would counteract the liquid warmth that lingered in her core. Drat it all, a nightmare should not leave her so discombobulated. Heaven knew she’d seen enough blood in the course of her investigations—a morbid dream should not leave her in such a stir.

Without warning, the memory of Matthew Colton’s touch washed over her. The delicious surrender when his mouth had claimed hers. The tempting tingles unleashed by his unshaven jaw against her cheek. The deep, sweet awareness of that man above all others.

A terrible understanding crashed into her. This was what she had feared most. Her own hunger. Not the horrific images that poisoned her dream.

Balderdash
.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, mentally bracing herself against the doubt creeping through her like an intruder in the night. She counted herself far too clever to be ensnared by Matthew Colton.

If only her body didn’t heat at the merest thought of his touch. Didn’t thirst for his kiss and the husky sound of his voice against her ear.

Truth be told, nothing in her experience had prepared her for a man like Matthew. She peered at the image reflected in the cheval mirror. Her appearance hadn’t changed. Yet in her heart, she knew nothing would ever be the same.

If only her mother were here. Mama would understand. After all, her relationship with Jennie’s father had been one of great conflicts and even greater passions. Once, after a rainy afternoon spent arranging old photographs with Jennie, her mother’s high-boned cheeks had stained pink as she reminisced about their courtship. Of course, Mama’s recollections had been veiled and misty. But the warmth in her eyes when she spoke of Papa had betrayed far more than her words.

But Mama was far away now, spending the cooler months of autumn gallivanting across Egypt at Papa’s side. Jennie would have to rein in her rebellious desires on her own. She would steel herself against the whispered longings of a most unreasonable heart.

There simply was no choice.

Sophie’s familiar rap against the door jarred Jennie from her tangled thoughts. Once inside, Sophie closed and locked the door behind her.

“The
Herald
has received another note.”

Jennie accepted the slip of vellum from Sophie’s outstretched hand. “When did this arrive?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Mr. Campbell believes it may be significant.”

Jennie scanned the brief missive. Written in an identical hand to the first, on the same elegant stationery.

Beauty silenced at the Emperor’s command. Blood ties run deep.

Shards of ice prickled Jennie’s spine. “A reference to Mary, no doubt. But this line about ties running deep—quite curious.”

“Campbell believes Harwick’s family connections might be a plausible route of inquiry.” Sophie worried her lip. “One that won’t involve you taking risks with the likes of Matthew Colton.”

“Is that so?” Jennie tucked the cryptic message in her reticule. “While I agree this is an intriguing development, you may assure Campbell that I shall be able to pursue my inquiries and still be in attendance at the Lancaster tonight.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful.”

So, her assistant was worried about her. Not surprising, really. No doubt their managing editor had filled Sophie’s head about the villainy of Matthew Colton.

“You’ve no need for concern,” she said, flashing a reassuring smile. “The only thing I’m in danger of is a case of sore feet from traipsing over pavement all day.”

Hours later, after a morning’s worth of inquiries in Whitechapel had proven the truth of her statement, Jennie returned to her room. She stripped off her dull cloak, freed her tresses from the severe bun she wore so as not to draw attention to her hair, and pulled off scuffed, thin-soled shoes. Allowing her aching toes a quick wiggle, she sighed and sank into a chair.

She’d roamed the streets of the slum, pretending to search for a relative while hunting for some shred of information on the missing woman. Her questions were met with grim shakes of the head and evasive eyes. Ida had vanished. Permanently, most likely—weighted down and rotting in the Thames.

Still, Jennie vowed to go back out that evening. Liquor and a bit of blunt might well loosen some reluctant tongues.

Following a few precious minutes of rest, she changed into a more presentable traveling suit of dove-gray wool. The sleeve’s hem grazed a fresh bruise, the Whitechapel lout’s mark on her skin. She winced at the all-too-recent memory. Later, she’d conceal the mark with powder. For now, there simply was no time.

She donned polished boots, swept her hair into a precise topknot, then topped the coif with a braid-trimmed hat. Reticule in hand, she headed to the London Public Library at St. James Square.

Secluding herself in a remote corner of the reference room, she scanned an imposing volume. Names and titles filled the book. Line upon line. Page after page. Counting the cobbles in the pavement might have proven more riveting.

Tallying the stones would have proven no less productive an endeavor. The odds of finding any mention of Claude Harwick’s lineage in the standard references were slim. Indeed, she stood a better chance of securing an interview with the queen. Campbell had sent her on a fool’s errand.

Eyelids weighted with lead, Jennie propped her forehead against her hand and fought the urge to doze.

A man’s gruff voice rescued her from collapsing in a sleep-drowsed haze. Macalister Campbell. Why in blazes was her editor here, scarcely an arm’s length from where she sat?

At least he’d had the good sense to remove the false teeth and ridiculous brows employed in his previous disguise. His massive muttonchop sideburns were still a bit much. And his spectacles were needlessly thick. It seemed a wonder he could see at all.

He placed
Burkes’ Peerage
before her. “You may use this volume now. I’ve had my fill of research.”

“Thank you. This may prove helpful,” she said with a wink.

He settled into a seat across from her and made a show of thumbing through
Lloyd’s Register
. His gaze settled on her wrist. On the bruise.

“You’ve been hurt.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “If that bastard left his mark on you, he’ll answer to me.”

The grim emotion in his tone startled her. Campbell had seldom expressed such concern.

She shook her head. “It wasn’t Matthew Colton.”

“Who was it?”

“A drunk accosted me last night. Colton came to my assistance.”

Campbell’s eyes narrowed behind the spectacles. “This isn’t the first time he’s acted as your protector. Colton didn’t get where he is through good deeds. If he’s watching you, there’s a reason.”

She toyed with the buttons at her cuff. “He doesn’t know anything. I’m positive of that.”

“I don’t like the risks you take. Your father—”

She met his hawk-sharp gaze. “Father would tell me to stand tall and defy expectations.”

“Not where a man like Colton is concerned. Don’t underestimate him.”

I’ve kissed Matthew Colton. I’ve felt his touch.

I’d never underestimate him.

Jennie stripped the traitorous emotions from her face. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

If only she could convince herself.

…

Jennie bustled through the library and hurried down the stairs. Skirts swishing around booted ankles, she marched out the door and blinked against the sunlight. Its warmth on her face seemed a tonic after the hours with her nose buried in tedious tomes.

“Miss Quinn, don’t I merit a greeting?”

She spun around to take in a once-dear face. Jack Trent. Good heavens. Three years had changed the man who’d once been her strongest ally at the
Herald
. Trent’s boyish countenance had hardened. His dark hair no longer brushed his collar in untidy strands. But the intelligence in his eyes had gone razor sharp.

Assessing her, he smiled. “You are looking well, Miss Quinn.”

“So formal, Jack? I was Jennie when you left London.”

“You are still
Miss
Quinn? No one has reined you in?”

“I’m certainly not good material for a wife.”

“Any man would be proud to have you by his side in the family portrait.” He closed the space between them and lowered his voice to a discreet tone. “I see your stints at the textile factory and the asylum left you no worse for wear.”

“You’ve read my investigations?”

“Every word.” He raked a hand through his straight, neatly cropped hair. “So, what death-defying feat is next?”

“Nothing so adventurous.” She infused a bland tone to her words.

Fidgeting with a scarf tied loosely around his neck, he edged closer. Not so near as to be improper. But near enough that she could see the amber flecks in his brown eyes.

“When can I see you again? I want to know everything I’ve missed in the life of Jennie Quinn.”

She retreated a single step. Her stomach did a little twist. Truth be told, she’d relish the opportunity to spend an evening on the town with Jack. Such a cherished friend from her early days at the paper. Witty. Droll. As starved for success as she was.

But she couldn’t take the chance. Trent’s investigations had brought dozens of criminals to justice. He’d targeted Matthew Colton with a fierce dedication throughout the Yard man’s trial. If she were spotted with him, Colton would never trust her again.

“Sadly, I’m neck-deep in an investigation. Another time, perhaps?”

“Dine with me at the Savoy tonight. We always had a grand time there,” he persisted.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. Not now.”

He stroked his clean-shaven chin. “There’s a man in your life. Of course.”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that. How long will you be in London?”

“Several days at best. My brother has taken ill. I’ve come at his wife’s behest.”

“Bradley? I pray his condition isn’t serious.”

“He’s expected to recover, but Cecily has no experience managing the household accounts and requires my assistance.” His gaze swept over her. A slow smile lifted his mouth. “I was a fool to let these years pass without seeing you. I won’t make that mistake again.”

…

Claude Harwick swept into the Lancaster, a painted blonde on one arm. His arrival set off a flurry of activity. Barmaids scurried about to ensure all the customers were content, while Harry gave each glass an extra swipe with his drying rag. Tending a group of customers seated in a dark corner of the tavern, Jennie hovered out of Harwick’s line of sight. Her shuttered gaze shadowed his movements.

A pale, gaunt man who might have descended from Jack Spratt followed Harwick to a table. Glaring beneath hooded lids, the thin man’s dour expression posed a stark contrast to Harwick’s condescending smile.

Sir Lawrence Bond
.

Jennie glanced away. Her mind raced. What in thunder was the scandal-plagued showman doing here? And with Harwick, no less?

Bond leaned in toward Harwick. His jaw set in a hard angle, his mouth a grim line, Harwick shoved his chair to the side. What had Bond said to anger him? Foolish man, toying with a rabid cur like Harwick.

Smiling politely as a customer bellowed another order, Jennie hurried back to the bar. Harry shot her a scowl.

“What are ye doing here? Ye don’t want to keep the boss waitin’, now do ye?”

With a brisk shake of her head, she marched to Harwick’s table. He acknowledged her as he came to his feet. “I’m heading up to my office. Bring a fine Scotch and two glasses.” He slanted the voluptuous blonde a smile. “And whatever my sweet Gloria wants.”

As Harwick spoke, Bond’s gaze raked over Jennie. Bleary eyes seemed to look right through the tailored shirtwaist blouse she’d buttoned clear to her throat. He hovered a skeletal finger inches from her prim collar. Her skin crawled.

“Modesty is an admirable trait, but it can be a damnable nuisance. You should display your beauty.” The strong odor of spirits on his breath thickened the air. “Have you considered the stage? I’d be willing to back you.”

Harwick clamped rough fingers over Bond’s arm. “That’s enough.”

Bond shrugged off his hold, keeping his gaze on Jennie. The greedy gleam in his eyes dimmed. A look of shock—and recognition
—
took its place. “Good God, you hired this one to replace your flame-haired songbird.”

The faintly slurred words sparked anger in Harwick’s eyes. “I think we’ll only need one glass after all. Bond has had his fill.”

“Yes, Mr. Harwick.” Jennie attempted her escape.

Bond blocked her path with an outstretched arm. “Not so fast. Look at her, Claude. Surely you see it.”