When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (19 page)

She broke the silence. “Do you believe you’re protecting me? Or is it Harwick you’re guarding? After all, aren’t you the one who does his dirty work?”

His sharp, indrawn breath betrayed him. “I’ll protect you, Jennie. I’ll kill the bastard before I let him touch a hair on your head. But that doesn’t change a damned thing. Stay away from the Lancaster. Away from men who’d leave you for dead in an alley.”

He turned away.

Her heart clenched, but she would not call out to him. She would not plead with him to return to her, to stay with her through the long, cold night.

Numb with misery, she forced her feet to move, mounting the stairs to her room as though weights had been tethered to her ankles.

Jennie stepped into the corridor outside her room. From there, she saw the envelope propped against her door.

Ivory linen etched with dark scrawls of ink.

Her pulse thundering in her ears, she kneeled to retrieve the missive. Resisting the impulse to tear open the envelope where she stood, she fished her key from her reticule and managed to unlatch the door.

Once inside, she lit a lamp and carefully opened the envelope. She couldn’t chance destroying a shred of evidence. Mute horror swelled within her.

Harsh slashes filled the page. She pressed a palm to the whitewashed chest to keep her knees from buckling and swallowed hard against the taste of bile. Pulling in harsh gulps of air, she studied the violent, angry script.

Our time is drawing near.

Chapter Eighteen

Sprawled over a quilt, still wearing the trousers he’d donned the night before, Matthew closed his eyes and ignored the faint rapping at his door. Another knock. No louder, but more urgent. The rhythmic taps slammed into his weary brain like a battering ram.

Matthew squinted at the clock.
Good God.
Too damned early for Bertram to be up and about. Why had the curmudgeon moved his creaky bones from beneath the bedcovers?

“You have a visitor.” Bertram craked open the door. “At this bloody indecent hour.”

Matthew stared at the ceiling. Perhaps his time in purgatory had already begun. “Devil take it, man, who’s there?”

“A woman.” Bertram ground the words between the few teeth still left in his head.

“Miss Danvers?”

“No.”

Matthew pressed up on his elbows. “Does she have a name?”

“Darling, it’s me.” A woman’s voice, smooth as velvet.
Alicia.
There was no mistaking the practiced seductiveness in the undercover agent’s throaty contralto.

Christ, why is she here?
At his residence. At the door to his blasted bedchamber no less. Hell and damnation, an experienced operative should know better.

“I told ye t’stay put.” Betram’s tone hardened to flinty slivers as he cast a glance at the figure angling past his wiry, ancient body.

“Might I suggest you bugger off.” Alicia stripped the honey from her words. At this rate, Matthew’s butler and his contact with the Home Office would soon be engaged in fisticuffs.

With a groan, he rolled from the bed, tugged on his shirt, and threw open the door. A sable-haired beauty peered over Bertram’s sagging shoulders, her smile anything but angelic.

“I hope ye saved some energy fer this one. God only knows what the wench has in mind,” Bertram observed with a derisive shake of his head.

“I assure you I can manage.” Matthew pressed the door shut with one hand and leaned against the doorframe.

“
Hmmmph
.” Bertram’s grizzled face sagged into a scowl. “I’ve no doubt ye can. But next time, I won’t rouse my bones before the cock crows so yers can get its fill.”

“Go crawl back under the covers, Bertram.”

“Aye, that I will,” Bertram muttered, stepping to the side to make his retreat.

Alicia swept into the room, returning Bertram’s cantankerous glare before pursing her mouth into a deliberate pout. “My, my, you don’t look happy to see me.”

“What’s got into that head of yours, coming here like some daft tart?”

She snaked slender arms around his neck. “Ah, Matthew, don’t I even get a kiss?”

He stared down at her. What the hell was going on? Alicia was gorgeous, clever, and unflappable. Her face betrayed no genuine emotion. Only her deep blue eyes hinted at her concern.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong
.

She pressed her lips to his ear. “You have to disappear. Now.”

Matthew’s entire body went rigid. Jennie’s face flickered in his thoughts. How could he leave her behind?

“That’s impossible.”

Alicia’s lush mouth thinned to a pinched line. “The commander summoned me this morning. He’s removed you from the case.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Her gaze trailed over the fresh bandage on his arm. “I can see that.” She reached into her velvet handbag, retrieving a single ticket she pressed into his hand. “The commander wants you on the Orient Express when the train departs tonight.”

He stared down at the destination. Munich. “I need more time.”

“That’s not an option,” she countered. “There’s reason to believe your cover has been compromised. You must leave. Harwick’s not your only worry. It seems his smuggling ventures have some competition. Thad Longstreet is expanding his territory. They fished Inspector Tharrington out of the Thames last night.”

“The bastards.” Matthew
clenched his hand into a fist
. He eyed the oak paneling, the urge to punch something—anything—nearly overpowering his self-control. Tharrington had stood firm behind him during the days after his partner had been murdered. Now, the detective had met the same end as John Crosby. “You’re certain Longstreet was behind it?”

“There’s little doubt. Tharrington infiltrated Longstreet’s operations more than a year ago. Last month, someone sold information that enabled Longstreet’s major competitor to seize a major opium cargo smuggled out of Hong Kong. Longstreet knew he’d been betrayed by someone he trusted. He executed three of his lieutenants. Tharrington was one of them.”

Matthew felt a fist to the gut. “How does this involve me?”

“Longstreet wants retribution. He believes Harwick was behind the theft, and he intends to make him pay, with his own blood, most likely. He’s crowing that he has something Harwick wants, something Scotland Yard would be most interested in acquiring.”

“He’s bluffing. Longstreet doesn’t have a damn thing the Yard can use against Harwick.”

“You know what Harwick’s looking for, don’t you?” A gleam lit her eyes. “You’re clever not to tell me. After all, I could be working for Longstreet. Or Harwick.”

“What I know or don’t know doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving London.”

“So you have a death wish, do you?”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“You think you do, more’s the pity,” she said with a shake of her head. “Don’t go getting yourself killed. I’ve always been fond of you.”

He slanted a sideways glance. “You’ve had a peculiar way of showing it all these years. How many times have you put my neck on the line?”

She grazed her fingertips over the edge of his jaw. “At times, I wonder if I shouldn’t break my rule about mixing pleasure with business.”

There’d been a time, not long before, when he would have crawled across shards of glass to sample Alicia’s strategically draped charms. But now, her lips weren’t the ones he longed to plunder.

Matthew cocked a brow. “You aren’t getting lax on me now? You have your standards.”

Gathering her cloak around her, she pivoted toward the door. “I’ll be on my way. Take care, Matthew.”

She sauntered from the room. Bertram stood at the ready, making no secret of his eagerness to escort her to the street. Matthew closed the door and went to the window, staring down to the pavement as Alicia stepped outside and into a waiting brougham.

Damn it to hell. Tharrington had been a good man. How many widows would Harwick’s war with Longstreet spawn? Brutal bastards, the bloody lot of them.

And
he’d
become a thug—little better than the cur he sought to destroy.

Matthew pictured his father’s face, the pain in his eyes nearly tangible. Despite his misery, the old gentleman had stood firm, never losing faith in Matthew despite the lurid accusations bandied about by the London press. If he lived a thousand lifetimes, Matthew would never forget his father’s proud stance day after day in the courtroom, the triumph in his expression when the grand jury found the evidence against Matthew too flimsy to issue a true bill of indictment. Matthew had walked from the Old Bailey a free man, hungry for retribution—vengeance that could only come by sacrificing himself.

The course he’d taken had sliced his father’s faith to ribbons. Matthew’s alliance with Harwick had been a vicious blow. The old man had disowned him. And yet, he continued to fight for Matthew, using every ounce of his influence to press for a new investigation to uncover the true culprit behind Crosby’s death.

Matthew didn’t need another investigation to reveal that bitter truth. As a lad, he’d scrapped with the bastard responsible for John Crosby’s murder. Taking blow upon blow, Matthew had endured the drubbings until he’d grown strong enough and tough enough to turn the tables on his surly cousin. Years later, Claude Harwick had ordered Crosby’s execution, and the jackal had taken pains to cast suspicion on Matthew.

No matter the outcome, the life Matthew had known was over. He’d escaped the gallows, condemned to live out his days in disgrace, viewed as a villain of the worst sort by the very men he’d considered his brothers-in-arms.

Claude had destroyed him.

And soon, Matthew would pay him back in kind. His cousin would rot. Whether behind bars or in the ground was of little consequence.

Still, Alicia’s visit had set Matthew on edge. What did Claude know? The bastard had always been suspicious. But the truth in Alicia’s warning was undeniable. Claude had kept his latest venture shrouded in secrecy. That fact alone raised an alarm deep in Matthew’s gut. If Claude believed he’d been betrayed, he would strike out.

Fear coiled in Matthew’s belly. Not for himself.

For Jennie.

Pressing his hand against the cool glass of the windowpane, Matthew stared into the dawn. An image of Jennie flickered in his mind’s eye. Damnation, it seemed a bitter irony that fate had thrust her into his path. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Bloody shame he had to send her away. As long as she was near him, she’d be in danger. He didn’t deserve her, but he’d do whatever it took to shield her. He had to get her away. Away from London. Away from him. If that meant dragging her kicking and screaming from here to Munich, so be it.

…

Jennie threw open the faded chintz curtains and soaked up the morning light, banishing the residue of a thoroughly miserable night. Horrid images had invaded her sleep, but she was not about to dwell on the nightmares. The only way to exorcise the fear that had permeated her dreams was through action.

Combing through her unadorned oak armoire, she selected a traveling suit of plum merino wool trimmed with wide black braid. The trim jacket and flowing curves of the skirt showed her figure to good advantage. She swept her thick waves into a topknot and crowned the tresses with a pert black hat. The feminine ensemble would serve her purposes well.

She tucked the envelope inscribed with her given name into a small carpetbag and hired a hansom to the shopping district. Upon disembarking at Oxford Street, Jennie pressed a silver coin into the driver’s gloved palm. “I’ll need you to wait for me. This should compensate you for your time.”

The driver stared down at the shiny crown. With a tip of his hat, he flashed a sly grin. “This’ll do quite nicely. Yes, indeed.”

“I shan’t be long,” she said and bustled off to a small shop marked by an elegantly lettered sign.
Sterling Brothers. Fine Stationers.

Approaching the plump man behind the counter, Jennie waved the envelope like a battle flag. She thrust it under his snub nose. “I found this among my husband’s things. I’d like to know if it was purchased in your shop.”

The clerk blinked behind his spectacles. “I beg your pardon, miss.”

“Mrs.,” she corrected. She tapped a gloved finger against the ebony ink. “Of course, you could not possibly understand. You see, Virginia is not
my
name. My husband apparently went to great lengths to impress this trollop. Can you tell me if the deceitful cad acquired the stationery here?”

He took the envelope between two fingers and examined it. “This bears a distinctive watermark. I recognize the pattern.”

She drummed her fingers against the counter in a precise rhythm. “Just as I thought. My husband did obtain it here.”

The clerk placed the envelope on the counter between them. His brow furrowed. “I do not believe your husband patronized this establishment, Mrs.—”

“Smithson. Perhaps you might check your records for the purchase.”

He met her request with a bland shake of his head. “I don’t recall any customers by that name.”

Jennie laced her voice with honey. “Of course…Harold would be much too clever to use his own name. I’m hopeful you might find the transaction in your account book.”

The creases in the clerk’s fleshy brow deepened. “I don’t believe I can be of assistance. Even if I were so inclined…”

She fanned herself with one hand. Her other hand went to her blouse, toying with the pearl button at her throat. “My goodness, it has grown warm in here.”

The man’s round face reddened. “I cannot—”

Jennie slipped the pearl through the loop. “How much longer must I wait? I am feeling a bit faint.”

He dabbed his brow with his fingertips and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Smithson, I regret that I cannot provide help in this matter other than to tell you I am quite certain your husband did not purchase this item here. We acquired a small quantity of this particular stationery, but our supply was depleted several weeks ago. A young woman made the purchase.”

“A woman?”

“A rather shabby young miss, if I may speak frankly. Who would imagine a chit in threadbare skirts spending such a sum on fine paper?”

“Do you remember what she looked like?”

His lip curled. “Not much meat on her bones. Rather pale. She looked scarcely old enough to be out of the schoolroom. If I may be so bold, if that is indeed the woman in question, I do believe your husband will soon come to his senses.”

She forced a smile, thanked the clerk for his trouble, and hurried to the hansom. Her thoughts raced at breakneck speed. Since receiving the first missive, she’d known a woman was involved. Was the messenger she’d spotted a pawn in this ugly business? Or the mastermind?

The deeper Jennie delved, the more perplexing the puzzle became. She had one more source to investigate that afternoon. Perhaps Lawrence Bond would prove as talkative as he’d been at the Lancaster.

…

Patrons flocked to the Savoy for more than the cuisine. Nouveau riche millionaires and American heiresses dined beside West End theater divas and flamboyant thespians. Jennie’s driver craned his neck, his gaze trailing American actress Lillian Russell’s grand entrance. Jennie offered silent thanks. Who would notice her when every eye was turned to the glamorous soprano?

While the driver sat transfixed, Jennie stepped from the coach and hurried to the entrance. The maître d’ glanced up from a reservation book. His pinched lips relaxed into a smile.

“May I help you?”

Time to play the scorned woman once again. She forced a quiet urgency into her voice. “Lawrence Bond—he’s here…with her. I know it.”