When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (20 page)

A mask of practiced discretion fell over the maître d’s thin features. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I do not wish to make a scene. I suggest you show me to his table.”

He shook his head, his lips squeezed together so tightly, they seemed to disappear. “That will not be possible.”

She leaned closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “They say he’s unfaithful. I can’t bear it. I must see for myself.”

The maître d’ cast a pointed glance at the door. “I suggest you leave now before you cause yourself embarrassment.”

“I simply must know.” Skirts swishing around her ankles, she darted into the dining room.

Bond sat at a table near the back of the bustling restaurant, a half-filled tumbler in his hand. His gaze took her in, a quick sweep at first, then lingering over her face. Recognition—and something more, a look of distinctly masculine appreciation—flickered in his eyes. His mouth slid into something that resembled a smile. At his side, a raven-haired beauty glared over a crystal glass.

Jennie sidled closer as the red-faced maître d’ maneuvered through the crowd in pursuit. Bond waved away the stiff-necked man with a sweep of his hand. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Do you remember what you told me? You offered to assist me if I wished to pursue the theater.”

“Absolutely, my dear. I count several producers among my closest friends. Perhaps I could arrange something for you.”

“I’d like that very much.”

He reached for Jennie’s hand. His low laugh hardened the frost in his companion’s sapphire eyes. “Come by my town house. We’ve much to discuss.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Amazing, how smoothly the lie flowed from her lips.

Bond’s eyes filled with greedy delight. “Sadly, my schedule tomorrow is burdened with obligations. Dreadfully boring appointments, not nearly as tempting as an afternoon with you. But I really must see you. I’ll send my driver for you—Friday, at noon. Now, my sweet, tell me where you’ll be.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She flashed a smile. “I can find my way.”

Bond reached for her hand. Jennie gave silent thanks for the gloves covering her skin.

“It would be no trouble, my sweet.” His attention slithered to his companion, then flickered back to Jennie. “Perhaps you might consider joining us now. You’ll find my Fiona quite enticing.”

His companion’s frosty blue eyes raked over Jennie. “Indeed. Our amusements might prove…interesting.”

The taste of revulsion rose to Jennie’s mouth, but she carefully schooled her features. “Perhaps another time.”

She glanced away. A subtle movement near the darkest corner of the room caught her interest. A lone figure, leaning rather casually in a chair, nearly—but not quite—concealed by the shadows. Even at this distance, she felt the intensity of Matthew’s watchful eyes boring into her. Her stomach did a little flip. By Athena’s spear, the scoundrel had followed her again. Well, if he thought she would be intimidated by his surveillance, he was mistaken. With a tip of her chin, she shot him a defiant glance. Fleeting. But serving notice that she’d caught on to his spying.

“Might we convince you to stay?” Fiona’s voice was as cool as her gaze.

Pulling her thoughts back to Bond and his companion, Jennie offered a bland shake of her head. “I’m afraid I’m running quite late—another obligation, you see. I look forward to our meeting.”

“By all means,” Bond said with a curl of his upper lip. He took another drink. “You wouldn’t want to keep his majesty—I mean Harwick—waiting.”

“My errand is actually quite mundane. Nothing Mr. Harwick would concern himself with.”

“I understand, my dear.” Bond tipped his glass to his lips again. “Friday cannot come swiftly enough.”

…

A quid in the maître d’s palm had been all it took for Matthew to get the best seat in the house. The best seat for his purposes, at least. The society matrons who came to the Savoy to be seen would have protested if they’d been seated out of view. But for Matthew, the far corner table was exactly what he needed.

Matthew nursed his whiskey and scanned the throng. Society types with too much money and time on their hands had come to rub elbows with London’s elite. He didn’t give a damn about catching a glimpse of Oscar Wilde.

He’d come after Lawrence Bond.

His quarry had been happily imbibing with an apple-cheeked brunette whose cold glower clashed with her twittering laughter—until an auburn-haired woman rushed to his side. The brunette’s eyes cast daggers at the newcomer, then lit with a voracious gleam. Damnable shame he couldn’t hear their dialogue. The exchange between the women might well prove interesting. Matthew skimmed the redhead’s hourglass figure. Her elegant traveling suit hugged every luscious curve. If her face was half as beautiful as her shape, she’d take a man’s breath away. No doubt another starstruck young diva out to make good use of Lawrence Bond’s connections with West End showmen. She moved closer to Bond, offering Matthew a fleeting glimpse of her profile.

Bollocks!

He’d planned to talk some sense into Bond before Harwick sent Mr. Leonard and his brass knuckles after the hapless sot. Did Jennie hope to manipulate the man into revealing what he knew of Harwick’s brutal enterprise? Hellfire and damnation, he’d not taken her to be so reckless. Simply being seen with Bond was enough to make her a target.

She reached up to touch her hair, coiling a wavy copper tendril around a slender finger. So, she was nervous. It was about damned time Jennie realized the dangerous game she was playing.

She left Bond with a small wave. He trailed her as she marched to the door, keeping a distance between them as she approached the maître d’, lifted her chin in a haughty gesture, and breezed past the flustered man.

Her skirts rustled about her ankles as she flounced onto the pavement. Matthew thought she’d cry out in alarm when he caught her cloak-covered arm in his hand. Instead, she turned to face him, a look of clear challenge in her eyes.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Flushed from the brisk air and what seemed a sense of exhilaration, Jennie was vibrant and bright and evidently quite pleased with herself. Good God, she was perfect.

It’s a bloody shame I have to rein her in.

If they weren’t on a crowded street in broad daylight, he might have kissed the smug expression off her face. Instead, he gently clasped her arm. Jennie wouldn’t be cowed or cajoled. But she was a reasonable woman. She’d see the sense in what he had to say.

“I don’t know what your purpose was in seeking him out, but Bond is not the harmless drunk you obviously believe him to be. Things will go badly for him. I don’t want you mixed up with that man when they do.”

Her mouth thinned to a seam. The scathing condemnation in her eyes speared him. “Go badly? Quite a civilized way of describing the way men like you deal with problems.”

“Harwick is losing patience. With Bond. And with me.”

“I have decided an acquaintance with the man may prove advantageous.” She clipped the words between her teeth. “My associations should be of no concern to you.”

“Stay away from him.”

Jennie squared her shoulders. “You have no right—”

Damnation, if anything happened to Jennie, the rage and pain would be too much to bear. The very thought was like a blade twisting in his entrails. That gave him the right. But he couldn’t confess that truth.

“It would be better if you did think me a villain of the worst sort. Perhaps then you’d believe what I tell you—you need to stay away from no-good curs like Bond. And me.”

“That can be arranged, Mr. Colton.” With that, she pivoted on her heel and stalked toward her hired carriage.

With any luck, she’d keep going. Far from the tavern. Far from Harwick. Far from him.

And never look back.

Chapter Nineteen

Jennie stared out the window of the hansom, hearing little beyond her own thoughts. The confrontation with Matthew had left her unsettled. Her heart’s rhythm had slowed to its normal cadence, but each breath carried the echo of his warning. Her palms moist and clammy with tension, she stripped her gloves from her hands. Questions battered her brain. Was Matthew concerned about what she might uncover about Harwick? Or about his own crimes?

Departing the carriage, she bustled up the front steps of Mrs. O’Brien’s house and through the entry. Jennie saw the girl then, a sweet-faced blonde, more waif than woman. She recognized her at once, knew the chit shared a first floor room with another young factory worker. Sally, she believed was her name. She peered down from the top of the stairs, her pale eyes widening. Without so much as a word of greeting, Sally bustled past Jennie as though the devil’s minions nipped at her heels.

Apprehension crept through Jennie’s veins. Her pulse quickened again. She rushed to her room, her heart pounding as she made short work of the two flights of stairs.

A missive lay at her door. The same fine ivory stationery. The same harsh slashes of black ink.

Closing and bolting the door behind her, she pulled in a lungful of air. Had Sally delivered the message? No matter. She’d deal with that question later. First, she’d see what the coward who hid behind anonymous threats had for her this time.

She lifted the envelope with trembling fingers and retrieved the carefully folded paper within.

I’ll carve out his heart if he touches you again.

She heard herself gasp, felt her pulse stutter. She allowed a few heartbeats to pass, steadying herself, then tucked the letter into her reticule, set the bag beside her pistol, and pinched her cheeks to restore the color she knew had drained away. She’d be damned if the coward would see how his vile threat had twisted her belly into knots.

Tension clawed at her. Invisible talons that shredded her courage without mercy. Studying the words beneath the gaslight lamp, she was struck by the aggression in the strokes. Each bold mark against the page seemed more erratic and filled with more fury than the last.

But who was the object of the coward’s threat? Did the cur refer to Matthew? Or perhaps the bastard had observed her with Jack Trent. Or even Campbell in one of his atrocious disguises. No, her interactions with Trent and Campbell had been brisk and lacking in any semblance of passion.

She could not say the same of her time with Matthew. From the first, a flame had pulsed between them, drawing them in. This message was clear in its vicious intent. And its target.

She had to get word to Matthew. While he was used to dealing with London’s underbelly, he would not be prepared to defend himself against what might well be a madman—a madman who might have already struck out at him. Would the vile blackguard’s aim be truer next time?

There’d be no need to reveal her secret. Two women with ties to the Lancaster had died at a butcher’s hands. Matthew would make that connection. These threats had no evident tie to her investigation. Confessing the truth of her identity would serve no purpose.

Concealing her pistol within the folds of her cloak, she emerged from her room. Despite the heavy wool wrapper, a shiver coursed the length of her spine. No telling whether the scoundrel who’d penned the note lurked nearby. The feel of the gun within her hand offered some measure of reassurance. If the coward dared to come after her, he’d soon regret it. A bullet would prove a most unpleasant surprise indeed.

…

Matthew tore off his tie and slumped on the edge of an overstuffed wingchair. A fire blazed in the hearth of his study, and the tumbler of Scotch on a marble side table beckoned him. Tension filled every bone, every muscle, every cell. Rubbing his neck, he aimlessly studied the worn Oriental rug beneath his feet, mentally tracing the detailed patterns. The threads had been woven so intricately, the design seemed a maze, complicated and interconnected, like a puzzle that could not be solved.

Like his life. Damn the questions plaguing him. His life had become so bloody complicated since Jennie had fallen into his arms. Now Jack Trent was nosing around the Lancaster. Matthew didn’t know why the bastard had returned to London, but in his gut, he knew the yellow dog’s reappearance was tied to Jennie. Blast it, Trent had already drawn Harwick’s attention. How long would it be before Matthew could no longer keep the rabid cur at bay?

The hall clock chimed. Another hour gone. Another sleepless night ahead. His pulse throbbed against his temples. How could he protect a woman who didn’t trust him? Jennie believed him to be a thug. She’d accused him of defending Harwick. What the hell did he expect? He’d lived a lie for so long. And now, the woman he wanted, more than any he’d ever touched, believed him the vilest of brutes. Her contempt cut deep.

If he had any sense, he’d drag her away from London, tell her the truth, and get them both so far away from Claude Harwick, the bastard would never find them.

So exhausted he could scarcely see straight, he collapsed against the chair and closed his eyes, allowing a dreamless fog to drift over him. Not quite awake. Yet not asleep. Through the haze of shadows, Jennie called to him. His name on her lips. Faint as a murmur. Colored by fear.

Bloody hell.
He wasn’t dreaming.

She stood in the door to the study. Gaslight swept over the soft contours of her face. Cloaked in a hooded gray cape, she was deathly pale. Her emerald eyes blazed against the cream of her skin while her mouth pulled into a stricken line.

Bertram hovered behind her, a dressing gown tied haphazardly over his nightshirt, his bony legs exposed from the knees to his slipper-clad feet. His features drawn and stark, he displayed no trace of his cantankerous self. “You have a visitor. She indicates it is a matter of some urgency. I lacked the strength to deter her. It seemed a futile effort, given recent events.”

“Indeed.” Matthew’s gaze flicked to Jennie. Her lips seemed to have stretched tauter since she’d entered. What in blazes was going on? What had happened to drain the color from her cheeks and instill such distress in her eyes?

He rose and came to her. With a nod to Bertram, he dismissed the old gent. Grumbling under his breath, Bertram turned on his heel and thudded along the corridor. A door thumped against its frame.

Jennie clutched an envelope in her hand. White-knuckled, she looked as if she wished to crush it between her fingers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to draw you into this.” Her voice hushed, she pulled the door closed behind her. “I’ve reason to believe you’re in danger.”

Possessive anger welled deep in his gut. “Has someone harmed you? Tell me, Jennie.”

“No. Not yet. But soon.” The words sounded torn from her throat.

She placed the letter in his hand. Expensive linen paper, meticulously creased. He unfolded the missive.
Each death brings me closer
…

He bit back a savage epithet. “Where did you get this?”

“Someone left it at my flat…that night when you were wounded.” She slipped another note into his palm. “When I returned home from the Savoy, this was at my door.”

He read the threat scrawled against the paper. The stationery was of quality, the writing bold. Large letters formed with harsh, angular lines. A man’s hand, most likely. Damn the rotter who’d set out to frighten Jennie. These macabre communiqués weren’t Harwick’s work. The bastard didn’t waste time on theatrics.

“Do you suspect anyone—a man you’ve spurned, perhaps?” Matthew swept back her hood. The quiet terror in her eyes carved invisible furrows on his heart.

She gave her head a miserable shake. “No. No one. You’re the only man I’ve…been close to in a long time.”

He skimmed the curve of her cheek. As he threaded his fingers through her silken auburn waves, primal instinct filled every cell. “If someone tries to hurt you, he’ll regret it.”

“You may be in far greater danger than me.” She stripped off her cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. “There’s something else, something rather peculiar.” She tapped a finger on the envelope. “Whoever wrote these has knowledge of my given name. Quite peculiar, really. Even my dearest friends call me Jennie.”

“Jennie, I know the truth. Who you are. What you do. Someone else has uncovered your secret. Amazing how little tin it takes to get answers in this hellhole.”

Her gaze locked with his. Direct. Unflinching. Did she intend to continue her charade, even now?

“It’s too late for lies,” he went on. “It doesn’t matter if you deny it—I know the truth. And so does the person who wrote these threats. You were born Virginia Jeanette Quinn, the youngest, and evidently, most adventurous child of Sir Peter Quinn and his Scottish wife.”

Her lips formed a taut seam. “A fanciful story. Nothing more.”

“I uncovered your identity in one night. A crown seemed a small fortune to the apprentice who revealed your secret.”

She blinked. “An apprentice?” The word sounded like a gasp.

“After the lad confirmed my suspicions, I slipped the night watchman a few bob. Once I got into Campbell’s files, I found everything I needed to know.”

The defiant set of her chin eased. In defeat? Or in relief that her masquerade had come to an end? Her eyes flashed with something that looked like admiration. “Clever, Matthew. It seems I’d underestimated you. So, what happens now?”

The wary edge in her tone seemed a dagger to the gut. She still didn’t trust him. Not entirely. Damn shame he couldn’t bring himself to blame her.

“You think I would betray you to Harwick?”

He watched her, taking in the way she shadowed her gaze with her lashes as she considered the question. After what seemed a lifetime, she met his gaze.

“No.” She turned away for the briefest of moments. When she looked at him again, she seemed different, as if she’d shed the veil of her disguise. A low sigh escaped her, and her eyes softened. “I cannot explain it, and perhaps I’ve gone quite mad, but I do trust you, Matthew. More than you know.”

I do trust you
. The words slammed into him. Jennie had granted him a pardon he’d neither expected nor deserved. Devil take it, it would be better for both of them if she feared him, if she fled both him and London and never looked back, and he intended to see she did just that.

He lifted the envelope from her hand and studied the name etched in angry, black scrolls. “Someone knows who you are. He may have discovered your identity. Or he’s known you in the past. In either case, the blackguard wants to ensure you know of his cunning, of his deviousness.”

Her shoulders sagged as though an unbearable weight had been placed on them, even as her lips pursed, as they tended to do when she was puzzling something out. “At least I’m confident it wasn’t you.”

He cocked a brow. “I should think so. I don’t go about leaving notes like some crazed lunatic.”

“That goes without saying. Oh, and I have examined your handwriting. Your strokes are far more controlled and contained than these rough slashes. There’s an element of violence here. You can imagine the harsh movements of the pen in hand.”

“You’ve seen samples of my penmanship? Good God. Perhaps I was wrong about your connection with the
Herald.
Are you with the Home Office?”

She graced him with a smile like the Mona Lisa, soft and secretive. “No, but I also have highly useful acquaintances.”

“I suppose that’s how you located my residence.”

She gave her head a little shake. “I followed you. After you began spying on me, I decided a little surveillance of my own might be in order.”

Clever minx. Jennie had intrigued him since the first night he saw her. Now, she was bloody irresistible.

He forced himself to consider something other than the perfect temptation of her mouth. His attention trailed back to the envelope. “You’re assuming this is a man’s writing.”

“There is a slight chance a woman wrote this. After all, one cannot be entirely confident of these suppositions, but I’d wager a man is behind this.”

“Who is aware of your past? Who would know you as Virginia?”

“Campbell, of course.”

“The
Herald’s
managing editor.”

Jennie nodded. “Macalister Campbell was my father’s protégé following his studies at Cambridge. I’ve known him for the better part of a decade.”

“He may be the connection.”

“No, that’s not possible.” She firmed her chin, though the slight quiver of her lower lip betrayed how deeply his words had shaken her. “Campbell would never do anything to hurt me.”

“The files in his office would disclose enough facts to discern your identity. Given the watchman’s eagerness to give a bloody tour of the offices in exchange for a bit of blunt, anyone with coin in his pocket might have gained access.”

She pressed her lips back into a tight line. “I must have a discussion with Campbell about the trustworthiness of the staff.”

“At this point, it’s too late. Someone knows who you are and where you lie down to sleep at night. They are aware of your vulnerabilities. We must locate the courier. How well do you know the women who live in your building?”

“I’ve spoken with them. Idle pleasantries, nothing more. Most toil in factories from sunup to sundown. But I spotted a girl near my door when I returned home. She lives downstairs.”

“Depending on her motives, she may be a threat.”

Jennie shook her head with slow deliberation. “If she knows who wrote this message, she’s in danger. I must warn her.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. I intend to get you on the next train out of London. If the coward behind these threats is connected with the murders of those women, God knows what we’re dealing with.”

“I can’t run. If there is a link, how many more women will perish if I don’t lure this madman to reveal himself?”

Slipping an arm around her waist, Matthew drew her near. Even in the face of danger, she held her chin high. Her courage enchanted him. His lips brushed the curve of her cheek, and she relaxed against him. He inhaled her sweet essence, the subtle fragrance of lavender soap and rainwater.