When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (25 page)

She slipped inside the building, threw open the door to her room, and stalked inside. Tossing her cape onto a chair, she went to the window. Somehow, the relentless gloom wrapped around her like a blanket, oddly comforting even as the bitter lump in her throat throbbed. The sky matched her dark mood. How could she have allowed herself to be so vulnerable to a man—any man? She’d never lost objectivity. Until she’d shared Matthew Colton’s bed.

Pressing her fingertips to the cool glass, she sketched the scene of Lawrence Bond’s murder in her thoughts. Crucial details had penetrated the veil of shock that had accompanied her discovery of Bond’s lifeless body. The bloody wound over his brow had been precise, far too small and well-defined to be the product of Matthew’s large caliber Webley. Of course, Matthew might have used a smaller-caliber gun. But why would he kill Bond? Any Yard inspector with a grain of sense would connect Harwick’s top enforcer with the murder of a man who’d become a vocal thorn in the crime lord’s side.

Images of Bond in death haunted her. She should have gone to the authorities. Was she protecting Matthew Colton—the man who might have been Bond’s executioner—or was she acting out of self-preservation?

And what of her plan to meet with Bond? Surely the Yard would uncover that damning detail. Bond had crowed his invitation at the Savoy. His companion knew of his plans, as did anyone in earshot. An inquiry would expose her charade, her investigations. Claws gripped her insides. Dear God, she’d be a marked woman. A soft, insistent rapping on the door tore her from her misery.

Sophie’s voice. Had she returned from her latest assignment, covering Lady Bittner’s society tea, so soon?

Jennie forced an evenness into her voice as she opened the door. Best not to reveal the brutal truth—she’d compromised her investigation over a man’s touch.

Sophie swept in, vivacious energy brimming around her. “Mr. Campbell has assigned me to a new story. The local society matrons are all abuzz. I suspect you’ll be interested as well.”

“My, what would merit such enthusiasm?” Jennie pretended a bland interest. “Has Sarah Bernhardt decided to return to the London stage?”

Sophie’s mouth formed a bland line. “Nothing so exciting as that. No, there’s a stir over an American heiress who arrived on a luxury liner from New York today. Campbell wants me to discover the amusements she plans to enjoy while she’s here and make a point to attend those events.”

“A day in the life of a privileged young woman. How very original.”

Sophie’s blond waves bobbed as she shook her head. “Oh, it’s not her story I believe you’ll find intriguing. While I was on the pier, I spotted a figure connected with the Inspector’s trial, a fellow named Dyson. Quite a handsome man, but cold-eyed.”

A twinge skittered along Jennie’s spine. “Dyson is Harwick’s man in America. He’s said to be expanding Harwick’s reach to New York.”

“Unless Dyson has a twin, he’s no longer there. I saw him leave the ship, not five minutes before the heiress stepped onto the dock. I made some subtle inquiries. Dyson traveled alone in posh accommodations.”

“Would the scoundrel settle for anything less? During his last visit to London, he occupied a penthouse at the Savoy. The police had fished three bodies from the Thames during that time, each mutilated beyond recognition. The murders were believed to be Dyson’s handiwork, but there was no solid evidence to prove his involvement. The man is brilliant at covering his tracks.”

Sophie’s brow crinkled. “If that’s the case, why would he sail under his own name?”

“He behaves like a man who has nothing to hide. Few who encounter his charming smile would believe him capable of such brutality.”

“Indeed. So now, the question is, why has he returned to London?”

The talons dug deeper into Jennie’s stomach. “I believe something sinister is in the works. I must find Mary’s diary. If she knew what Dyson was up to, it will be in that book.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Collapsing on her bed in a weary heap, Jennie stared idly at the ceiling. She had a few hours to spare before she left for the Lancaster, precious time during which she might untangle the knot of her thoughts.

A rap sounded at the door. “Jennie, are you there? I need to talk to you.”

Mrs. O’Brien. Drat the luck, what did the woman want now? A sigh rippled through Jennie. Perhaps she could pretend she wasn’t in. Or perhaps Mrs. O’Brien might believe she’d fallen asleep. Of course, she wouldn’t put it past the matron to let herself in with her key.

But something in Mrs. O’Brien’s tone beckoned her. Her voice had been stripped of its usually chirpy, gossipy joy. Forcing herself from her short-lived respite, Jennie plodded to the door.

The matron’s stricken eyes betrayed her distress as clearly as a banner headline. “I come bearin’ terrible news, my dear.”

Jennie placed a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Good heavens, what’s wrong?”

Casting a miserable glance to the heavens, Mrs. O’Brien sniffled. “That pretty chit on the first floor, Sally Jennings. She must’ve been on her way from the factory. They found her in an alley this mornin’. Dead. Such a bold villain, roamin’ these streets.”

The childlike blonde she’d spotted near her door. Murdered. Jennie clutched the doorjamb to steady herself. The taste of bile sickened her. “My heavens.”

Mrs. O’Brien dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Constable Jones told me the poor dear’s throat was cut. I try t’warn my girls. But some…some don’t want t’listen.”

“There was nothing more you could have done,” Jennie said, her tone calm even as a sense of urgency welled within her. She had to alert Sophie. The danger was real and growing stronger with each passing moment. If Jennie were indeed in a killer’s sights, Sophie might well become a target by virtue of their association. The possibility slammed into her like a vicious blow.

“Thank ye, dear. Ye’re a sweet girl. And the constables, they don’t give a fig about a poor miss like Sally.” Mrs. O’Brien wrung her hands as her features settled into a look of resignation. “It’s not like she’s the first. Promise me ye’ll be careful with all those late hours you keep. I don’t want ye joinin’ those other poor souls.”

Jennie bolted up the stairs to the fifth floor of the boardinghouse. Sophie answered the coded knock upon her door with a smile that quickly faded. “What’s happened? Something’s wrong.”

Jennie stepped inside and latched the door behind her. Nearly tripping over a crinoline petticoat that lay carelessly discarded on the floor, she navigated the heaps of ruffled fabric scattered about, moving as far from the door and walls as the small chamber allowed. One never knew who might be listening. She sidestepped another pile of clothing. After years as a ward in her wealthy uncle’s household, Sophie had still not adjusted to living without a maid. Perhaps she would someday acquire a semblance of tidiness. Then again, perhaps not.

Sophie plopped into a whitewashed spindle chair. “Good heavens, you look as though you’ve seen Marley’s ghost.”

Jennie waded out of the sea of fabric. “I’d much prefer a ghost. I’m far more concerned about the threats that live and breathe. There’s been another murder.”

As Jennie relayed the news from Mrs. O’Brien, Sophie went the slightest bit pale.

“How distressing.” Sophie’s brow furrowed. “To think the victim lived in this very building.”

“Whomever the killer is, I don’t want you in his path. It’s time for you to leave this place.”

Indignation blazed in Sophie’s eyes. “I am not a child. I’ve no need to run and hide.”

“I’ve received a threatening note. More than one, actually. Given recent events, we must take the implications seriously.”

She’d expected Sophie’s eyes to widen in alarm. Instead, a sly smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “My, you must be making someone very nervous. What will you do?”

“First things first. I need to know you’re safe. Gather your things and find Campbell. At this hour, he’s probably still at his office. Tell him what I’ve learned and inform him that I’ve instructed you to find other accommodations. He’ll see you comfortably settled in at the Savoy. He’s well acquainted with the management. Until this insanity has come to its conclusion, it’s the most sensible solution. I won’t have you in danger.”

“And what of you? Where will you go?” Concern blazed in Sophie’s eyes.

Jennie patted her on the arm. “No need to worry. I’ve already worked that out.” The comforting little lie flowed easily. “Now, pack your traveling bags. We’ll keep the room, but for now, I won’t see you spend another night in this place.”

Sophie filled two suitcases and slipped away while Jennie engaged Mrs. O’Brien in fond reminiscences of her dearly departed husband. Jennie eased out of the conversation as soon as Sophie’s hired carriage clattered down the street.

She allowed herself a few minutes of solitude before preparing to face the crowd at the Lancaster. Her temples throbbed in protest, but she pushed past the low ache and dressed in a sensible yet attractive ensemble. Her black wool skirt skimmed her curves just enough to draw the male eye, while her crisp, white blouse with leg-of-mutton sleeves—drat it all, the garment hung in lopsided disarray. She’d skipped a button. Her clumsy inability to dress herself might have held some amusement if tension did not weight her limbs and burrow like a fist into her belly.

She unbuttoned the blouse and refastened the closures.
Chin high. No time to fret. Get to the task at hand.
Her father’s voice flickered in her thoughts, and a smile tugged at her lips as she placed her Sharps in her reticule and quietly made her way down the stairs.

Tugging the hood of her cloak forward to shield her features, she wove her way through the bustling streets. Street vendors in threadbare coats peddled their goods while young boys hawked the late edition of the
Herald
and
The
Times.
Office workers dodged carriages and work wagons as they made their way home from the heart of the city.

Jack Trent emerged from a hansom parked mere steps from her building. Bugger it, what did the man think he was doing, following her to her residence?

“Just keep walking.” He clipped the words in a low, harsh voice. “We need to talk.”

Blast his arrogant soul! Was he intent on spying on her every move? “Have you gone mad? If we’re spotted together—”

“A man could certainly take an interest in a pretty barmaid, couldn’t he? Colton certainly did.”

“You should know the value of discretion. It’s bad enough you made a scene at the Lancaster.”

“Two jealous men sparring over a beautiful woman. Nothing remarkable there. In another age, men would do battle over a woman like you.”

“Highly unlikely,” she said crisply. “Why are you here?”

“Constables hauled Colton from his residence.” He paused with an actor’s flare for the dramatic. “Less than an hour ago.”

His words stung, painful as an open-palmed slap across the face. She pulled in a steadying breath. Devil take it, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her.

“Do you spend all your time trailing Colton? I’d think you would devote some of your efforts to investigating Harwick.”

“Colton is a direct link to Harwick. Who do you think does the man’s dirty work?”

Jennie’s determined strides easily matched Jack’s long-legged gait. “Harwick has an extensive organization. Surely you don’t believe he depends on one man.”

“Colton grabbed more power than any of those dunderheaded fools.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?”

His fingers curved over her arm. “I’ve seen you departing his residence.”

“Balderdash. The next thing I know, you’ll have me taking tea with the queen.”

“You’re a poor liar. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were the man’s mistress. Hopefully, you’ll come to your senses while they’ve got him behind bars. With the enemies he’s got, he won’t be there long.”

The words seemed another blow, but she merely shot him a sideways glance. “And precisely why has Mr. Colton been arrested?” Amazing, how cool the question sounded on her lips given she already knew the answer.

“His usual handiwork. Murder. Quick and clean with a bullet to the base of the skull. He killed Sir Lawrence Bond with one shot.”

An image of the dead man’s blood-splattered body invaded her thoughts. She pulled in another deep breath to steady herself.

“He had no reason to kill Bond,” she deliberately scoffed, camouflaging the pain of her own doubt. “The man didn’t concern him.”

“You’re wrong, Jennie. This time, there’s little doubt of Colton’s motive. Bond was extorting funds from Harwick. And…there is a witness.”

“A witness?” Jennie knotted her fingers together to ease their trembling. It wouldn’t do to reveal the impact Trent’s words had on her tattered faith.

“Bond’s cook.” Triumph flavored his low tones. “Bond had dispatched his household staff to his country estate to prepare for his winter ball. I’m told it’s quite a grand affair. But he’d requested that his cook stay behind. She’d gone to market, apparently seeking some delicacy the old bounder had requested, but she spotted Colton when she returned.”

“She saw him in the house?” How amazing that she could form the agonizing question on her lips.

“No.” Trent cleared his throat. “Making his way from the premises.”

She dragged in another calming breath. “Even if he was there, that means little. Colton is not a murderer.”

“Jennie, you don’t know what the man is capable of, the blood he’s shed. You were involved in your textile factory exposé while he was on trial. If you’d seen the evidence I was privy to at that time, I wouldn’t need to convince you. The bastard was spotted at the scene of the crime moments after his partner was killed. He knew exactly where to find the man’s corpse, because he’d put Inspector Crosby there, in the cold waters of the Thames with a bullet between his eyes.”

“The evidence that he killed Crosby is purely circumstantial.”

“Good God, what does it take to convict the man in your eyes?” He tore a hand through his hair. “In any case, there is an eyewitness to Bond’s murder. Her identity is being kept secret for her protection, but I suspect one of Bond’s paramours.”

“And how do you know this?”

“I have my sources at the Yard, just as you have yours.”

A thousand tiny demons pounded against her temples with ball peen hammers. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to listen to reason. Shake yourself out of whatever spell the bastard has cast.”

“I am not under his or any man’s spell, as you put it.”

“Call it what you will. Damn it, Jennie, I’m concerned about you.” His voice was raw. “Matthew Colton is not some misguided soul you can change. He’s a brute and a killer, a ruffian without mercy.”

Trent motioned her to a storefront. He peered into a jeweler’s showcase window. To onlookers, they might have been any handsome young couple browsing for wedding jewelry. He leaned closer. “Harwick’s mistress…she came between him and Bond.”

“Harwick had already cast her aside when she took up with Bond.”

“Don’t play coy with me. I know better.” He slanted her a narrow-eyed glance. “Mary McDaniel endeared herself to Bond. The fool fancied himself her protector. And now, they’re both dead.”

“Why would Harwick order a man killed over a mistress he’d already replaced with a younger woman?”

“That’s what I need you to tell me.”

“There’s nothing I can tell you.”

“Was Colton with you when Bond was killed?” Trent persisted.

The weary, desolate rush of air from her lungs sounded foreign to her ears. Surely Matthew had not murdered Bond to silence him. He was not a cold-blooded killer. If only the lie she desperately wanted to utter would form on her lips.

When she didn’t answer, Trent swept his fingertips over her cheek. “Tell me.”

“Matthew Colton is not an executioner.” Her control threatened to shatter like china cast against the cobblestones. How pathetic her fragile faith must sound.

Trent reached for her then. He stroked her hair, lingering against the wayward strands. For a heartbeat, Jennie thought he would kiss her. But a rueful smile flickered over his features, and he grazed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone.

“If Colton is innocent, I will help you prove it. But if you’re wrong, I’ll do everything in my power to see the bastard swing at Newgate.”