When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (8 page)

Behind the lenses, his steely eyes narrowed. “Are you going to take a seat? Or are you going to stand there long enough for me to wish you well and send you on your way?”

She slid into a rickety chair across from his. If he thought to intimidate her, he would find himself greatly mistaken. She’d no intention of accepting any edict he decreed, especially not any that involved her termination from the staff he commanded like an overzealous general.

Leaning back in his chair, he eyed her coolly. “I told you I’d sack you. I trust you did not believe I’d spoken the words for my own amusement.”

She waved away his hardened words and stiffened her spine. “If you cut me, I’ll continue on my own and sell the story to the highest bidder. Then, I’ll take a voyage across the pond. I hear Mr. Pulitzer is seeking England’s answer to Nellie Bly.”

What little of Campbell’s complexion she could make out beneath the exaggerated sideburns reddened. “He’s contacted you?”

“That’s privileged information.”

He took another drag on the cigar. “Perhaps Pulitzer would be a better fit for your escapades. In any case, don’t underestimate me. I meant what I said.”

“Enough of these pleasantries.” She leaned closer, her voice whisper-soft. “What do you know about Elizabeth Stewart’s death?”

He blinked behind his spectacles. Behind the thick glass, his eyes looked ridiculously owllike. “The girl who was murdered last night?”

She nodded. “What have you learned?”

“Probably no more than you. The killer took a knife to her. Beyond that, if the Yard knows anything, they’re not letting on.”

Jennie laced her fingers to still their quivering. “Who has the story?”

“Fred Porter.”

“Porter?” Jennie repeated, digesting the revelation. “You might as well have sent a schoolgirl to cover the crime. That blathering milksop is far better suited to transcribing the mayor’s speeches than investigating a murder.”

Campbell crooked a thick gray eyebrow. “Who would you suggest?”

“Me.”

“Have you forgotten you’re already neck deep in vipers at the Lancaster?”

“This killing is likely connected with Mary McDaniel’s death. If the murderer thought Lizzy knew something about Mary, he’d go to any lengths to silence her. Two women connected to Harwick have died. This is more than chance. I know the area. I know the people. I can get the facts we need.”

“Your sniffing around the tavern is one thing. But this…” He shoved a hand through the unruly gray strands flopping over his spectacles. A single vein bulged against the pale expanse of his brow. “You’re in enough danger as it is.”

Well, then, that’s that.
He’d made up his mind. There’d be no changing it. He’d never assign her to investigate Lizzy’s murder.

She’d simply have to assign herself.

Jennie composed her features. “You win.” She softly tapped her nails against the table in an even rhythm. “But you must promise me you’ll take that mollycoddled idiot Porter off the story.”

Campbell offered a brusque nod. One brow teetered precariously. Making a show of rubbing his temples, he pressed it back into place. “I’ll pull Richard Carlson off the loading docks. The place will still be a crime-infested hellhole long after these murders are solved.”

“Carlson’s a much sounder choice.”

Light flickered off his lenses. He speared her with his gaze. “You’re too damned agreeable.”

Jennie offered a deliberately bland smile. “Am I now?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. I’m close to pulling you off the Lancaster case. Harwick and his lot are not common thugs. They’re smart and they’re ruthless.”

The twinge of concern in his voice sobered her. “I don’t intend to put myself in danger.”

He regarded her pointedly over his cigar. “I’d sleep a hell of a lot better if I believed you. How much does Matthew Colton know about these killings?”

“There’s no reason to suspect his involvement.” A deep ache lodged in the pit of her stomach, and she pressed her fingertips against the marred tabletop.

“Balderdash.” Campbell brought the cigar to his mouth and dragged in another smoke-filled draught. “If Harwick had anything to do with these deaths, you can rest assured Colton has bloodied his hands once again.”

Chapter Seven

Claude Harwick held court in a rear corner of the tavern. His slicked-back dark hair intensified the liquid silver of his eyes as he lifted a crystal glass to his lips and emptied it. The brute at his side surveyed the Lancaster’s patrons, wielding a scowl that might have made Attila the Hun think twice before crossing his path.

Freddy Leonard. A perfectly ordinary name for a most repulsive man.

Jennie hurried behind the bar, snatched up a cleaning rag, and wove through the maze of patrons to a recently vacated table. Dodging Harwick’s line of sight, she busied herself clearing the mess. Her ears strained to pick up the muted voices drifting from the corner.

“Does Colton know who has it?” Leonard’s booming voice carried over the tavern chatter. “If he does, why didn’t he get the blasted thing?”

“He’s putting pressure on the bastard,” Harwick said, his tones lower, measured. “Perhaps not enough.”

“Let me take care o’ this. Colton’s wastin’ too much time. Some lightskirt in Whitechapel’s boastin’ o’ the sterlin’ comin’ her way. The wench goes by Ida. We need t’ave a talk.”

Leonard caught sight of Jennie. Peering down a mangled nose that told the tale of bar brawls past, he motioned her closer. “Luv, move your pretty little arse and fetch me a beer.”

Harwick’s eyes hardened. “Watch your mouth. This is a quality establishment.”

Jennie plastered a docile smile on her face. “I’d be happy to bring you a beverage.” She met Harwick’s harsh glare. “Would you like anything, sir?”

“Ale. Make sure Harry uses a clean glass.” His nod sent her on her way. She hurried back with a tray of nearly overflowing mugs as the men continued their heated discussion.

“I don’t know what the hell the bloke’s waitin’ for. The bastard needs someone to show him who’s in charge. Colton ain’t doing that,” Leonard rambled on.

Harwick’s icy gaze flickered to Jennie. “That will be all.”

She pivoted on her heel and made her way to a nearby table. Stalling, she wiped an imaginary spill until the surface gleamed. When she could straggle no longer, she maneuvered through the boisterous throng to the bar.

Harry filled a tray of glasses to the brim. “Long night?”

She massaged her temples and purposefully pinched her features. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to leave a bit early. I’ve suffered a dreadful megrim all day.”

He scanned the crowded tavern. “Well, I don’t know…”

“I suppose a man cannot understand how a woman suffers,” she added in a whisper. “A curse, indeed.”

The barkeeper’s ruddy face blanched. “I think Rose can make do without you.” He lifted his drying rag and jabbed it inside a glass. “I’ll get one of these fellows to see you home. You can trust ’em. I’ve known these blokes for years.”

“That won’t be necessary. My journey is only a short distance. I’m confident I can make my way.”

“Mr. Colton won’t be pleased if you leave without an escort.”

“There’s no need. I’ll soon be tucked safely beneath my covers.”

Harry slowly shook his head. “After what happened to Lizzy—”

“There’s no need to worry. I carry a pistol.”

His eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be damned. A well-spoken lady like you.”

Her mouth curved in a wry smile. “It’s quite lovely, really. Pearl handles and gleaming steel. My derringer will serve as my escort tonight.”

Desolation and darkness closed around Jennie like a fog. She tugged her flannel cape over her chest, but the worn fabric offered meager defense against the chill’s bite. Her cashmere cloak offered far more warmth, but she’d left that in her room. Only a fool would boast such a luxurious garment in the hell-on-earth known as Whitechapel.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted a hollow-cheeked doxy eyeing her reticule with greedy interest. A shiver of instinctive warning crept along Jennie’s spine, threatening to derail her courage. She clutched the velveteen bag more tightly and bundled her arms against her body.

If only her father were there. She could always count on him to prod her along. He’d see what a skittish ninny she’d become, and he would smile in his loving way. And then, he’d admonish her to steel her spine and do what had to be done.

Quinns do not run like frightened rabbits.

Gritting her teeth, she kept going. A rat the size of her sister’s beloved cat skittered past a shadowed figure on the pavement, a scrawny soul collapsed in a pool of what appeared to be his own urine. Her stomach twisted. She tasted bile against her tongue. Perhaps she should heed the nagging remnants of common sense that urged her to turn back. Venturing into the bowels of London at a time when most women entertained sweet dreams in their cozy beds was decidedly imprudent.

But Mr. Leonard’s intentions would not permit the luxury of caution.

The wench goes by Ida. We need t’ave a talk.

Waiting until morning to seek out the lightskirt was not an option. By the time Harwick’s hired thug finished with Ida, she would likely be far beyond communication. Jennie needed to uncover the truth behind Mr. Leonard’s keen interest in the prostitute and offer her fair warning of the danger she faced.

Clutching her reticule in gloved fingers, Jennie scanned the area for anyone or anything out of place. Vermin of the four-legged and two-legged varieties prowled the streets. A pair of gaudily dressed strumpets paraded their wares, raking her over with hungry, desperate eyes. The younger of the two, an unfortunate who looked to be little more than a girl, ogled Jennie’s bag while her heavily rouged companion fixed Jennie with an accusing stare.

“What’s a fine miss like yerself doin’ out on a dreadful night like this?”

Jennie steeled her insides. “I seek a woman named Ida. Take me to her, and I’ve a crown for each of you.”

The doxy’s lips puckered. “Wish I could, luv, but I ain’t seen ’ide nor ’air since she went off with that gent.”

The younger lightskirt tugged her cohort’s sleeve. “A fine lookin’ fellow ’e was. Why, the bloke’s carriage was quality. That it was.”

A shiver that had nothing to do with the November air slithered down Jennie’s spine. “A fine looking fellow, you say. What can you tell me about him?”

The doxy’s upper lip curled. “What’s in it for us? If Ida’s worth a crown, ’er fine gent should be worth as much.”

“Agreed. What can you tell me?”

“A handsome chap, ’e was. Couldn’t see much o’the fellow’s face in the darkness, but ’e cut a fine figure. Ye could tell ’e had money. Gave each o’ us a shilling just to show ’is kindness.”

Jennie’s gloved fingers dug into her palms. “Did he speak to you?”

The younger girl crept closer. “Aye, that ’e did. A more cultured fellow I’ve never heard in me life.”

The mixed cadences of Matthew’s voice played in Jennie’s thoughts. East End rhythms and inflections had a way of weaving through his speech but, when it suited his purposes, he convincingly played the part of a refined gentleman.

“Was he fair or dark?”

The girl shrugged. “With that hat ’e was wearin’, we couldn’t see much of ’is hair, but what I did see was dark. Just like ’is eyes.”

Dagger-sharp cold pierced the soles of Jennie’s boots. Her toes throbbed within the leather. A wicked gust penetrated the thin barrier of her cloak, and she clutched the wool tight to her chin. With a sigh, she willed her feet to move.

The doxy’s words played in her head. Dark hair. Dark eyes. An image of Matthew Colton’s deep brown irises flashed in her mind. Was he the handsome man with the carriage who’d escorted Ida away to an uncertain fate?

Another chill coursed along Jennie’s spine. The fine hairs at her nape stood on end. Had Colton followed her—again?

Bloody perfect
.

She slid her fingers inside her reticule, curled her fingers around the grips of her Sharps Pepperbox, and concealed the pistol in the folds of her skirt. Turning slowly, she searched the darkness. “Mr. Colton?”

A man stepped from the shadows. Thick necked and broad faced, his lumbering gait reminded Jennie of a bull escaped from its pen. He eyed her greedily. “Where ye goin’ in such a hurry? Ye got time for one more tonight.”

She shook her head and backed away. “I do not entertain customers.”

Blocking her path with his massive lump of a body, he stunk of spirits and filth. Pale eyes gleamed in his bloated face. “I’ve got just the thing t’ warm ye up.”

Fear coiled in her belly. “I must insist you let me pass.”

A slow smile twisted his mouth. With surprising speed, he lunged, dragging her against his burly chest. Struggling to wrench free, she strained against the iron-strong bar of his arm.

“Release me. Now. I am armed, and I will shoot.”

His massive hand clamped her wrist. Blinding pain rippled through her arm. “Drop the gun, ye little bitch.”

He gave her wrist a sharp twist for emphasis. Tears pricked her eyes. The barrel of the gun angled against her leg as he pressed her to his body. His rough hand snaked beneath her cloak.

Terror overruled the pain. Jennie clenched her teeth and drove her elbow into the lout’s ribs. He grunted, but manacled his fingers against her flesh.

“Nothin’ but a tease.” He tipped her chin up, his rancid breath sickening her. “I’ve got a lesson for ye.”

The unmistakable
click
of a gun being primed cut through her terror.

“If I pull the trigger, I’ll take you out of this world forever.” Colton’s voice. Hard. Steely. Dangerous.

Her captor trembled against the pistol pressed to the underside of his jaw. His grip went slack.

Jennie darted away.

Colton’s eyes gleamed with contempt. “Do you make a habit of forcing yourself on women?”

The lout shook his head, his weasel eyes wild with fear. “I…I…thought…she was sellin’ her wares.”

“I could ensure you never accost another woman again.” The quiet calm of Colton’s voice intensified the menace in his words.

The man’s jowls quivered like an undercooked pudding. “I didn’t hurt the high ’n mighty harlot. Struttin’ about like she was—”

“That’s enough,” Colton said, a heartbeat before he slammed his fist into the drunk’s underbelly.

The big man crumpled to the ground in a heap. Colton nudged the oaf with the toe of his boot. “Get up. Get the hell out of here before I finish what I started.”

The drunk lumbered to his feet. Casting a scowl over his shoulder, he shuffled away, muttering under his breath about crazy women roaming the streets at all hours of the night.

Matthew scanned the dimly lit pavement. Retrieving Jennie’s pistol, he tucked the gun into her reticule, then drew her cloak around her body.

He cupped her chin and stroked the pad of his thumb over her swollen lip. “The bastard hurt you. I should have killed him.”

“I’ll be fine,” she managed, trying to ignore the sensation of warmth his touch evoked.

“When you shoot a man, aim for the gut.” He brushed his fingertips over the curve of her jaw. “Come with me. I’m going to get you out of this cold, and you’re going to tell me what the bloody hell is going on.”