A Study in Seduction

by Eva Chase

  A Study in Seduction

  Book 1 in the Moriarty’s Men series

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First Digital Edition, 2019

  Copyright © 2019 Eva Chase

  Cover design: Deranged Doctor Design

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-989096-34-5

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-989096-35-2

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Free Story!

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Next in the Moriarty’s Men series

  Wicked Wonderland excerpt

  About the Author

  Free Story!

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  Chapter One

  Jemma

  I slipped into the reception hall crowd like a lover’s hand easing up a skirt, half of my attention on the figures around me and half watching for the man I was going to ruin.

  The finest investigative minds in the world filled the expansive room, all decked out in their cocktail best. The light from the crystal chandeliers shimmered off silk and satin. Voices bounced off the high molded ceiling, their tones bright thanks to the champagne that was flowing so freely I could taste the bubbles in the air.

  The sequins on my violet evening gown whispered as I sidestepped between a few Australian sergeants and a couple of Peruvian detectives. I smiled demurely at the latter. One of the sergeants, who looked as though his suit was wearing him more than he the suit, took a surreptitious picture of the reception’s finery with his phone. This gala was a pretty far cry from a normal day for a cop on the beat.

  A waiter swept by with a platter of canapes, but I’d eaten before I arrived. The moment of action wasn’t going to catch me with my hands full of poached pear on brioche. The wine glass in my hand served as a perfectly good prop—especially since I could transform it into a weapon with a quick smash, on the off-chance I needed one.

  Even in distinguished company, you could never be sure. And not all of my company here was distinguished.

  Ah, there was my man. If the cops and PIs around me had been half as good at their jobs as their being invited here should suggest, they’d have noted the recently released convict in their midst. The catering uniform fit the guy’s stocky form just fine, but there were telltale signs a few months out of the clink could hardly come close to erasing. The marks on his shoes. The hang of his hair.

  He’d been posted at the champagne table doling out glasses. That would make it easy to keep track of him.

  The guy could have used some lessons in subtlety. I followed his gaze to the Glasgow commissioner. The woman was flicking back her fluffy blond bob as she chatted with a younger female officer who’d dabbed on enough face powder to turn an elephant Honey Beige. My convict was just barely restraining a glower at her.

  The steady beat of my pulse picked up its pace in anticipation, but it wasn’t time for either of us to make a move yet. I drifted in the commissioner’s general direction. My mouth had gone a bit dry.

  Everything was in place. There was no reason to get anxious, even if the consequences of failure would be devastating. Better to simply put that possibility out of my mind.

  Another face caught my eye, this one from an interview I’d been perusing yesterday. I paused and turned toward it.

  “Professor Charleston, isn’t it?” I said, holding out my hand and beaming at the droopy-eyed man as if my life depended on this gambit. Which it very well might. “I’ve been following your work on trace evidence retrieval for years. It’s an honor to be in the same room as you.”

  The professor made a pleased sound, with a twitch of his suit jacket like a bird ruffling its feathers to show off its plumage. As he shook my hand with a brisk pump, he peered at me, from my face down to the narrow but precipitous dip of my neckline, and then jerked his gaze back up. A little skin could make a large impression if you picked the right part of the landscape.

  “I considered it an honor to be asked to lead one of the seminars here,” he said. “It’s good to know I have some wisdom worth imparting on the next generation.”

  “Absolutely! I’m dying to hear more about your recent strategies regarding gunshot residue. We’ll see if I can’t score a front row seat tomorrow.”

  My enthusiasm brought a flush to the professor’s cheeks. “I’d save you one if I could.”

  I waggled a finger at him. “I’ll just have to be resourceful. I’d better give the rest of the attendees a chance to talk to you before I embarrass myself with my gushing.”

  Professor Charleston chuckled as I gave him a little wave and glided onward. I continued smiling, now to myself. He might as well be tied up in a gift box with a bow on top.

  Skirting a cluster of Japanese officers who’d gotten into a hushed debate, I checked that my convict had remained at his table. Indeed he had, with a little tug of his pants that told me in an instant where he’d hidden the pistol. Excellent. Every part of this plan was flowing along smoothly, except… where was the most important part of my audience?

  A twinge of impatience had only just passed through me when the three I’d been waiting for strode into the reception hall. Half the heads in the room turned their way, which meant I could observe without looking unusually interested. This time I smiled only inwardly.

  The trio of men who’d been selected for this conference from right here in London made odd companions. On the left, Garrett Lestrade was a little fox terrier of a man with dark eyes and boyishly angular features—the youngest detective inspector in Scotland Yard. On the right, John Watson, surgeon turned army medical officer turned forensics specialist, sported the bright hair and upbeat demeanor of a golden retriever. And looming tall between the two of them, his lean face as sharply alert as a deerhound, walked Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, all of twenty-eight and already hailed in some circles as one of the greatest analytical minds of the century.

  It might have been that reputation that drew so many gazes their way, but even an objective observer had to admit that the three of them were easy enough on the eyes in their differing ways. Watson bounded forward, a gleaming wooden walking stick offsetting his slight limp, already offering cheerful greetings and grasps of arms. Lestrade sauntered behind him, his hands slung in the pockets of his trousers and his chin raised at an angle that looked like a dare.

  Holmes proceeded at a more leisurely pace, studying the room from beneath the messy dark waves of his hair, his stance aloof but a pleased smile curling his lips when a couple of lieutenants from Cardiff came over to compliment him on this or that brilliantly solved case. With the great height of his slender frame and that detached attitude, he might as well have bee
n a king accepting the reverence of his subjects.

  He had a dazzling mind to back up that confidence, absolutely, but even the mighty could falter. My heart thumped a little faster with a giddy shiver through my nerves.

  I would have him, one way or another. The great Holmes hadn’t yet tangled with the great Moriarty. Barely anyone even knew the great Moriarty existed, which was exactly how I liked it.

  Possibly by design, the trio had timed their entrance perfectly. As the initial round of fawning wrapped itself up, a burly man with a pinstriped suit and a head like a turnip walked up to the podium at the head of the room and leaned toward the mounted microphone.

  “Distinguished colleagues,” he said with a faint whine of mic feedback. The conversations around the room quieted. “I’m overjoyed to welcome you all to London for our first International Conference of Investigative Skills.”

  I veered toward the fluffy-haired commissioner as we all moved closer to the podium. As if by chance, I came to a stop just a couple feet to her left. A quick glance toward the wine table told me that my convict was on the move too. I adjusted my weight on my feet, ready to spring.

  Turnip-head at the podium went on with his speech. “I pride myself in thinking we’ve managed to assemble the top minds in criminal investigation from all across the world. You were invited because you’re at the top of your field, but I’m sure you made it to those heights through the understanding that there’s always more you can absorb. For the next ten days, you’ll be able to learn from other investigators as skilled as yourself in their specific areas of expertise.”

  A flicker in the light over his head caught my eye. When I glanced up, the glow streaming down from the chandelier shimmered with a texture like a filmy piece of gauze. I didn’t let myself visibly react, but inside my stomach tightened.

  The shrouded one had already tracked me here. What was it doing, playing with light effects?

  No one else appeared to have noticed anything off. It only wanted me to know it was here. Watching. Waiting.

  My fingers curled toward my palm, not quite a fist. I wasn’t letting that piece of supernatural excrement distract me from my mission.

  Turnip-Head rambled on about how lucky, dedicated, and wise we all were—I could claim the latter two out of three; not bad—and the catering convict edged into view through the crowd. He had his hand tucked close to his waist, close to his pistol. Well, technically my pistol, since I’d contrived to get it into his hands. And to get him in here. And to give him this opening.

  Fifteen years ago, Ms. Commissioner had been a sergeant who’d gotten him put away for killing a father of two in a bar brawl. The guy’s long-time girlfriend had left him. He’d lost a job he liked to brag about. He’d been happy to take an opportunity to get revenge.

  I couldn’t really take credit for ruining him. That honor belonged to his poor life choices.

  He could have ignored my offer. He could have walked away even now. But he didn’t. Instead, he lunged, whipping the pistol forward at the same time.

  All his attention had been focused on the commissioner, and none of it on me. Another poor choice.

  A shout of warning rang out. The commissioner spun around, her face blanching. I sprang between the convict and her in one smooth movement guided by years of physical training.

  Knee to the groin. Elbow to the ribs. My heel to his hand, kicking the gun out of his grasp.

  I giveth, and I taketh away.

  I pinned the convict to the ground, braced against his back. The flexible fabric of my violet evening gown pooled against his white catering shirt. Quite a few people were yelling. A security officer hustled through the throng and knelt down to snap a pair of handcuffs around the guy’s wrists. We were in a room stuffed with cops, but this one night they’d all left their equipment behind.

  “Oh my God,” the commissioner said, holding out her hand to help me up, the other pressed to her chest. “Thank you so much—you moved so fast. He came out of nowhere.”

  I’d give too much away if I looked around to check, but I hoped the London trio had gotten a good view. I stood and squeezed the commissioner’s hand with a small smile. “I saw the gun, and I just reacted. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  After toasts and exclamations over my heroics, I welcomed the stillness of my hotel room. The grand establishment hosting the conference boasted worn historic limestone and ornate arched lintels on the outside, but the innards had been tastefully modernized. Ivory walls, thick slate-gray carpeting, a sleek ebony desk against one wall, a king-sized bed with matching ebony frame against the other, a little table in the corner near the window.

  The window looked out over the back courtyard, dark now other than a few pools of light from the security lamps. I’d arranged a suite at the end of the hall on the second floor. The broad limestone sill outside would serve Bash just fine when he needed to drop in.

  I turned away from the view, and all my satisfaction drained away.

  A translucent white figure wavered in the glow of the bedside light. It formed a lumpy but vaguely humanoid shape beneath overlapping strips of ragged white fabric—at least, they looked like fabric. Sometimes I wondered if they weren’t swaths of dead skin.

  The only part the strips didn’t totally cover was the area that should have been a face. There, amid the folds of cloth, a haze of mist stared back at me, so deep that if I looked at it for long, I’d feel I were staring clear across the continent into a realm where no human had ever ventured.

  A chill raced over my skin, but I meandered across the room to the mirror over the desk as if I had no qualms about my visitor. “Hello, Bog,” I said. “What brings you here?”

  Bog wasn’t really the thing’s name. The shrouded folk had their own language that human ears couldn’t properly decipher. Bog sounded somewhat right, and it gave me a tiny shred of amusement to call the monster after something repellant, if I had to address it at all.

  I could still see it at the side of the mirror while I unpinned my hair. As the red waves spilled down over my narrow shoulders, the folds around Bog’s face quivered.

  “You are playing games,” it said in a voice as dry as desert-bleached bone and as distant as the mist it came from. “I thought you might need reminding of our agreement.”

  A pinching sensation emanated from the spot on the back of my neck just below my hairline where the magic of our contract had marked me.

  “Oh, I’m hardly going to forget that,” I said. “I have a month longer. Why shouldn’t I play during the time I have left?”

  “Why play here, bloodling? You are no ‘investigator’.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’ve investigated plenty in my time.”

  “If that is what pleases you. Perhaps I will find something of interest in it too.”

  The shrouded one’s tone stayed perfectly even, like mine had. We were playing a game right now—the game where I pretended I didn’t plan to do everything in my power to escape the deal I’d made, and it pretended not to suspect me of that scheming. But those last words had been a warning.

  I shrugged and picked up my brush. “You can spend your time however you want.”

  The mist stirred. I could almost have said I caught a glint of a smirk.

  “Think more about how you wish to spend yours, bloodling. You received your ten years. In thirty days, your life is mine.”

  I smiled back at it through the mirror despite the tremor that ran through my chest. We’ll see about that.

  Chapter Two

  Sherlock

  Halfway through the first morning of the International Conference of Investigative Skills, I had yet to be convinced that this wasn’t an utter waste of my time. I wouldn’t deny that it had been a badge of honor for the selection committee to have recognized my contributions despite my lack of formal credentials. They’d extended an invitation to John no doubt mainly in deference to how closely we worked together, and there was no denying he was enjoying the exper
ience.

  Nevertheless, so far the seminars had done nothing to alleviate my feeling that modern police work was woefully behind the times. I could have pointed out a dozen errors mentioned by the lecturer for our session on toxins—and would have, if John hadn’t given me a pained look as if I were poisoning him with my initial clarifications. So far, our current session on the identification and analysis of trace evidence had revealed nothing I hadn’t determined through my own work.

  The trouble was, being permitted to solve crimes alongside the police required keeping the good will of the police. I could only imagine the offense that various parties would take if I removed myself, regardless of how much good I might do elsewhere during this time.

  So, for now, I remained in the hard wooden chair in the fourth row of the bland beige room, letting Professor Charleston’s baritone roll over me and resisting the urge to recommend to the woman sitting in front of me that she apply approximately thirty percent less of her jasmine-and-patchouli perfume out of consideration for the lungs of her colleagues.

  From the worried strip of skin around her left ring finger, anyone should have been able to tell that she was recently and unhappily divorced. I probably ought to be considerate of her mental state. For John’s sake, in any case.

  As Charleston flipped through several crime scene photographs on a projector screen at the front of the room, Garrett shifted in his chair at my other side. This session might be of some use to my Scotland Yard associate, as loath as he’d be to admit it. He had his hands clamped together in his lap to keep from fidgeting. Sitting still and waiting for information to come to him had never been Detective Inspector Lestrade’s forte.