An Agent for Victoria

by Kate Marie Clark

  Victoria sighed. She had imagined a romantic meeting with Mav—that he’d be pleasantly surprised to see her standing at his side, that he’d secretly found her as attractive and intriguing as she’d found him all along, and that he’d be longing to know her heart as much as she wished to know his. The dull buzzing in her chest heightened to a sting. “But we’ll hardly interact as a team if you are to mingle with the scum and I am to stick to her side. I hardly call that a honeymoon.”

  He dipped his chin, closing his eyes. “What’d you have in mind—parading across the emporium, arm in arm, whispering sweet nothings as silly folks do?” He chuckled. “We best stick to what we know—you to lace, me to gaining informants.”

  Her jaw dropped. She closed it instantly. Lace—he thought her as superficial as woman could come. “You think I’m only good for sympathizing with Mrs. Kemp about fashion?”

  Mav’s lips tugged on one side. “‘Til you prove otherwise. I work better with informants on my own anyhow.”

  “You mean blackmailing petty criminals?” Victoria asked. She folded her arms and leaned closer to him from across the aisle. “Pinkerton agents are prohibited from bargaining with criminals.”

  Mav made a ‘tsk’ing sound. “Take that wool off your eyes, Victoria. Real crime and real investigative work ain’t always pretty. There’s only one way to get real information, and that’s by crippling fools into giving it to you. Besides, I ain’t one to follow the rules. If you’re going to object to everything I say, I’m liable to throw you off this train and pick you up after the case is solved. Easier, if you ask me.”

  “Pardon me?” she asked, standing over him. She glared. “I’ve never met a more pigheaded man.”

  He lounged against the seat, seemingly undisturbed by her stern tone. “And I ain’t met a sillier woman, so I figure we’re square.” His lips curled on one side, and a small indentation on his chin appeared.

  How could he speak so wickedly and unabashedly? Anger rippled across her chest, yet it knocked against another sensation—a warm and tingly one that rose from her toes to her head. She tried to look away from his dimple, but found her eyes returning after each attempt. Invariably, her eyes lifted to his lips. Why had she been so willing to receive his kiss at the ceremony? Her mouth went dry. “You’re right; separate is infinitely preferable to working alongside one another. Really, I can hardly stand to be near you. I don’t know why I ever agreed to such an idea.”

  Humor sparked behind his brown eyes. “I can spot a lie a far-see away. You joined up with the Pinkertons, thinking you’d find adventure and wedded bliss. One kiss and you melted in my arms.”

  She started, lifting a hand to her chest. She might’ve died of humiliation. A line of perspiration formed at her hairline. Maverick Jones hadn’t a thread of restraint or decency. She’d rein him in if it killed her. She met his gaze. “Don’t tempt my temper.”

  “So you’ve a Scottish tongue like Archie?” Mav asked, rising to meet her. At full height, he stood nearly eight inches over her.

  “That,” she said with a growl, “and the reflexes of a cheetah.” Standing so close to him clouded her judgment; she had to act quickly before she lost the nerve. She moved to slap his cheek.

  He caught her hand midflight. “Careful,” Mav said. His expression became indistinguishable and his voice turned quiet. “I’ve been at this longer than you.”

  Victoria bit back a smile. He’d been so focused on her attempted swat that he’d missed her slip the revolver from his holster into her skirt pocket with her spare hand.

  “What’re you smiling about this time?” he asked, lifting a brow.

  She shrugged. “Seems you’ve plenty weaknesses of your own.” She sat down across from him, removing the gun from her pocket. She spun the barrel, emptying the bullets into her lap.

  Mav sat and propped his legs against the opposite bench. “You aren’t supposed to carry your gun until we arrive in San Francisco.”

  She nodded. “Unlike you, I follow rules. My gun is safely hidden in my luggage. My wits, however, never leave my side.”

  Mav dropped a hand to his holster, and his dark eyes widened. “You little snake.”

  Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not what you think, Mav Jones, and until you learn to trust me, we won’t get anywhere in this case, or in this”—she paused, pointing from herself to him—“business arrangement.”

  He clenched his jaw. “Give me my gun.”

  She extended the gun but kept the bullets in her palm. “Now, shall we discuss our plan once more?”

  Mav surveyed the building carefully. Swanky, indeed. Mrs. Kemp’s emporium, located on Montgomery Street, reached four stories high. The red-brick façade was ornamented with black awnings and flower boxes at each window. The railing around the wooden-planked porch was made of wrought iron, and more flowers hung from the smaller roofline.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t go to the police first? Archie has always required an introduction to the local lawmen,” Victoria said.

  Customers exited the emporium, each dressed in the European fashions and, more than likely, each holding more coins in their purses than Mav held in his entire bank box. He cleared his throat. “Don’t mind Archie’s rules so much. They’re more guidelines than anything. Besides, if the police are in league with Mrs. Kemp, we’d only be tipping them off.”

  “It seems Mrs. Kemp has put a spell upon the whole city. Who did Marianne say was the client?” Victoria asked.

  “Confidential—she only gave initials.”

  Victoria pressed her lips together, rocking from one foot to the other. She vaguely remembered seeing them. At last she swallowed and dropped her trunks to the ground. “Then I shall seek out Mrs. Kemp directly.” She started forward.

  Mav caught her by the elbow. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not so fast. Women like her don’t trust just anybody, and you won’t have a second chance to make a good impression. I’ve found a keen eye and listening ear before action goes a long way.”

  She craned her neck to the side and pulled her arm away. “Nonsense. I’ve keen enough senses in the moment. And really, premeditation always clouds my ability to pull things off.”

  He didn’t doubt her words. She’d joined the Pinkertons and married behind her brother’s back, stolen Mav’s gun from under his nose, and now—she had the gall to approach Mrs. Kemp without hesitation. Victoria was as impulsive as women came. Instinct told him to stop her, but then…Mav’s curiosity got the better of him. She seemed to have captured his attention; why not Mrs. Kemp? “Fine. I’ll wait ‘round back,” Mav said.

  Victoria folded her arms. “You aren’t going to protest?”

  His concession surprised him as much, if not more, than it had Victoria. He shook his head. “I’ll be in the back, as I said.” He held her trunk at his side and disappeared in the alleyway.

  He’d no notion of why he allowed her to jeopardize the case, but his experience from the train had eased his concern. His partner, technically wife, wasn’t as predictable as he’d imagined. After his picking and prodding, Mav had expected the gloved slap (more women had attempted to do so than Mav cared to admit), but Victoria had stolen his gun and under his very nose. He wanted to curse just thinking of it, but a smile slipped in place of any word. She had more than a pretty face and fast smile; his wife, however temporary, had nerve.

  Mav seated himself in the shade and dropped the trunk to the ground. The sound startled a man across the alley.

  The round man jumped in the air, moving strangely fast to cover the barrel at his side with a cloth. “Pardon me,” he said. The man’s voice was raspy and strained, and he hacked into his hands afterward.

  “What’s in the barrel?” Mav asked, flicking his chin.

  The man reached beneath the cloth and lifted a fish in the air. “Mrs. Kemp asked for fresh fish.”

  The breeze transported the aroma across the alley. Mav crinkled his nose. He’d never liked fish, and he hated the smell even more. “Fi
sh in such a fancy store?”

  The man shrugged. “Sophie asked for it, so I bring it. She entertains often, and her cook makes a tasty fillet.”

  Mav smirked, sauntering closer. “I imagine if Mrs. Kemp were to ask for a barrel of monkeys, she’d receive it, no questions asked.”

  “I expect so.” The man chuckled. “Say, you aren’t from around these parts, are you?”

  Mav extended his hand. “The name’s Larsen, Conner Larsen—just arrived. I heard San Francisco has more jobs than the rest of the West combined.”

  “Holden,” the man said, accepted Mav’s hand. “And you heard right. What kind of work are you looking for?”

  “I ain’t picky.” Mav lifted the cloth and looked inside. He swallowed the bile climbing his throat. “I’d as soon be an errand boy for Mrs. Kemp, if she pays well enough. Fish, trinkets and bobbles, you name it—I could find it.”

  Holden laughed, and his belly bounced over his belt buckle. “An eager one, ain’t you? She pays well enough, but you don’t apply to work for the woman. She finds you.”

  Mav shrugged. “What’s it take to catch her eye?”

  Holden squinted. His front teeth rested on his bottom lip. “Listen, Larsen. Look elsewhere. Sophie pays well enough, but she makes risky requirements, and she don’t take kindly to refusals.”

  Mav reached into the barrel and lifted a limp fish. “You mean she makes you fetch her things like this?”

  Holden winced, and he took back the fish with unusual speed. “Exactly.”

  “Exactly what are you hiding?” Mav said, cracking his knuckles. “I ain’t seen a man draw his pistol as fast as you took back your slime.”

  Holden dropped the fish into the barrel. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Mav stood a good six inches taller than Holden, and he stepped closer, accentuating their differences in stature too—Holden’s soft and round physique compared to Mav’s brawny one. “The fish?”

  Holden shook his head and buried the fish beneath the cloth. “Just a fish.”

  Mav grinned and ripped back the cloth. Against his internal repulsions, he dug his arm beneath the mass of slime until his fist knocked against what felt to be a metal box. He lifted it, and fish spilled over the top of the barrel. “Just fish? Do you want to open it, or should I?”

  “I’m only in transport. I’ve no idea what’s in there.”

  Mav opened it and let out a hearty laugh.

  “Well?” Holden asked, peeking over Mav’s shoulder. “Opium? Diamonds?”

  Mav lifted a silk ribbon in the air. “A whole box of ladies’ ribbons, most likely from Europe. Mrs. Kemp ain’t willing to purchase trifles outright?”

  Holden took the box. “Don’t be saying such things. Someone might hear you.”

  “And?” Mav asked, folding his arms. “You said yourself, Sophie isn’t the type to be trifled with.”

  Holden dropped the box back into the barrel and began burying it in the fish. “She’s enough power to crush a wagging tongue.”

  “So she’d do worse to a fumbling fool—one that can’t even carry a simple barrel of fish without being found out?”

  Holden’s lips puckered. “What are you saying?”

  Mav wiped his hands together. “Recommend my services to Mrs. Kemp, or you’ll be found out.”

  “You blackmailing me?” the man asked, dropping his hand to his holster.

  Mav lifted his hands in the air and smiled. “I don’t want no trouble, Holden. I’m just the same as any man; I need work, and I’ve set my mind on the emporium.”

  4

  Victoria watched Mav disappear in the alley. His glare had sent a fleet of ships sinking in her gut. She hadn’t thought him confident in her abilities, and yet...he hadn’t protested to her meeting Mrs. Kemp.

  Mrs. Kemp. From Marianne’s report alone, Victoria had a pretty good idea of the type of woman she was dealing with. She had, after all, had more than her fair share of women dragons; boarding school was full of them.

  Victoria’s throat tickled and ran dry, and she swallowed hard. There was no recovering from failing. She needed to do this for Mav, the agency, her brother, and, most importantly, herself. Defeating the likes of Mrs. Kemp—and ridding the world of another domineering and dangerous woman—seemed the salve to her self-doubt. Victoria gathered fistfuls of skirt in each hand and stepped onto the porch.

  The windows of the shop were etched in crystal damask and delicate swirls, and the sunlight against the design resulted in shards of color. A rainbow. A weight in her chest lifted at the beauty, and Victoria stepped into the emporium.

  A whiff of perfume greeted her. The scent was pleasant at first— rosy and dewy and undeniably feminine— but then it grew to an overwhelming cloud that closed in against her breaths. Victoria covered her mouth and coughed.

  “Pardon,” came a twang of accent. Was that a Scottish tongue she detected?

  Victoria’s glance lifted to the man before her. He was older than Victoria by at least ten years. He was tall and lanky, unlike anything she usually found attractive but there was something about his kind voice that captured her attention.

  “We’ve had a box tip over, and this perfume,” he said, directing his stare to the shiny residue on the polished floor, “was taken as collateral damage.”

  “Collateral damage.” Victoria was a product of that too, but her history wasn’t so entertaining, despite being just as overpowering as the spilt bottle. She smiled. “A shame. I rather liked the scent. I do hope you’ve kept some in reserve.”

  He nodded. His blue eyes rolled up her figure, and a smile lit his face. “Have you come for the new shipment of dresses?”

  Definitely Scottish. Victoria took in a slow breath. “Dresses always interest me, but I’ve come across town at the recommendation of a friend. I’ve come upon an inheritance, and she told me I must ask Sophie’s advice.”

  He lifted a finger to his chin. “Go on.”

  “Nearly half the people I meet in San Francisco want to take advantage of me. There aren’t many independent and wealthy women here— at least not that I’ve met, but I’m assured that your employer is such a woman, and I would greatly like to speak to her about some delicate matters.” She titled her head. “I’ve heard Mrs. Kemp is the wealthiest woman in San Francisco. I imagine she would know how to help me better than anyone.”

  “My sister…” the man began, setting down the rag in his hands. He grinned. “She doesn’t take kindly to strangers. What makes you think she’ll care to help you?”

  Curiosity gleamed from his glance, and his upturned lips hinted at his interest. Victoria dropped her hands to her side. “I’m not as silly as you might think. I’m aware of your sister’s demanding schedule. Running the emporium and participating in high society leaves little time to help the likes of me. I’m relying on my womanly instincts, my hope. Most women—”

  “Stop right there, Miss—?” he paused, waiting for her to answer.

  “Miss MacGregor.”

  He jerked. “MacGregor—is it possible you hail from the Highland clan Gregor?”

  Victoria fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve. “Yes, the very same. I am a descendant of the famed Rob Roy MacGregor.” Restraining her laughter took all her efforts. Rob Roy MacGregor, a man who’d lived nearly two hundred years earlier, was an outlaw-turned-folk-hero. Nearly everyone in Scotland claimed some sort of connection to the man.

  “Alastair Kinley,” the man said, taking Victoria’s hand, “at your service.”

  Heat spread across her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Kinley. Now, as I was saying concerning your sister—”

  “She’ll help you.” Alastair lifted his chin toward the staircase to the side of the room. “I’ll make sure of that. From one Scot to another, I’ll make sure of it.” He wrapped her hand around his arm. “Let me take you to her office myself. She isn’t the type to entertain strangers, but if she knows you come under my direction, she’ll be more apt to listen to you. Now, if w
e are to be friends, you must call me Alastair. And what shall I call you?”

  “Victoria.” Her breath caught. She hadn’t meant to say her real name, but with his hand on hers, she’d spoken too quickly.

  “Ah, a lovely name.” He smiled, and a few lines near his eyes appeared. Perhaps he was more than ten years older.

  They walked the length of the marble stairs and reached a small landing on the second floor. The stairs continued upward two more flights, but Alastair gestured to a door at the end of an opposite hallway.

  “Just here,” he continued, leading her along. “She takes her tea every two hours—very predictable.”

  Victoria made note of the time, 10:00 AM.

  Alastair rapped at the door. “Sophie, I’ve someone I must introduce you to.”

  From the other side of the wall, a tinkling of china against a table sounded, and the click-clack of heeled boots against the floor grew in volume until her footsteps reached the door. “This better be important, Alastair. I’ve no patience this morning. That dunce Rolland hasn’t delivered my diamonds yet.” Sophie Kemp threw open the door. The woman’s blonde hair was streaked in silver and pinned to one side. Perfect ringlets cascaded down one shoulder. Her skin was surprisingly smooth for that of a middle-aged widow, and her blue eyes shone like jewels. “What is it?” Her voice was clipped and her eyes narrowed.

  Alastair led Victoria into the room. “Forget about Rolland. You must meet my new friend, Victoria MacGregor—and yes, of the highland clan Gregor. She’s come to ask your advice.”

  “My advice?” Sophie’s pitch went higher. “Alastair, you can’t think I care about clans and hierarchy of Scotland anymore, can you?”

  He shrugged. “I thought you might like to see another lady from our homeland.”

  Sophie gave a dry laugh. “You really are more sentimental than me. I could care less where your friend comes from, only that you consider her a friend.”