When a Lady Kisses a Scot (Her Majesty's Most Secret Service)
Page 9
Her aunt had deceived him cruelly. Hadn’t he deserved the truth? The bitter memories cut into him, the pain as sharp as a dagger’s slice into his skin.
And now, of all the men in London—of all the operatives at the Colton Agency—he would be the one to spend days and nights with Rose—watching for any sign of danger, prepared to defend her.
I will do whatever it takes to bring my aunt’s killers to the gallows.
Rose had come out of hiding to help Aunt Helen, and now, determination to see justice blazed like fire in her green eyes.
Once, he’d arrived at her family’s home at the very moment when Rose had risen to the defense of a housemaid being manhandled by one of her father’s inebriated guests. She’d set the boorish barrister back on his heels, and the man had stormed from the house. Her father had said little, but his cold, angry gaze when he’d looked at Rose had set Mac’s protective instincts on high alert. Something about her father had always rubbed him the wrong way. He’d shown her no warmth, no affection, but she’d kept a smile on her face and carried on as if all was right in the world.
If he’d suspected she was in danger, he would’ve dragged her away from that house. He would not have left her.
Bugger it, I cannot rewrite the past.
But now, he would protect her. He would keep Rose safe. Anyone who dared to threaten her would bloody well regret it.
Damned shame she didn’t fully trust him. Despite her tearful words, Rose was hiding something. She knew more about the men who had come after her than she let on. Whatever her blasted secret was, he would uncover it.
…
Rose settled comfortably onto a chair as MacAllister discussed the logistics of the Coltons’ plan. Judging from the frown on his face, he was not pleased with their scheme.
“The bastards know she’s in London. If Merrick was indeed responsible for the attempts to abduct her, there is a slim chance the danger has passed. The blighters are behind bars, or, in Henshaw’s case, their threat has been neutralized,” MacAllister said. “But my gut tells me our luck is not that favorable. We have to get Rose away from London, the sooner, the better.”
Mrs. Manfred appeared in the doorway, thrusting a satchel into his hand. “A delivery has arrived for your guest.”
Mac stared down at the bag. “This is not a good time, Mrs. Manfred.”
“I do hate to interrupt… oh, there’s more—a trunk for the miss,” she went on. “I instructed the gent who was carryin’ it to deposit it in the front hall. I feel for the man’s achin’ back, sir. Why, ye could hide a body in that steamer chest.”
“We can only hope there will not be a need,” he replied drily.
“Indeed,” Jennie Colton spoke up. “Though it is good to know the option is there.” She threw her husband a wink, drawing a smile from Colton, then she turned to Rose. “We took the liberty of sending an agent to retrieve your things from the hotel. I assure you she approached the task with the utmost discretion. I do hope that was acceptable.”
Rose managed a wan smile. “There’s nothing interesting to be found there, I assure you.”
The housekeeper fished an envelope out of the pocket on her starched white apron. “The man left this for ye, Miss Fleming. He said it was delivered to the hotel last night.”
“Thank you,” she said, glancing down at the sprawling script on the missive. So, Mr. Crabtree had sought her out at the hotel. What had the man discovered now?
“Is there anything else?” MacAllister asked.
The housekeeper gave her head a weary shake. “No, sir. After that poor man left the trunk, he hobbled back to his carriage and drove away.”
Jennie Colton eyed the letter in Rose’s hand. “The investigator you hired—he is aware you are in London?”
Rose nodded. “This correspondence is from him.”
“He knew where you were staying?” Jennie went on.
“He is the one who suggested I take a room at the hotel,” Rose said. “Trusting him may have been a mistake.”
“Given the situation, you will need to refrain from letting anyone know where you’re staying,” Matthew Colton said.
She stared down at the missive. A blend of anticipation and dread coursed through her. Had Mr. Crabtree uncovered new evidence? Or had he come upon another fruitless clue such as the contact with the mysterious woman at the theater? The photograph Portia had given her provided no answers. If anything, the image had provoked more questions.
“I understand,” she said. “If you will excuse me, I require a moment of privacy.”
Seeking the quiet of MacAllister’s library, she settled into a comfortable chair by the window and unfolded the missive.
I must speak with you. Café Susannah. Sundown. Discretion of utmost importance—source connected with high places. B.H.C.
Her hands trembling, she reread the message. What had the investigator discovered? Had Mr. Crabtree found the true connection between Merrick and her father?
A quiet knock pulled her from her thoughts.
“Are you all right?” MacAllister called through the door.
“Yes. Please, come in.”
“Your investigator, I presume?” His gaze dropped to the note in her hand as he entered the room.
She nodded. “It would appear we have an engagement this evening. He has requested a meeting.”
“May I see the letter?”
“Of course,” she said, placing it in his hand.
MacAllister scanned the missive and returned it to her. “The man has good taste in establishments, I’ll give him that. At least we’ll enjoy our meal.”
“There’s always something to be thankful for, isn’t there?”
“With any luck, he’s as skilled at gathering intelligence as he is at selecting a restaurant with an excellent wine cellar. Does the bloke have a name?”
“Crabtree. He came highly recommended.”
“Did he, now?” MacAllister’s slight smile faded. “I’ve heard the name in passing. Nothing that caught my interest.”
“My solicitor in New York spoke highly of him. Mr. Crabtree did some business for a client whose wife had remained in England while he came to America. Sadly, the wife used their time apart to pursue, shall we say, some rather unconventional interests. The ensuing scandal made the papers in both countries.”
“What we’re dealing with is a bit more complicated than infidelity. Do you believe Crabtree is up to the task you’ve set for him?”
“That remains to be seen,” she said.
“He’s the one who sent you to the theater last night?”
“Yes.”
A muscle in MacAllister’s jaw went taut. “The investigator may be involved with Merrick’s men. Or he may simply be a fool. Tonight will tell the tale.”
Chapter Twelve
Surprised to find she possessed an appetite after the harrowing turn of events, Rose joined MacAllister and the Coltons for a late breakfast. For his part, MacAllister ate like a man who’d not glimpsed a scrap of food for days. Colton’s eyes narrowed as he watched MacAllister devour his steak with uninhibited gusto.
“Good God, man, do you intend to scrape the flowers off the plate?” he asked with a low laugh.
“’Tis a possibility,” MacAllister replied, revealing a trace of the Highland burr he’d nearly left behind. “There was no time to eat last night.” He slanted Rose a lighthearted glance. “I spent the evening playing blasted Sir Galahad to a bonny lass in distress.”
“For the record, I am neither a bonny lass nor in distress,” Rose said, spearing a bit of kipper with her fork.
MacAllister cocked a skeptical brow, then took another bite of steak.
Jennie Colton turned to him. “As it turns out, we are in luck regarding information on Merrick’s interest in occult matters. The Stanwycks have recently returned from the Nile Valley. Given Sophie’s prior investigations involving spiritualism, she may well have intelligence on Merrick.”
“She’s
likely to possess valuable insights,” MacAllister said. “Stanwyck may also be willing to lend his expertise.”
Sipping tea from a china cup, Rose followed the discussion. “I take it you’re referring to Professor Gavin Stanwyck, the archaeologist who located the tomb of the pharaoh’s queen?”
“The one and only,” Jennie said with a small nod.
“The accounts of his expedition are quite fascinating,” Rose said.
“Many of those accounts were written by his wife, Sophie. She’s an exceptional journalist.”
“How very fascinating.” Rose broke off a piece of biscuit and topped it with a bit of jam. “I look forward to making their acquaintance.”
“I’m sure they will share the sentiment,” Jennie said. “The Stanwycks are my dearest friends. Gavin and Sophie are quite well matched, though I could not have predicted it at the start.”
“Judging from her account of the expedition, Mrs. Stanwyck shares her husband’s taste for daring adventures,” Rose said.
“A word of advice,” Colton added with what seemed a rare smile. “Stanwyck is not shy about discussing his finds. Only inquire if you have ample time to spare.”
“Now, Matthew, that’s not very fair of you,” Jennie said. “Stanwyck is a good man.”
“The man was a rogue of the worst sort,” MacAllister said drily. “The Herald had a field day covering his exploits.”
“Gavin is a reformed rogue. They truly do make the best husbands.” Jennie sent her husband a speaking glance. “I consider myself an authority on the subject.”
Colton’s eyes flashed with challenge. “As I recall, you considered me a scoundrel, not a rogue.”
“Ah, that’s right,” she said. “I suppose I must add reformed scoundrel to my desired criteria for a husband.”
“Rogues and scoundrels, eh?” Colton cut a bite of steak. “Mac, by that standard, the woman who reforms you will have a husband who towers head and shoulders above the rest.”
“God above, keep me out of it,” MacAllister replied, reaching for his water glass.
Was it her imagination, or had he begun to perspire directly above his brows? An interesting response, to say the least.
“Rose, I do hope you will excuse our irreverence,” Jennie said.
“It’s been a long night for all of us.” Rose took another sip of tea. “A touch of humor is most welcome.”
“Indeed,” Jennie said, her eyes narrowing as her gaze swept over Rose. “We have quite a bit to accomplish today. Which reminds me—I’ll dispatch one of our agency’s associates to assist with your hair. ”
“With my hair?”
“We feel it would be to your advantage to remove the false tint and return to your natural hue,” Jennie explained.
Rose pictured the muddy brown tones she’d applied to dull her hair. The prospect of returning to her natural reddish shade did appeal to her. “A change might well be beneficial.”
“We’re in a bit of a fix, though,” Jennie went on. “Given that Mr. Cutty tracked you to this residence, we’ve good reason to believe others may be aware of your location. Matthew will assign operatives to provide security. But if you remain at this residence, we see no way to satisfactorily eliminate the threat.”
“Perhaps I should take a room in another hotel,” Rose suggested. “If I register under a fresh alias, that would leave the trail cold.”
“It’s not likely to be that simple,” Colton said. “Merrick was a brilliant man. If he had a connection with what happened last night, you may rest assured there is a certain degree of sophistication to the plan. You may be under surveillance.”
“We could transport her to my family’s estate in the Highlands.” MacAllister turned to her. “Rose, you would be safe there.”
“I won’t give up so easily.” She squared her shoulders. “Leaving London is not an option.”
MacAllister’s eyes darkened. “You’re vulnerable in the city. But in Scotland, no one would dare—”
Rose did not attempt to tamp down her exasperation. She’d no intention of scurrying off to cower in the Highlands. “These men attempted an abduction in the midst of a bustling crowd, in full view of witnesses. They are brazen criminals. Distance will not deter them.”
“It is the best solution to provide for your safety,” he persisted.
“Absolutely not.” She clipped off the words. “If I were to leave, I’d be on a steamer heading back to New York. That would put an ocean between me and those blackguards.”
“There is an alternative,” Jennie spoke up. “One that may actually enhance our ability to investigate this case.”
Rose turned to her. “What do you propose?”
“My brother recently returned from his most recent trip to America. I took the liberty of speaking with him this morning. Jeremy has offered his residence as a safe haven. His home offers the most modern conveniences and is quite secure.”
“I would not want to impose.”
“Your presence will be no bother to him. Not in the least,” Jennie said. “Quinn House is extremely spacious. For the most part, it’s just him rambling about in that place, alone with his inventions.”
“I find the arrangement acceptable,” MacAllister said. “Your thoughts, Rose?”
Rose pulled in a breath. “Is he aware of the risk my presence will bring to his doorstep?”
“He’s a Quinn,” MacAllister said. “The man knows how to defend himself.”
“Quite so,” Jennie agreed. She turned back to Rose. “For propriety’s sake, Miss Pearson will accompany you.”
Propriety. Rose nearly laughed aloud at the word. For years, she’d made her living on the stage, a chanteuse catering to crowds that came to hear a sultry tune and catch a glimpse of her stocking-clad legs. What would MacAllister think if he knew the truth about her life in the past ten years, away from the Highlands?
Rose hesitated for a long moment. “If you’re convinced this is the best option, I will follow your plan.”
“We will implement precautions to ensure you are not followed to Quinn House,” Colton added.
“It would be best if you were not recognized upon leaving this residence.” Jennie’s mouth curved in a cryptic smile. “I do believe I’ve come up with a solution.”
…
Good God. Is Rose intent on sending my heart into a spasm?
She’d donned the garb selected for the short journey to Jeremy Quinn’s London residence—a man’s linen shirt, jacket, and trousers that hugged every delectable inch of her curved bottom.
With a feat of sheer will, Mac tamped down his body’s innate response.
By all rights, the sight of her in the formfitting garment should not have posed a shock to his system. He’d known full well she’d be masquerading—none too convincingly—as a man. But nothing short of a blindfold could’ve prepared him to ignore the way the charcoal wool accented the subtle swell of her hips and clung to her firm, round derriere.
If he’d been a purely rational man, driven by objective thought without the influence of elemental masculine need, he would have judged her disguise barely adequate to conceal her identity as she entered and exited a carriage. But by Odin’s hammer, he was neither objective nor logical at the sight of her.
Resisting the elemental urge to skim his fingers over her fabric-covered curves and drink in the swell of her hips, he curled his fingers against his palm. The tweed waistcoat she wore buttoned over the plain shirt emphasized both the slimness of her waist and the soft curve of her breasts. In his mind’s eye, he pictured himself freeing each button, one by one, stripping away the linen shirt, and baring her satin skin to his eyes.
She’d swept her hair up and tucked the locks beneath a man’s felt hat, exposing the tempting curve of her neck. With any luck, she’d pass for a lad long enough to leave his town house and enter the carriage. But stripping away the artifices of femininity could not change the truth—Rose’s beauty damned near took his breath away.
“Would you engage me in a round of darts at the club, good sir?” she teased, her eyes sparkling like emeralds.
MacAllister met the challenge in her gaze. If he spoke the full truth—if he told her of the sensual pursuits in which he truly wished to engage with her, she’d likely reconsider their alliance of necessity.
“If I were to escort you into my club, even under cover of night, with the lights turned very low and smoke filling the place, I doubt even a man deep in his cups couldn’t see through that flimsy disguise of yours.”
Jennie’s brow furrowed. “You don’t believe she can pass for a man?”
“From a distance, while in swift motion, without offering an opportunity for a close look—perhaps,” he replied. “With any luck, a thicker fog than usual will descend upon London.”
Colton strode into the room. He looked from Rose to Jennie, then back again. “We’d be advised to wait to depart until the sun goes down.”
Jennie’s mouth pursed. “Why am I not surprised to find you and MacAllister are of the same mind?”
“You’ve provided a distraction, but anyone looking closely will suspect the truth,” Colton said. “We will leave after dark.”
The elegantly appointed Colton Agency carriage arrived at Mac’s residence as the sun made its descent toward the horizon. A casual observer spotting the ebony coach would not suspect the vehicle was highly unique, engineered to exacting standards designed to repel attacks—wooden panels reinforced with steel rods, heavily glazed glass windows, and a roof impermeable to penetration by blade or projectile. All in all, Mac believed the substantial investment to acquire the conveyance had been well justified. He had full confidence in the security of the passenger compartment and in the carriage driver, a lanky, white-haired war veteran whose craggy smile stretched from ear to ear at the sight of Rose.
“Does any one of ye truly believe she looks like a man?” Bertram asked, taking her in with spirited eyes. “If I were a few years younger, I’d squire her about town on my own, I would.”