When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord_Her Majesty's Most Secret Service

by Tara Kingston

  “Out of the question.” Alex sent Benedict a speaking glance. “He’s already made that argument, though he would take it a step further and see me on a ship crossing the Atlantic.”

  Colton appeared to give the notion some thought. “All in all, not a bad idea. But I can see you’ve no taste for the notion.”

  “Of course not.” Alex stiffened her spine. “Quinns do not run from a fight. Our father and mother did not raise us to flee at the first sign of danger.”

  “I’d hardly say this is the first sign,” Benedict said, even though he knew it was futile. There would be no convincing Alexandra to leave London. The determination he found so appealing also worked against persuading her to flee the threat.

  Damned if she wasn’t glorious when her eyes flashed with such spirit. How could he live with himself if anything happened to quash that vibrant energy, that conviction of spirit she displayed?

  “I do take your point,” she said, softening her ramrod-stiff posture a bit. “But given the security measures that have been put in place and the fact that we have no way of knowing if the person behind these deaths might follow me out of the country, I see no point in leaving. I will be as safe here as I would be in Paris or New York. The threat is not tied to London, just as it was not tied to Egypt. Whoever is behind these murders either possesses the ability to follow those on his despicable list, or he has employed a network of hoodlums to do his bidding.”

  “Your logic is sound,” Colton said, each word low and measured. “Jennie and I would prefer to see you far from this place. But the choice is ultimately yours. I will do whatever is necessary to intensify security.”

  “I appreciate your concern. Truly, I do,” she said. “But we must keep our focus on how to bring the culprit to justice.”

  “As we’ve discussed, your active participation in the investigation would be an asset to the case.” Colton slanted Benedict a dour glance. “Before we discuss this in more depth, do you care to explain why you sent for Marlsbrook in the middle of the night?”

  The beautiful flush that had colored her cheeks following the pleasure they’d taken in each other’s arms had faded at Colton’s untimely arrival. If not for his intrusion, the look of desire in her eyes and the soft pink hue that highlighted her sculpted cheekbones would have answered Colton’s question without benefit of words.

  As if she’d read his thoughts, a sly smile flickered over her mouth, only to be replaced by an appropriately serious expression. She turned to Colton. “I have deciphered a clue that I believe may be significant.”

  “When were you planning to tell me about this?”

  She pursed her lips, appearing to grow annoyed with him. “I hardly thought it appropriate to rouse an entire household from their slumber, but Benedict needed to know what I’d pieced together.”

  Colton turned to Alex. “You have information as to the murderer’s identity?”

  “Quite possibly.” She went to her desk and retrieved the photograph of the dead man’s message. “We’ve uncovered a clue to the murders. I believe the dying man referred to the victims, and possibly, the murderer.”

  Taking the photograph in hand, Colton offered a cursory examination. “What have you learned?”

  “Alexandra has worked out the meaning of the symbols,” Benedict said. “She’s deduced that the glyphs may indicate the victims. I presume your agency will be able to determine the dates of birth of the men who were killed both here and in Egypt.”

  “Of course.” Colton handed the image back to Alex. “Might I ask why we should care about their blasted birthdates? Do you suspect a common thread between the men?”

  “The symbols may refer to the position of a particular constellation on a specific date—the zodiac sign, if you will,” Alexandra explained. “If we can confirm the notations correspond to each man’s date of birth, we can determine the accuracy of the theory.”

  Colton nodded. “I will assign the task to Mrs. Donahue in the morning. She should have the information you require by early afternoon.”

  “Excellent.” A trace of enthusiasm colored her voice.

  Alexandra’s long, dark tresses shimmied, the lamplight dancing gold and red over the strands. Benedict ached to touch the silken curls, but he steeled himself. God knew he didn’t need to raise Colton’s ire. He was no coward, but provoking Colton would be foolish. Alexandra had been through quite enough. She did not need to find herself immersed in a conflict.

  Matthew Colton’s interest in Alex was brotherly and protective. That much was evident from the look in his eyes. His expression also clearly displayed his distrust. Perhaps the man was right to distrust Benedict where she was concerned.

  Even now, he could not offer her a future. Alex would never approve of his pursuit of relics for the wealth they might bring. But he could not afford to spend weeks under the Egyptian sun searching for some long-dead royal’s possessions for the sake of preserving history.

  But damned if he wouldn’t see her safe before he returned to Egypt. He’d find the map, but he’d wait to seek out the treasure. He needed those relics to settle his obligations, to guarantee a comfortable life for his mother in her silver years, and to provide the tin to live his life without the crushing yoke of debt.

  She met Benedict’s gaze, then flickered her attention to Colton. “It is quite late, and I am so very weary. I would like to conclude our business and retire to my bed.”

  Alone. The implication rang loud and clear in her words. Benedict nodded his understanding.

  “We will continue this discussion in the morning,” Colton said.

  “Of course,” she said. “Regarding the investigation, I am in favor of mingling with some Society types while Benedict draws them in with tales of his recent expeditions. Members of the Exploration Society are set to host a gathering in two days. It’s possible someone there might possess vital information.”

  “An excellent idea. But there’s something you should know,” Colton said. “I take it you are acquainted with Raymond Stockwell.”

  The professor’s second son. Surely Benedict’s ears had deceived him. “What in Hades does that dandy have to do with the investigation?”

  “At this point, we cannot rule him out as a suspect.”

  Alex frowned. “Professor Stockwell’s son is a playwright. Over the years, he has demonstrated no interest in the pursuit or acquisition of antiquities. What could we possibly glean from him?”

  “Raymond Stockwell is hosting a ball at the Barrington Hotel tomorrow evening. It would be to our advantage if the two of you were in attendance.”

  “Good heavens…so very soon after his father’s death?” Alex’s forehead furrowed in puzzlement. “How very odd.”

  “As we understand it, he’d been planning the affair for months. His latest play has made its debut in the West End, and the event was intended as a celebration,” Colton explained.

  “But the man’s father has died.” Alex’s cheeks colored as shock and indignation infused her voice. Her emotions were on full display, as if they’d been painted on the wall in vivid hues.

  For his part, Benedict held his tongue. Professor Stockwell’s younger son had not even attempted to adhere to propriety and what seemed like common decency. Unsurprising, really. Far from it. Raymond Stockwell had shown little regard for his father, displaying thinly veiled contempt for the expeditions to which the professor had dedicated his interest in his later years.

  Unexpectedly, a bleak sadness washed over Benedict. Since learning of the professor’s death, he’d kept his thoughts squarely on his vow to protect Alex. He had not given in to grief. After all those wasted years, he’d finally had a chance to bridge the chasm he’d created and reconnect with the man who’d been a mentor and a friend. For a time, their bond had felt akin to a father sharing wisdom with a son. But now, the chance to fully repair the wounds he’d inflicted on their relationship had been snatched away. The loss was brutal, akin to a physical blow.

  M
entally, he shook off the barrage of memories. This was not the time to ruminate over the mistakes he’d made in his life. He had to focus on the most important challenge he’d ever faced—keeping Alexandra alive.

  Benedict forged a bland facade. “Rather unusual, I’d say, though the father and son were never close.”

  Alex frowned. A tiny vee formed between her brows. “Well, I cannot imagine that his brother approves. He would certainly insist on a proper mourning period.”

  “Last I’d heard, Stockwell’s eldest was on an expedition in Africa,” Benedict said. “I do not know if he has even been notified of his father’s death.”

  “I have it on good authority that Harold Stockwell has been duly informed,” Colton said, his expression unreadable. “The man was occupying a suite at the Barrington at the time—delivering the telegram was not a difficult task.”

  The words were a dash of cold water in the face. Colton’s statement made no sense. Professor Stockwell himself had informed Benedict of his son’s most recent endeavor.

  “A suite at the Barrington? Are you certain?” Benedict questioned. “The professor believed his son to be in West Africa. He’d spoken of him and the pursuit of a rare artifact shortly before I left Cairo.”

  Colton shook his head. “I do not possess the specifics as to the precise timeline, but Stockwell’s eldest son arrived on a steamship little more than a week ago.”

  “Perhaps he returned to be a part of his brother’s celebration,” Alex suggested.

  “Not likely.” Benedict pictured the brothers in his mind. The siblings had little similarity in physical appearance, and even less common ground between their interests and temperaments. To say the men had never been close would have been an understatement.

  “Why do you say that?” Colton asked.

  “Professor Stockwell enjoyed some closeness with his oldest son. They’d shared an interest in archaeology, though Harold’s focus was not devoted to Egyptian antiquities. To my knowledge, the younger brother wanted nothing to do with their pursuit of artifacts. Within the family, Raymond was viewed as a bon vivant, leeching off his father’s funds to finance his theatrical pursuits.”

  Colton seemed to take in what Benedict had revealed. “Given his son’s unusual response to Stockwell’s demise, the ball will prove an interesting experience, to say the least.”

  “I don’t know if I can be party to a celebration…my heart aches at the mere thought of the professor’s death. The idea of watching his son enjoy a festive event while I am grieving may be more than I can stomach.”

  “I understand, Alexandra,” Colton said. “Bear in mind that any information you glean during the ball may help us to solve the mystery surrounding Professor Stockwell’s death. I do not expect an answer tonight, but we must have a decision by the morning.”

  “I presume you will obtain invitations for the two of us,” Benedict said.

  Colton gave a nod. “Consider it done.”

  Alex’s gaze locked with his. Confusion and concern marked her features. “Benedict, are you certain? It is so very soon…I cannot imagine attending this ill-timed celebration. I know how close the two of you were…how close we both were to the professor.”

  Benedict carefully considered his words. God knew he understood Alex’s reservations. But he could not allow his own reluctance to keep them from a gathering that might well produce vital intelligence. After all, the champagne would likely flow in abundance. What better way to subtly question Stockwell’s sons than when their guards were down.

  “That is of no consequence,” Benedict said finally. “It has been a very long time since I laid eyes on either of the brothers. The opportunity to speak with them and see what, if anything, they know, will be time well spent.”

  “Do you really think that’s wise?” Alex’s brow furrowed with worry. “As I recall, the last time you were in the same room with Raymond Stockwell, the two of you resorted to fisticuffs to settle your differences.”

  “I believe you are mistaken,” he said gently. “We did not engage in fisticuffs, as you termed it. I punched him in his smug face. To this day, I do not regret the action.”

  She shot him a glare. “All the more reason to stay away.”

  “You are afraid I will cause a scene?”

  “In a word, yes.” She moved to the sideboard and poured sherry into a crystal tumbler.

  Colton scowled. “I don’t give a damn about your past interactions with the man. If either of Professor Stockwell’s sons knows anything about his death, we need to find out.” His gaze softened as it settled on Alex. “I do not mean to pressure you. As I said, I do not expect an answer tonight. But I do ask that you sleep on the matter and inform me of your decision in the morning. This will be a crucial opportunity. I cannot allow it to go to rot.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Please, Alex, do make yourself comfortable.”

  Jennie motioned to an overstuffed wing chair, but Alex had no desire to sit, comfortably or otherwise. Pacing the length of the library in her sister’s spacious Mayfair home, jittery as a cat tiptoeing past a sleeping bulldog, she pulled in a deep breath. Releasing the air on a slow exhalation, she moved to the chair and sat perched on the edge of the seat.

  “Matthew regrets he could not join us,” Jennie went on. “He is attending to some urgent business of great importance to the Home Secretary. As I’m sure you understand, I am not at liberty to discuss the specifics.”

  “Of course,” Alex said. To her left, Benedict leaned almost casually against a leather settee. His nonchalant stance did not fool Alex. She knew he was filled with the same nervous energy that had set her feet in motion over the plush carpet.

  Seated behind a modest-sized desk of polished cherry, MacAlister Campbell opened the folder containing Mrs. Donohue’s research and placed her neatly penned notes atop the maroon desk blotter. “Well done, Miss Quinn,” he said. “Given this new information, it appears your theory may be valid.” He tapped the nib of his fountain pen against the list. “However, there are certain inconsistencies that might actually prove meaningful.”

  “What are you saying?” Alex stopped her pacing and stared down at the table Mrs. Donohue had prepared. November 19. Her date of birth was referenced with the symbol astrologers linked to that precise day. Beneath the date, Benedict’s birthday was noted, followed by the birthdates of each man who had died. Some had been paired with a symbol she had identified from Hamid’s cryptic message, while others were unmatched.

  “Take a look, Miss Quinn. I think the discrepancy will be obvious to you.”

  She leaned closer, taking in the information bit by bit. “Professor Stockwell came into this world on June 1… Gemini. The twins.” She pointed to the glyph on the photograph, repeating the process for each of the men who’d been identified by Mrs. Donohue’s research.

  “Some of the men listed here were not depicted in the guide’s message. I suspect his strength gave out before he could complete the warning,” Benedict said.

  “But there are two symbols that do not correspond to any of the men we’ve identified,” Alex pointed out. “The incomplete circle and the second hieroglyph of Capricorn. Other than Lord Marlsbrook, none of the men involved was born in December or January.”

  “An excellent observation. As for the final symbol, Mrs. Donahue’s research indicated that the circle could have been intended to indicate Taurus. The icon is incomplete, but appears to be a half-formed representation,” Campbell said. “There’s no way of knowing what the guide’s birthdate was, so he may have meant to indicate himself among the victims.”

  Tension cramped the muscles in Alex’s shoulders and throat, bringing about a dull, miserable ache. She rubbed the back of her neck, as if that might get rid of the discomfort. “Or he’d intended to depict additional victims who have not yet come under attack.”

  “It is also possible that these symbols represent the villains in this piece,” Benedict observed coolly.

  �
��As you are still very much alive, Marlsbrook, the guide may indeed have been referring to you as a villain,” Campbell said, his tone edged with flint. “I feel confident we might rule out Miss Quinn’s involvement, but we have not reached that conclusion where you are concerned.”

  “Ah, I’d always aspired to be considered a brilliant villain.” Benedict’s razor-sharp glance made his response to Campbell’s veiled accusation quite clear. “While you’re drawing your conclusions, I would advise you to do a better job with surveillance than where that bastard Rooney was concerned. In my book, it’s not every day that a man whose neck has been broken in two places manages to rig up a noose and do himself in.”

  Alex gasped. “What are you saying?”

  “Come now, Lord Marlsbrook, there is no need to be uncivil,” Jennie said quietly, though the sudden pallor of her complexion validated Benedict’s statement.

  “I am only speaking the truth. I would hardly count that as uncivil. Isn’t it a fact that Rooney’s neck had been fractured? And yet, his death was deemed a suicide. Rather convenient, I’d say.” Benedict pinned Campbell with his gaze. “I suggest you start telling us the truth, as it is our necks that are now on the line.”

  Campbell met Benedict’s hard stare. “Where did you come by this information?”

  He regarded Campbell as if he were a fool. “It is amazing how easily a good amount of tin in one’s palm can induce a bloke to talk.”

  “I am not in a position to confirm what you’ve been told,” Campbell said, gritting each word between his teeth.

  “Come now, they deserve to know the truth,” Jennie spoke up, turning to Benedict. “As I understand it, the information you’ve been told is correct. Rooney’s death was not a suicide.”

  “Someone wanted to make sure he didn’t talk,” Campbell said.

  “Obviously, whoever wanted him dead is close enough to know what’s going on,” Alex said.

  “It is possible that the instruction came from afar,” Campbell said. “But it’s more likely that whoever ordered Rooney’s death is right here. In London.”