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

by Tara Kingston

“No…not at all,” she sniffled unconvincingly.

  “I cannot help but notice that you are on the verge of tears,” she persisted gently. Given the faint marks on her cheeks, Lady Mildred had already been weeping. But Alex did not wish to cause the shy young woman additional embarrassment.

  “It’s only that…well…” She shot Stockwell a dagger-filled glance. “He is such an unpleasant man. He implied that…that my father might want to consider financing one of his productions… If not, well, I did not deserve his time.”

  “Why, the cad,” Alex murmured sympathetically. His demeanor with her had been quite the opposite. Solicitous and open, he’d seemed quite interested in impressing her. Surely the man did not believe her father possessed the funds to fritter away on one of his plays. How very odd.

  “It would not be so hard to bear,” Lady Mildred said, her voice a near whisper. “But…the last time we were together, he led me to believe…” She sniffled loudly, and it appeared a torrent of tears would erupt. “He led me to believe he might come to care for me, in due time.”

  “The man is a rogue of the worst sort,” Alex said. “If I were you, I’d want nothing to do with him.”

  Lady Mildred gave a nod, buried her nose in her handkerchief, and gave another sniff. “I had no idea he was such an unfeeling excuse for a man.”

  With that, Lady Mildred took her leave, likely heading for the Ladies’ Necessary to freshen her face. As if on cue, Raymond spotted her. Maneuvering around a few fawning women, he came to her. A smile he no doubt intended to be charming marked his well-defined features.

  “I was hoping to encounter you again this evening,” he said.

  “Were you now?” Deciding she would let this interaction play out, she composed her features.

  “It’s not every day that I meet a woman like you.”

  She made a show of glancing about the room. “This ballroom is awash in beautiful women who would like nothing more than to curry your favor. I cannot help but wonder why you might think me unique.”

  He held her gaze. “If pressed, I would have to say it is the fact that you do not wish to gain my attention that makes you fascinating.”

  She forced a little shrug. “If you believe I am playing hard to get, I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

  His sly, meant-to-be charming expression returned. “I have no such notion. That is one of the things that intrigues me about you.”

  A man who reminded her of a well-fed bull sidled up to Stockwell. His broad, fleshy face and square jaw seemed a bit too large for his features. Judging from the lack of wrinkles and absence of gray in his dull brown hair, he was still a young man, though his exaggerated mustache created the illusion of a man in his middle years.

  Small, nondescript brown eyes met hers. An unpleasant smile pulled at his lips as his gaze swept over her. Not quite a leer, but too lingering to be comfortable.

  “Keeping the ladies to yourself again,” the man said. There was something familiar about him, but she could not put a name to the face.

  “Sadly, Miss Quinn is quite immune to my charms,” Raymond Stockwell said with a light, humor-filled tone. “It’s been ages since I saw you last, Nelson.”

  “I’ve had business on the Continent,” Nelson replied without elaboration. He pinned Stockwell with a narrow-eyed look. “Might I warrant an introduction to this lovely lady?”

  “Of course. I have been remiss in my duties as host.” Raymond offered a false smile, then introduced the stocky man as a financier, Edward Nelson.

  Alex exchanged pleasantries with the newcomer, but his tendency to direct his gaze to her bosom rather than her face made her skin crawl. Perhaps she would take her leave and avail herself of Raymond’s company after his repugnant acquaintance wandered away.

  She spotted Sophie through the crowd. The petite blonde had worked her way past a throng of dancers, somehow managing to make eye contact. Her sister’s protégé was indeed a force of nature.

  By the time Sophie had crossed to where she stood, a heavily painted brunette with hair down to her waist had caught Nelson’s eye. Mumbling an excuse, he quickly took his leave.

  “Mr. Stockwell, allow me to extend my compliments,” Sophie began. “This affair is perfect. The music is sublime.”

  “I’m pleased my little soiree is a pleasant experience for you. Sir Gavin is in attendance, is he not?”

  “Oh, dear, he’s here somewhere. I’ve no idea where that husband of mine has gone. I suspect he’s regaling some unfortunate fellow with the dreary details of his latest expedition.” She framed her features in a solemn expression. “I have been meaning to properly express my condolences. Sir Gavin and I were deeply saddened to learn of your father’s untimely passing.”

  Raymond adopted an equally somber expression. “I have not yet come to terms with the shock to the system. I’ve tried to distract myself from the grief.”

  “Might I ask how your brother is taking the news?” Alex spoke up.

  A slight curl of his lip betrayed his initial reaction to the question. He quickly reined in the response, but he’d already made his derision clear.

  “Harold has used our father’s demise as an excuse to remain thoroughly foxed. The fool has crawled into a bottle of whisky.”

  Sophie cast her a speaking glance. Harold Stockwell was generally considered to be a scholarly, level-headed fellow. Had his father’s death taken such a great toll on him?

  “How very sad,” Sophie said. “I’d heard he might be in attendance tonight.”

  “He’s here. Somewhere.” Raymond pointed to the stairs. “Last time I saw him, he was huddled in his room with his favorite companion—a bottle of Scotch. I must admit I am thankful he has not yet indulged his taste for absinthe.” Idly, he adjusted his cravat. “I should not have besieged the two of you with such unpleasant details. I do beg your pardon.”

  “Please, think nothing of it. I’m sure this has been a difficult time,” Sophie said gently.

  “Facing our father’s death has been an ordeal for both Harold and myself.” Stockwell turned to Alex. “I know how fond Father was of you. He held you in the highest regard.”

  “The news of his death was a terrible shock. I have still not quite come to grips with it,” she said truthfully.

  “Indeed,” he said.

  A sudden commotion pulled their attention to the area of the ballroom occupied by the musicians. A metallic crash interrupted the strains of a waltz. A man raised himself from the spot where he’d landed on the floor.

  Harold Stockwell brusquely shook his head, as if that might clear away the effects of far too much liquor. His black trousers had escaped the effects of the tumble, but his paisley waistcoat and black jacket were a rumpled mess. Dragging his fingers through dark strands that were far too long to be fashionable, he stared into the crowd.

  “Why don’t you watch where you put those blasted things?” he bellowed at a violinist who took several steps in retreat. Stumbling past the musician, he managed to knock the top hat off a weasel-faced duke’s head while nearly tripping over a ruby-bedecked matron.

  “Bloody hell,” Raymond Stockwell muttered under his breath. “Ladies, if you will excuse me.”

  Before he could take his leave, his brother lumbered toward them. Harold’s gaze settled squarely on Alex. She swallowed against a wave of sudden apprehension. The towering man resembled an angry bull.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Benedict. He started toward them. Did he think to intercept the elder of the brothers?

  Alex briskly shook her head. She did not require Benedict’s intervention. Not yet, at least.

  Harold Stockwell made his way to where they stood. Sketching an exaggerated bow, he greeted them in turn.

  “Miss Quinn, it has been far too long.” He badly slurred the words. “I had not expected you to be here tonight. If I had, I would have made my entrance well before now.”

  “It is good to see you again,” she said, hoping her tone did not b
etray the falseness of her words.

  “No—it is not. I look like bloody hell, and I feel far worse. My father should not have died as he did. I should have been there. It’s my fault, damn it.”

  The expletive drew shocked gasps from the guests who stood within earshot. He shot them a scowl.

  “It could not have been your responsibility. Do not blame yourself,” Alex said, choking back a fresh wave of emotion.

  “Ah, but I do, Miss Quinn. How can I not?” Once again, he tore his fingers through his hair. Tears glistened in his red-rimmed eyes. “If I had not learned of that accursed tomb… If I had not told my father of the legend… He would still be alive. He would not have been murdered.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Well, that certainly did not go as planned.”

  Sophie’s assessment of the evening’s events was spoken in her usual, no-nonsense manner. As Alex settled into a comfortable chair in the Stanwycks’ parlor, Sophie poured tea into delicately enameled porcelain cups.

  “That may be the understatement of the year,” Alex agreed as she accepted a steaming cup of Earl Grey from Sophie’s outstretched hand.

  Seated in a wing chair with his legs stretched out before him, Benedict was uncharacteristically quiet. Had he been as stunned by Harold Stockwell’s drunken confession as the others?

  Professor Stockwell’s oldest son had spoken of a tomb. Of a legend. Had Harold set his father on a quest for the map both Benedict and Rooney pursued?

  After Harold had blurted out his grief-stricken statement of guilt, Benedict rushed to her side, appearances be damned. As Raymond Stockwell led his brother from the room, seeking to minimize the damage inflicted upon his celebration, Benedict escorted Alex from the ballroom. By the time they made it to the lobby, she was shaking like the leaves of a sapling on a stormy day.

  He’d held her hand, his touch tender and unabashedly gentle. He’d soothed her grief and the shock that shook her to the core. The professor’s death was still so very fresh. The brutal wound had not even come close to scabbing over, much less beginning to heal. His son’s uncensored display of grief had been nearly unbearable.

  She knew, without doubt, that Harold Stockwell’s words had affected Benedict more than he’d allowed himself to show. Now, he sat stiff-backed and granite-jawed, immersed in his thoughts.

  “Nelson’s presence was a bit of a surprise,” Sophie said, taking a sip of tea. “I certainly had not expected to lay eyes on the likes of him.”

  Alex turned to Sophie. “I may have encountered the man before tonight, but I couldn’t quite place his face. What do you know about him?”

  “He’s suspected to be involved in a smuggling ring operating out of Liverpool,” Gavin Stanwyck spoke up. “A lucrative, dirty business.”

  “The chap is a most unsavory character,” Sophie went on. “Nelson owns a legitimate business, a curiosity shop of sorts, but it’s believed to be nothing more than a front for his other ventures. He is suspected of trafficking in stolen gems. But there’s not enough evidence to arrest and detain him.”

  “It seems odd that Stockwell would invite a man like that to his celebration.”

  Sophie took another sip of tea. “Raymond Stockwell needed money for his theatrical enterprises. Before his death, Sir Lawrence Bond had put up a large sum toward Stockwell’s first drama. Rumor has it the venture was a losing proposition, wiping out Bond’s investment. After that, the showman steered clear of Stockwell’s productions. But someone has financed his plays. Nelson is known to have advanced at least a part of the required funds.”

  Benedict turned to Sophie. “What interest could Nelson have in Stockwell’s maudlin tragedies?”

  “Now that, Lord Marlsbrook, is anyone’s guess,” Sophie said. “I’ve wondered if Stockwell might have gotten his hands on some evidence, some leverage he’s employed to extort funds from Nelson. But there is no proof.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Benedict commented. “His character is questionable at best.”

  “So unlike his father,” Alex added. “His lack of grief is appalling.”

  “Everyone mourns in their own way,” Sophie said. “I am curious about the matter of an inheritance, since he’s not the elder brother…he is not the heir.”

  “True,” Benedict said. “But Professor Stockwell cared deeply for his son, despite the rift between them. I suspect Raymond will inherit funds in addition to those that pass to the elder son.”

  “The agents have not yet uncovered that information.” Stanwyck focused his cool-eyed gaze on Benedict. “Stockwell spoke of a map. If it’s intended to be a secret, it has been poorly kept. What do you know about it?”

  Benedict met the inquiry without hesitation. “Stockwell insisted he had given it to Alexandra.”

  Alex shot him a little scowl. “As I’ve told you, I have no idea where that map might be.”

  Gavin turned to her. “Could the professor have concealed it, perhaps within a book or another document?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. But I have no notion of where it might be. Stockwell entrusted me with his research. During my last expedition to Egypt, I met with the professor. He placed his notes and an artifact in my care—the Pharaoh’s Sun.”

  “Bloody hell,” Stanwyck muttered.

  “The antiquity itself has little value. It’s rather ordinary, really,” she said. “Nothing that would be of interest to a typical thief.”

  “Somehow, the Pharaoh’s Sun is connected to the map.” Benedict rubbed his neck as if it ached. “Stockwell was convinced the map would be worthless without it.”

  Sophie wandered to the window and peered into the darkness beyond their residence. “It is late, and this has all been quite difficult for Alex.” Turning back to face them, her attention flickered to Benedict. “As well as you, Lord Marlsbrook. It has been a trying time, indeed. Might I suggest we begin a search for the document in the morning?”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Benedict agreed.

  “Gavin and I would like you both to be our guests tonight. We would sleep far better knowing you were safe.”

  “Thank you, but that will not be necessary,” Alex replied. “Colton has arranged to have my townhouse under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Her Majesty’s palace could not be under better guard.”

  “You are quite certain?” Sophie pressed gently.

  “I will be more at ease in my own residence,” she said.

  A smile flickered over Sophie’s face. “I suspect you will be searching every nook in your study tonight.”

  “Is it so obvious, then?”

  “Jennie could not bear any delay in her investigations. I suspect it is the same for you.”

  “If I can find the map, we may be able to put this ugly matter to rest,” Alex said. “Once word gets out that we’ve found it, I predict the killer will abandon his mask.”

  Alex drummed her nails against the leather-upholstered bench of Benedict’s carriage. He’d insisted on seeing her safely home, though she suspected he wanted to be alone with her. Something was on his mind—something he had no intention of sharing with Stanwyck.

  Though he sat mere inches from her within the curtained coach, he’d said little that could not have been shared with his rival, or anyone else for that matter. What was on his mind?

  His driver set the carriage moving at a brisk pace to her townhouse and they rattled over the cobbles. Though Benedict had insisted on seeing Alex to her home, he seemed distant. Seeming to know better than to make contact, he made no attempt to touch her. Holding himself rigid, he angled his body away from hers.

  She sighed to herself. If she’d been thinking solely with her head, she would consider herself thankful. It was for the best that he held himself under tight rein. Wasn’t it?

  Pity she could not convince herself to appreciate his restraint. The longing in her heart overruled rational thought, and she sought the comfort of his skin touching hers. Pulling in a breath, she inched closer and b
ridged the invisible chasm that separated them.

  With a smile she hoped appeared subtle and alluring rather than shy and nervous, she reached for him. “A penny for your thoughts,” she said, closing her lace-gloved fingers over his hand.

  For several heartbeats, he regarded her silently. He raked a hand through his hair. “If I speak the truth, I am sure you will regret the inquiry.”

  “This night was far more difficult than I’d envisioned. I would appreciate your honesty.”

  He leaned closer, cupping a hand against her cheek. The texture of his slightly roughened fingers against her skin set her tingling from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. “When I saw you across the ballroom tonight, it was all I could do to keep my distance.”

  “If I did not know better, I would think you were jealous.”

  “Jealousy is a shallow, transient emotion. What I am experiencing is far more complicated than that.” His mouth brushed hers. “I want you, Alexandra. More than I thought possible.”

  “I do not doubt that, Benedict.” She leaned against him, drinking in his warmth. “The truth of that statement was quite evident last night.”

  “I won’t deny that I want you in my bed. You would see through such a bold lie in a heartbeat. Besides, I’ve no reason to pretend I’m not drawn to you. You are beautiful…every man in that ballroom would’ve given his last shilling for a chance with you.” Each word was uttered in a low, husky rasp. “But…there’s more.”

  A thrill rippled through her, deep-seated and primal. For so long, she’d been content with the excitement of a successful expedition and her research. She’d been happy enough. But there’d been a void in her life she had never acknowledged. She’d never stopped wanting Benedict. Never stopped needing him. Now, touching him, feeling his gentle breath against her cheek, her thirst for him intensified. She craved his touch. His scent. His kiss. His poignant confession spurred an elemental satisfaction. Knowing how very much he wanted her, just as she yearned for him, filled her heart.

  “I crave you, Alexandra.” His arms loosely caged her against him, seductive and bold. Yet, he allowed her the choice to stay within his embrace, or free herself from his hold.