There’d been one complication—Alex’s relationship with Harold Stockwell. He’d been taken with her. Any fool could’ve seen that. Innocently, she’d kindled a friendship with the professor’s oldest son. He’d wanted more. But Alex’s heart had already been claimed.
“God above,” he said as understanding crashed into him.
Jennie nodded. “I see you take my meaning.”
Colton cocked his head. “Are you suggesting Stockwell’s son is the killer?”
“That is precisely what I am suggesting,” she said. “I took the liberty of asking Mrs. Donahue to research Harold and Raymond Stockwell’s dates of birth.”
“Did you now?” Colton said, obviously intrigued.
“Would you like to know what I discovered?”
“I predict a birthdate in January,” Colton said drily.
“Not January,” Jennie said. “Harold Stockwell was born in late December, a few days after Christmas. His brother was also born in December, but early in the month.”
“So, the eldest was born under the astrological sign of Capricorn,” Colton concluded.
A slight smile formed on her lips. “Precisely. I suspect we’ve identified the culprit.”
Colton leaned against the desk. “What do you suggest we do?”
“We have agents trained in a variety of scenarios,” she said. “A covert rescue is feasible.”
Benedict rejected the thought outright. If Harold was responsible, he would take his anger out on Alexandra if his demands were not met.
“And expose Alexandra to even more danger?” he said. “Out of the question.”
“Our operatives can extract her from the situation,” Jennie said. “I am confident—”
“I will not abandon her.”
She shook her head. “The fact of it is, we cannot guarantee your safety. Please tell me you will reconsider.”
“I cannot do that.”
“He’s right,” Colton said. “If our operatives enter the building without a proper distraction in play, there’s no telling what Stockwell might do.”
“But Marlsbrook…the thought of losing you or Alex is unbearable.” Jennie’s voice trembled.
“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Colton,” Benedict said evenly. “I have taken many chances in my life. But this is the first time the risk was truly worth it. I will protect Alexandra. Or I will die trying.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
As the sun descended toward the horizon beyond the fetid London docks, Benedict stared daggers at the cagey old carriage driver who’d transported him to the rendezvous point. According to Jennie Colton, Bertram was one of the most skilled drivers in all of London. For his part, Benedict had no problem believing the man to be a maniac escaped from Bedlam. He’d never encountered a driver who approached his task with such determination to rattle every last tooth out of Benedict’s head. It was a miracle he survived the ride.
Colton believed he was walking into a trap, but Benedict did not see it that way. A trap would create an illusion that danger might be avoided. That was certainly not the case. The rotters who’d taken Alex could not have been more blunt in their demand. They wanted him dead. He’d be damned lucky to get her out of there. And even luckier to walk away alive.
A reasonable man would think better of complying with the captors’ demands. But somehow, reason didn’t factor into this situation. Neither did fear. None of it mattered. All he really cared about was getting her away from her kidnappers. And still possessing the teeth in his head when he encountered her. It would be a damnable shame to play the hero and not even be able to flash a daring smile in the process.
The thought triggered an ill-timed smile. If either of the Coltons spotted him, they’d think he’d gone mad. That was far from the case. He’d never before played the hero. The prospect felt surprisingly good. He was not a coward, but for so many years, his motto had been Every man for himself rather than aspiring to some altruistic ideal.
But this was different.
No matter what—no matter how brutal the cost—he had to save Alex.
He didn’t want to die. He was neither selfless nor stupid. God knew he’d no intention of becoming a martyr. He wanted nothing more than to live a long life with Alexandra in his arms. But that was the rub. Such a life would not be possible if he did not get her away from the bastard who’d taken her prisoner.
If any harm came to her, he could not live with himself. He did not want to be a part of any world that did not have Alexandra Quinn’s sparkling eyes and teasing smile.
So, for once, instead of charging after gold and jewels and the personal medallions of some long moldy-in-his-wrappings pharaoh, he was charging to the rescue. The fact that he loved the woman in question, more than the air he breathed, fueled his resolve.
He did not even consider the possibility of failing.
God knew he doubted his heart would continue to function if he did.
“Ye’re ready for this, lad?” Bertram asked, long gun at the ready.
“Yes.” Benedict pulled in a breath. He’d keep his weapon out of sight. In his jacket pocket, he carried the map he would present as part of her ransom. He was counting on the secrecy with which both Stockwell and Alex had treated the route to the legendary tomb. If her captor had had an opportunity to see the actual document, the ruse would not succeed.
Bugger it, he would not allow himself to consider that likelihood.
Their plan could not fail.
He could not fail.
God knew he’d hurt her. He’d let Alexandra down before and had cut her heart deeply because he’d been a fool and a coward.
Not this time… This time, he would be there when she needed him. He would save her life. It wasn’t courage that spurred him on. Not really. He knew better. It was fear—fear of losing her. An existence without Alex in it would not be worth the effort of opening his eyes every morning.
Before him, a riverfront warehouse loomed large. The stink of pollution and dead fish assaulted his senses. The stark gray building was one he’d seen many times over the years, passing by without a thought to its gradual decline as year after year, it had fallen into disrepair. Somewhere, deep within this foul place, Stockwell waited with his captive. How bloody ironic that a place that had never warranted so much as a second glance would suddenly take on such prominence in Benedict’s existence.
Darkness had not yet descended over the city, but it wouldn’t be long. The sky was a deep, nearly charcoal color, blended with a heavy cover of dark clouds. In the distance, thunder rumbled and lightning crackled. How blasted appropriate.
“I’ll stay out here, beyond the main entry.” Bertram gripped a powerful rifle in hands that reminded him of a skeleton cloaked in skin. He’d seen mummies with more fat on their bones. But the determination and courage blazing in the old man’s keen eyes added to Benedict’s confidence.
Around them, agents were falling into position. A woman sauntering along in a light skirt’s saucy attire, her layers of skirts concealing her weapons. A staggering drunk who’d propped himself up against a lamppost, steadying legs that deliberately quaked beneath his weight. An old man with a walrus-like mustache sitting on the bench of a workman’s wagon. A second glance revealed the man’s identity. MacAlister Campbell had aged himself a good two decades with the disguise. Even the scrawny lad hawking papers was an agent in disguise—the expertly trained female marksman had slipped into character as a youth clad in dirty trousers and a flat-brimmed cap.
A cold wind once again carried with it the foulness of the Thames, a detestable stench. He gave a sniff in disgust, then turned toward the warehouse where they believed Alex was being held. A fitting location for such a bleak rendezvous.
Devil take it, he had to keep his mind on the positive, meager as it was. If he lived past the initial encounter with her captors, he had a chance. At the very least, he might distract the bastards long enough for Colton’s agents to make their move and rescue Alexandra.
He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. A heartbeat. No more. No less.
And then, he issued a simple plea.
Let me have the strength to save her.
…
Alex studied her captor through lowered lashes, trailing his nervous strides as he paced the chamber. Stockwell appeared edgy, more dangerous by the moment. Like a caged predator, his impatience was rapidly turning to anger—rage that would eventually turn against her.
She had to get away from him. His weasel-eyed henchman had left Stockwell to his own devices shortly after delivering her to this foul place. With any luck, the rotter would not return.
Glancing about the chamber, she confirmed Nelson had not skulked back inside as she worked at the ropes on her wrists. A bit more slack, and she might wriggle free. Another tug, and the binding went looser. She squeezed her hand into a tight fist.
Blast it, she still could not slip away.
Biting back a sigh, she resumed her struggle against the bonds. Slow, subtle movements, frustratingly slow. But she had no choice. If she attracted his notice, her efforts would be for naught.
Turning to her, Stockwell flashed a look that spoke of violence. As he closed the distance between them, he slid a hand inside his jacket, retrieving an object from a concealed pocket. Emotionless, he pressed a switch on the handle he gripped against his palm. A blade as long as her hand sprang forward. Light glinted off the razor-honed steel blade.
Fear chilled her blood. Fighting a sudden surge of panic, she contorted her hand. Just a bit more…
He crouched beside her, near enough to touch her—near enough to cut her. Tipping up her chin, he met her gaze with cold, heartless eyes. “Do you believe yourself to be a pawn in this game?”
Swallowing against her fright, she shook her head.
“You are a clever one, aren’t you?” he said. “Have you figured it out yet?”
“I cannot say that I have,” she murmured.
He drew the pad of his finger over the curve of her jaw, smiling evilly. A shudder rippled through her. “You are the queen in this game of chess. And we both know how valuable a capture that is.”
A man’s voice stilled him. Stockwell rose to his full height, the tense set of his body betraying he was on full alert as he strategically positioned himself behind her.
Benedict!
He’d called out to Stockwell, announcing his presence. Her heart stuttered. A blend of pride at his courage and fear that penetrated to the marrow surged through her. She’d prayed that Benedict would ignore her captor’s demands and save himself.
But he’d shown his fortitude.
He’d come after her.
Dear God, please help him. Please do not allow him to sacrifice himself.
As he came into her line of sight, she froze. Benedict stood tall, his jaw hard with determination. Streams of dim light gleamed silver off the gun in his right hand. His gaze flickered to her, and he gave a small nod of assurance before he locked his sights on her captor and entered the chamber with long, confident strides.
“I knew it was you, Stockwell,” he said, making no effort to hide his disgust.
“So, you did muster the spleen to accept my invitation. I wondered if you’d be man enough to come after her.”
“Man enough?” Benedict cocked a brow. “Might I remind you that I do not employ others to do my dirty work.”
Stockwell shrugged. “If it gets me what I want, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
Benedict scowled. “What in damnation is this about?”
“You already know the answer to that. I trust you brought the map.”
“Yes.” Benedict did not hesitate.
Alex schooled her features, concealing any sign of her surprise at his reply. More than likely, he’d worked with Jennie and the others to put together a ruse, a way to stall Stockwell until she could be freed from her bonds.
“Put down that gun and show me the map. Now.”
“Not a chance,” Benedict said. Keeping her captor in his sights, he reached into his pocket with his left hand and produced a document. Would Stockwell realize it was a forgery?
Stockwell eyed the folded document. “Give it to me.”
“Release her now, or I’ll destroy the map.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Do you want to test that theory?” Contempt infused Benedict’s words. “It would be a bloody shame if this flimsy bit of paper was ripped to shreds. Of course, you could possibly piece it together. Scrap by scrap.”
“You’re tempting fate, Marlsbrook. Give it to me.”
“You offered an exchange.” Benedict’s eyes darkened with an anger he could not entirely leash. “I am prepared to comply with my end of the bargain. Release Miss Quinn and let her walk away. A driver is waiting to escort her from the premises. Once she is away from this place, I will turn the map over to you and throw down my weapon. But not before.”
Throw down my weapon. His words crashed into her, robbing her of breath. What was the meaning of the statement? For a heartbeat, her composure fled, and she choked back a cry of desperation.
No! This cannot be. Surely Benedict would not consider facing Stockwell’s madness without benefit of a weapon. There had to be a plan. Colton and Jennie would not endanger his life. In her heart, she knew that. But the very thought of it devastated her.
“Don’t do this, Benedict,” she pleaded.
His eyes locked with hers. “It will be all right, Alexandra. I won’t let you down.”
“Bugger it, I hadn’t expected you’d pretend to be noble,” Stockwell said. “But then again, you know this is your fault, don’t you? Everything that has happened. All of those men who died, including my dearly departed father. Their blood is on your hands.”
Benedict’s features betrayed no emotion at the words, aside from a slight clench of his jaw. “Have you been gripped by insanity?”
“No, that would be my brother. All those years, our father treated us as though we were insignificant. Nothing mattered to the man other than his blasted relics. Not our mother. Not the fortune he cast into the wind to finance his expeditions. Not his sons. And yet, Raymond deluded himself that Father held us in high regard. He pretended our father’s indifference did not exist. But I knew the truth—I saw how he favored you and the others who shared his pursuits.”
“So you murdered those men?” Benedict kept his tone level, his voice calm, but the strain showed clearly on his granite-hard features.
“Not all of them. Our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Rooney, rather enjoyed the tasks. I do believe killing was a bit of sport to him. All it took was the promise of a share of the riches I would garner from the tomb, the one you sought to plunder. My father’s guide, the man he’d trusted with all of his secrets, was not willing to take a life, but he provided the information I required to put my plan into place.”
One of the men who died, an Egyptian with Stockwell’s expedition, was working for the Crown. Matthew Colton’s words played in her thoughts. Had the operative betrayed the trust he’d been accorded by both Stockwell and the Crown?
“Hamid was involved?” Benedict did not conceal his shock at the revelation.
“The temptation posed by an incomparable treasure can motivate men to do many things they would not otherwise consider.” He slanted Alex a glance, a silent threat. “Hamid was a student of the arcane arts. He believed the stars held his destiny. Before we put our plan in place, he took pains to learn the date and place of each man’s birth. And, of course, our dear Alexandra’s.”
Benedict’s brow furrowed. “How did he come upon that information? It’s not as if it’s common knowledge.”
“Hamid had a connection within the government, a source he tapped whenever we needed. He used that knowledge to devise false clues that planted the seed of the occult in my father’s mind. With each death, we cultivated the notion that he’d brought a curse upon them.”
“Answer my question,” Benedic
t said, his voice unnaturally quiet. “Why did you want those men dead?”
Harold smiled, an evil glint lighting his eyes. “At first, I did not believe they all had to die. But there was no way of knowing who might locate the tomb. I could not take the chance that one of them would uncover the treasure. I’ve been cheated out of enough in life. Nothing was going to stand between me and that gold.”
“You knew Alexandra would not pursue the treasure. Why did you drag her into this?”
“Father had deemed me worthy to know of his discovery, but he portrayed it as a grand secret. He would not confide the location of his find to his own son. When I learned the old fool had actually given her the map, I had to punish him.” Stockwell scowled. “He put his trust in her, a woman who’d cast me—his eldest son, his flesh and blood—aside. I would never be able to go on if I did not find a way to destroy him. I wanted him to suffer. And what better way than to kill everyone he cared about in this world?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Grief crashed over Alex in waves. Stockwell’s confession sickened her. She fought the bitter emotions, the fear that weakened her.
Stripping the feeling from her words, she kept her voice low. “Your father was a good man. He did not deserve any of this.”
“Who are you to judge me? You’re little more than Marlsbrook’s harlot.” Stockwell brandished the knife in his hand, seeming to savor her fear. Chills coursed over her skin, along her spine, but she held her chin high. Damned if she’d give this jackal the satisfaction of seeing her terror.
“If you touch her, I will kill you.” Benedict kept his voice low and steady, even as he took a step closer. Then another. “Don’t think I won’t pull this trigger.”
“You can try.” Menace flavored Stockwell’s words. “But I will take her with me.”
As he spoke, Nelson entered the room. Keeping to the shadows, he prowled toward Benedict. Rivulets of gaslight reflected off the steel of his revolver.
“Benedict, behind you!” she cried in warning.
“Ever devoted, eh, Alexandra?” Stockwell’s mouth twisted in ugly amusement.
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