If someone wanted her dead, she’d best be prepared to defend herself.
How very ironic that Gavin had warned her of a possible threat—he’d wanted to protect her, a woman to whom he’d spoken no vows or sweet promises, a woman he bore no responsibility to defend. And now, she knew he was in danger. Yet she stood here, milling about this room, preparing to leave London and everyone she cared about, in an effort to save her own skin.
Colton had assured her that Scotland Yard would soon be on the case. Any threat from Trask would be held firmly in check by the operatives he’d assigned. By now, the agents had taken their positions, set to observe the fraud’s every move. If he went after Gavin, their intervention would be swift and decisive.
Her confidence in Matthew Colton was unwavering. Brilliant and coolheaded, he’d faced down many a threat. In his role as director of the agency, he’d demonstrated an unparalleled strategic ability. She’d never before questioned his judgment. Yet, she could not abide his edict that she play no role in alerting Stanwyck.
If she defied Colton…if she went after Gavin on her own…the director would likely relieve her of her duties to the Crown. Perhaps permanently. She could not go against his orders.
If only the nagging harpy of her conscience did not demand she do precisely that.
How could she live with herself if the agents failed…if Gavin were harmed? Or killed?
Stuffing a few more garments inside the trunk, she uttered an epithet as she fought to close the overfilled container. Making her way through a clutter-strewn floor, she went to the window. A carriage waited below, prepared to take her to a safe haven.
If only she could take refuge from her instincts.
It felt so very wrong to see to her own safety while Gavin had not yet received so much as fair warning of the danger that might lie ahead.
A craggy-faced gent stood by the carriage, conversing with the boardinghouse’s proprietress. Mrs. O’Brien flashed a rare smile. So, Colton had sent Bertram, the man who’d served as his driver, advocate, and friend for the better part of two decades. Seventy if he was a day, Bertram retained a lusty appreciation for the fairer sex, and Mrs. O’Brien basked in his attention.
This could work to her advantage. The seeds of a plan took root in her thoughts. She knew Stanwyck’s haunts, knew the club that seemed his second home.
Convincing Bertram to go along with her scheme would not prove a challenge. After all, a well-timed smile and a dash of flattery worked wonders on the gent. If trouble ensued, Bertram knew his way around a long gun, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Gavin Stanwyck was not an eccentric, nor was he driven by greed. He’d led her on a merry chase, all while pursuing evidence he could use against Trask. He’d put himself at risk to protect her. Devil take it, she would not limp off into hiding like frightened prey. She would find Gavin and alert him to the menace. Perhaps, she might even discover what he knew.
And using that information, she would salvage her mission.
…
Was it Gavin’s imagination, or was the atmosphere at the Hound and Fox club smokier and darker than usual? Or was that merely a reflection of his mood? He’d had a hell of a day, and the evening was not much improved.
He’d thrown an atrocious round of darts, losing soundly to his boorish opponent. Richardson had always been a surly loser and an even more insufferable victor. God above, the buffoon crowed like a rooster at daybreak as he pocketed his winnings.
What had he expected, taking on an opponent on a night like this? Even as he’d fixed the target in his sights, Sophie’s condemnation echoed in his thoughts, a relentless torment. He’d done a blasted fine job of fomenting her contempt. Standing there amongst the headstones, she’d viewed him as if he were the very thing she should fear. No wonder, that. He’d set out to make a fool of her, to trick her into revealing the truth of her act. Now, his instincts insisted she needed protection. Damnable shame she wanted no part of him.
He should go after her. The notion struck him as illogical. Bloody ridiculous, really. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. She’d cast his words under her feet and trod on them with her dainty heels. Did she truly believe he’d go so low as to expect her to lift her skirts in exchange for what he might do to protect her? The censure in her gaze had cut into him, sharp as a dagger’s edge.
She wanted no part of him, of any defense offered. Not that he could blame her. He’d set about convincing her he was a rogue. He’d meant to put her ill at ease, to rattle her composure until she slipped up and exposed herself as a fraud. Or so he’d told himself. In truth, he’d wanted to construct an invisible barrier between them, to convince her to keep her distance. God knew he’d tried. But he’d been drawn to her, a pull as undeniable as opposing poles of a magnet.
If he had a shred of sense left in his thick skull, he’d leave her to her own devices and push on with his quest. Despite her delicate beauty and her petite stature, Sophie was not fragile. Far from it. She was a survivor. She’d no doubt landed on her feet many times.
Damn it, he had to go after her. He had to convince her to take shelter with him, under his roof, where he could provide protection against whatever threat pursued her. He could not lie down at night knowing she was out there, easy prey for the bastard who’d sent those blighters after her.
“Say, aren’t you that chap who digs about in those tombs?”
Gavin pivoted, coming face-to-face with a stoat-faced bloke who looked as though he’d spent an inordinate amount of time tying his cravat. He vaguely recognized the man, the younger son of some esteemed lord or other. Rumor had it he’d recently returned from an extended stay in America, a journey rather conveniently timed after tongues began to wag about the bounder’s unsavory involvement with a housemaid.
“I do fit that description, though, I’m rather confident there are others.”
“John Randall.” The man extended his hand. “I read about you in the papers.”
“Gavin Stanwyck.” He gave the man’s hand a brisk shake. “I take it you have an interest in Egyptian culture.”
Randall shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. I’m more of a sporting man, the thrill of the hunt and all that drivel.”
“Is that so?” Gavin reached for his tumbler of Scotch and took a drink.
Marching up to the dartboard, Randall plucked two barbs from the target. “Interest you in a wager?”
“What do you have in mind?” Gavin set down his glass and took a dart from the man’s hand.
“I hear you’re good…very good.”
Gavin shrugged. “On some nights. Fortunately for you, this is not one of them.”
“One dart, one throw…closest to the bull’s-eye takes a sovereign.”
“Good enough,” Gavin said. “This may be your lucky night.”
“Or your unlucky one.” Randall hurled the little missile, hitting the mark a hair left of dead center.
Bugger it, he should’ve known the bloke would be in fine form. Gavin took aim. The dart pierced the target. Another bull’s-eye.
“You won that round, fair enough,” Randall said. “Shall we have another go? Double or nothing.”
Gavin reached for his glass and took a hearty drink. The whiskey warmed his throat with a smooth heat. “I’d call it a draw. Another time, perhaps.”
“Good enough, Stanwyck.”
He took another drink. Around him, the jovial sounds of boasts and laughter and bawdy humor began to blend. Voices blurred into a discordant chaos. The room swirled.
Grabbing the back of a chair, Gavin steadied himself. Randall pitched another dart, throwing Gavin a glance over his shoulder.
“Something wrong, Professor?” His emotionless tone was all too knowing.
Bloody hell, had he been drugged? Had the bastard slipped something into his drink?
I have to get out of this place! Gavin staggered toward the door, fighting the vertigo threatening to engulf him. With any luck, Avery had retur
ned with the coach.
Randall blocked the exit. “You look like you are in need of assistance. A bit of fresh air might clear your head.” His smile dissolved into a sneer. “A man of your standing should know better than to drink until he’s in his cups.”
Opening the door, the bloke caught Gavin’s upper arm, dragging him from the club. Through the haze of his vision, Gavin spotted his carriage. Why in bloody hell had Avery moved it to the alley? Why had he returned so soon? Damn it, his driver wasn’t supposed to be here now. Why had he cut short his visit with his lady, exposing himself to this treachery?
“Bloody shame about the old man,” Randall said, evil infusing his tone.
Avery…good God, what had happened? The ground tilted, and the world swirled around Gavin. He staggered forward, freed himself from Randall’s hold. His knees threatened to give out, but he focused his vision and struggled to stand.
“Who sent you?”
Randall smiled. “If I were you, mate, I wouldn’t be worrying about who sent me.” He motioned to the thugs waiting by the coach—the same bastards who’d attacked Sophie. Waiting by the coach, Jack tapped a billy club against his palm. “I’d be worrying about who sent them.”
Chapter Nineteen
As Sophie suspected, a well-timed smile and a bit of flattery was all it took to persuade Bertram to assist her. The carriage clattered over the cobbles as the driver set a breakneck pace. The Waterloo Bridge loomed ahead, magnificent over the moonlit Thames.
She pulled the curtain aside. At this time of night, the city had quieted, still not asleep, but far more peaceful than at the peak of day. The horses trotted briskly along the Strand. Over the rattle of the coach, a bellow of pain made it to Sophie’s ears. What the devil?
With a rap against the roof, she signaled her driver. “Bertram—what’s that commotion? Stop the carriage.”
With the window open as it was, she could hear the old man’s muttered epithet. Despite his curmudgeonly response, Bertram slowed the conveyance to a halt, steps from the darkened alley that seemed the origin of the miserable cry.
“Do you hear that?” Sophie strained to make out the angry voices coming from the backstreet. What in blazes was going on?
“Sounds like some unlucky sot is about to lose his tin.”
“I should investigate.”
“I’ll go.” Bertram retrieved his long gun from its spot beneath the bench. “Don’t even think about puttin’ yourself in reach of those criminals. I’ve already gone against my instructions by bringing you here on this errand, as you dubbed it. I cannot let you put yourself in harm’s way.”
“In harm’s way?” She slanted him a glance, then lowered it to the powerful weapon in his hands. “You could bring down a dragon with that thing. I have nothing to worry about.”
She opened the door. Maneuvering her skirts out of the way, she stepped to the pavement. As her heels touched the cobbles, a male voice reached her ears, low and slurred and so familiar, her skin peppered with a sudden chill. Despite the distortion of the syllables, she felt certain she knew the speaker’s identity.
“It’s Stanwyck,” she whispered.
Bertram shot her a scowl. “More likely he’s indulged in too much of the bottle.”
Sophie shook her head. “He’s in trouble. I feel it in my bones.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve developed a soft spot for the bloke.”
“Nonsense.” She covered her blond hair with the hood of her cape to avoid the moonlight’s reflection. “We must investigate.”
With Bertram at her side, she crept toward the alley, careful to stick to the shadows. Reaching the narrow lane, she peered around the corner.
The nearly full moon provided sparse illumination, but she could make out a carriage on the dark path. Stanwyck’s, most likely. Clinging to the perimeter, away from the moonlight, she tiptoed closer.
Two men flanked a third gent, appearing to force him past the coach. He resisted, though his actions were weak and futile, his words so muffled, she could not make them out.
Good heavens, was that Stanwyck?
A ray of moonlight brought one of the men into focus. His silver-pale hair took on an ethereal appearance. Jack! She bit back a cry of alarm. Was this the thug’s retribution for Gavin’s interference with their plan?
She touched Bertram’s sleeve, silently alerting him to the danger ahead. Soundlessly, she reached into her reticule. The cold steel of her pistol provided some measure of assurance, but not enough to tamp down the stutter of her heart. She had to do something. Stanwyck was in grave danger.
“Just let me put a bullet in his brain,” Reggie’s rough voice reached her ears. Shorter than the pale man by a head, he brandished a revolver as an equalizer. “One pull of the trigger, and he won’t be givin’ anyone any more trouble.”
“That’s too easy on the bastard. Damn it, Reggie, ye should’ve checked him for a knife. The bastard cut me,” Jack muttered.
Reggie snorted. “The way ye howled about it, I would’ve thought he’d gutted ye. The bloke can barely hold himself upright. How was I t’know he’d fight back?”
Jack turned to Stanwyck. The rhythmic slap of a club against his hand telegraphed his intentions. “I might’ve let ’em show ye some mercy, but after what ye just done t’me, we’re goin’ t’take our time. Let’s see how well ye can swim with two broken legs.”
“I don’t like this,” his partner protested. “The boss wants it t’look like an accident. We’ll give ’im a cosh on the head like the rest and pitch him in. Quick and clean. Then he’ll wash up…they always do.”
The words unleashed a fresh chill along Sophie’s backbone. Dear God, was this the answer she’d been seeking? Was this confirmation that their suspicions were correct, that the men’s deaths had been staged?
She steadied herself. There was no time to contemplate the implications of the brute’s words. They had to act quickly.
“I don’t give a damn.” Jack’s voice seemed a growl. “The job will be done, and we’ll collect what we’ve got comin’.”
If Sophie had anything to say about it, what they had coming would be a trip to the gallows at the Old Bailey. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Can you cover me while I go after him?”
Bertram nodded. “I’ll go after the dirty bastards. You lead Stanwyck away.”
“First we need to distract them.” She pulled in a fortifying breath. “Wait until I signal you—I’ll remove my hood.”
“Aye. Remember—I’m here, and I’ll kill the bastards if they touch you.”
“Good enough.”
Tugging the hood down to camouflage her features, she sauntered into the alley. She swayed on her feet, singing a ballad in a deliberately off-key voice, lamenting a lost love with each unsteady step.
Jack went still. “What the bloody ’ell is this?”
Ignoring his question, Sophie took another step, then another. Adding a singsong note to her tune, she cocked her head, verifying the third man was indeed Gavin Stanwyck. His head bowed, his shoulders slumped forward, he appeared to be teetering on the edge of consciousness. Her heart hammered in her chest. What the devil had the curs done to him?
Reggie stepped closer. Beneath the veil of her lashes, Sophie saw he’d lowered the gun.
“We don’t want nothin’ t’do with yer kind, ye daft wench,” he growled.
Again, she kept to her pitiful, high-pitched lament. Another few steps and she’d be close enough to draw the man away from Gavin so Bertram could take his shot.
“What d’ye think ye’re up to?” Reggie’s tone went surly. “Carry yer scrawny arse somewhere else.”
With weaving steps, she moved to the other side of the alley, not quite within reach of Stanwyck and out of Bertram’s line of fire. She stilled. “Is that any way to talk to a lady?”
With that, she swept off the hood.
Bertram stepped from the darkness and announced himself with a rifle shot. As the
report slammed against Sophie’s ears, she pivoted to Jack and lifted her revolver, taking aim at his chest.
Reggie’s scream nearly eclipsed the gunshot. Clutching what was left of his hand, he cried out in a series of agonized gasps. “Bloody hell…my thumb! Ye took off my thumb, old man.”
“One move and I’ll take more than that.”
Jack eyed Reggie’s pistol lying on the cobbles between Reggie and Sophie.
“Don’t—” She held her voice low and steady. “I will pull this trigger.”
Bertram came closer, pinning Jack in his sights. “Move away from the gent or I’ll blow ye in two.”
As Bertram held Jack at bay, Sophie scooped up Reggie’s gun and tucked it in a pocket of her cloak. Brandishing her pistol, she moved toward Gavin.
He blinked, seeming to recognize her despite his barely conscious state. “Sophie.” His head sagged forward as if too heavy for his neck.
“Can you come to me, Gavin?” Odd, how her heart ached with each word.
He nodded weakly. Jack moved to block him.
“I meant what I said,” Bertram warned.
“Bugger off, old—”
Bertram fired a warning shot, striking the ground inches from the hoodlum’s boots. “Move away from the gent, and I won’t have to put the next one into your gullet.”
“To hell with this,” Jack muttered. Turning on his heel, he bolted.
“We must move quickly.” She trained her pistol on Reggie. “He’ll be back, no doubt with reinforcements. Gavin, can you make it to our carriage?”
“If the bloody world would just stand still,” he muttered.
“I will help you in a moment. First, there’s a matter to be dealt with.”
He nodded weakly and propped a hand against the ebony door of his coach to steady himself.
She aimed the Sharps Pepperbox at Reggie’s gut. “Do not even blink. I’d love an excuse to try out my shiny new pistol.”
When a Lady Dares (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) Page 20