by Shana Galen
The man’s head whipped forward again. “I can’t tell you.”
“You mean you won’t,” Sophia corrected. “Poor decision.” She glanced at Adrian, and he flashed a smile at her. It felt, quite suddenly, as though they’d been working together for years. They’d found a rhythm, and she didn’t want to think too hard about it lest she interrupt it.
Adrian drew his fist back.
“Wait! You don’t have to—oof!”
Adrian’s fist plowed into the man’s abdomen, and the intruder slumped over. Sophia bit her lip. She wasn’t going to allow this to go on long, nor did she think Adrian would beat the man unmercifully. But they had to scare him a little… or a lot.
Adrian stepped beside her, grabbed a handful of the man’s hair, and yanked it up. “What is your name?”
The man’s mouth moved, but no sound came. Adrian waited about thirty seconds then repeated the question.
“Twombley,” the man wheezed. “That’s all I can say.”
“Oh, no it’s not.” Adrian yanked hard on the intruder’s hair, unbalancing the chair so it fell over. The man landed on his back with a groan. Adrian put a foot on his chest. “You come into my house. You look at my wife. You point a gun at me. You have a lot more to say.”
But the man shook his head. “Go ahead and shoot me. Cut me up. He’ll do worse if he finds I’ve talked to you.”
Sophia knelt beside Twombley. “Who will do worse, Mr. Twombley?”
He didn’t look at her, kept his gaze on Adrian. “I’ve already said too much.”
“We know you’re part of the Maîtriser group,” she told him. “We know you killed Jenkinson.”
“I didn’t kill him. He did. He’ll do worse to me if I betray him.”
Sophia looked at Adrian. She couldn’t imagine what might be worse than having an M carved into your body. She stood and walked behind the desk. Adrian followed. “I can keep working on him.”
“You might get information,” she admitted, “but he’ll probably lie to appease you. He’s scared of the man who killed Jenkinson. Who wouldn’t be?”
“We need the leader’s name and location.”
“And this man could send us on a fruitless chase all over England or the Continent.”
Adrian frowned and ran a hand through his disordered hair. He had blood on his knuckles, she saw now, and scarlet dots spattering his white linen shirt. “Let’s take him to Melbourne. If nothing else, we leave him in Barbican custody for the time being. We bloody well can’t leave him here.”
Sophia was nodding. “We see what Melbourne knows then pay Millie Jenkinson a morning call.” She scratched her nose again. “We’re definitely closing in.”
But Adrian was watching her. “How did you happen to see him enter? I thought I had you pretty well distracted.”
She smiled. “You did. Fortunately for us, my intuition can resist even your allure.” She tapped his nose. “I’m going to get dressed.”
“You might as well rouse the house. I’ll need to call for the coach and change before we take him to Melbourne.” He looked at the man on the floor, and Sophia followed his gaze to the blood on the wall and the carpet. “How are we going to explain all this?”
She shrugged. “I say we let Wallace do it.”
“I agree, and Sophia…”
“I know.” She opened the library door and stepped out. “Give him a raise.”
Twenty
Adrian didn’t know what Sophia told Wallace or the rest of the staff, but no one looked twice when he hauled the hooded intruder to their coach and four an hour later. She looked as though she’d just awakened after a long, restful slumber. She wore a white walking dress with lace ruffles about her neck. The sleeves were loose and wide, and on her feet were pretty white slippers. Her hair was tucked under a simple round cap with satin and lace on the edges and a white rose in front.
She looked fresh and innocent.
“Interesting choice of attire for three in the morning.” He pushed Twombley onto the floor of the coach and crawled over him to take a seat. Sophia did the same, sitting opposite.
“It’s a morning dress. Besides, by the time we deal with him, it will be morning and then we’ll call on Millie. I don’t want to appear unfashionable.”
“God forbid.”
“Where are you taking me?” Twombley grumbled, his voice muffled under the hood.
“The cemetery,” Adrian said. “We’re going to bury you alive.”
Twombley issued a small whimper, and Sophia scowled at Adrian. He shrugged. He didn’t feel the need to be nice to men who tried to kill them. Not that she’d been particularly nice earlier. Adrian didn’t think he’d ever forget the image of Sophia, stark naked, jumping over his couch and landing like some sort of jungle cat beside Twombley. No wonder the man had trouble taking his eyes off her. She was magnificent—clothed or not.
They slowed, and Adrian peered out the curtains then called, “Here, Jackson.” He’d wanted to avoid the gazes of those heading home from the theater or a ball, so he’d instructed the coachman to leave them in a side alley. He’d haul Twombley into the Barbican offices through the back.
Sophia had sent a message to Lord Melbourne, and Adrian hoped his superior was waiting. The Barbican offices were always busy—any time day or night—but Adrian preferred to get this over with quickly rather than standing about enduring the curious glances of the discreet Barbican staff.
He yanked Twombley out of the carriage and helped Sophia descend. Before they even reached the Barbican’s secret back door, Blue stepped out of the shadows. “Looks as though you’ve had a busy night.” He peered closely at Twombley. “Is that blood seeping through his coat?”
“Flesh wound,” Sophia said. “It probably needs to be bandaged.”
She was trying to coddle the prisoner again. Before she offered him tea and scones, Adrian asked, “Where is Melbourne?”
“On his way.” Blue gestured for them to follow him, but to Adrian’s surprise, he headed away from the Barbican’s offices. “He dispatched me to take charge of your package.”
“Where are we going?” Sophia asked, and Adrian remembered why he liked having her around.
“Private offices.” Blue extracted a key from his yellow coat—bloody hell, the man had the worst taste in fashion—and slipped it into a nondescript door just down from the Barbican’s secret door. The first door opened into a small passageway with several additional doors. Blue took a second key and unlocked the door farthest from them. He gestured them inside then followed.
They stood in a dark corridor, but Blue lifted a lamp, lit it, and Adrian studied the bare white walls and closed white doors. Using yet a third key, Blue opened another door. A fire already burned in the hearth of what appeared to be a library.
“Wait here,” Blue ordered. “I’ll take care of…”
“Mr. Twombley,” Sophia offered.
She stepped into the library, and Adrian followed reluctantly. He wanted to see what Blue was doing with their man. Blue shut the door behind them, and Sophia made a circuit of the room. It held shelves of books, the cheery fireplace, and a small desk. The desk was clear, and Adrian didn’t note any personal effects whatsoever.
“I’ve never been here,” Sophia said.
“Neither have I.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Really? I thought you knew everything about the Barbican group. I only just met Melbourne the other day. He usually sent my assignments via Blue or an encrypted document.”
“Encrypted? You break codes?”
“Of course,” she said as though everyone did.
Blue opened the door and entered alone.
“Where’s Twombley?”
“Secure,” Blue said. “You can have him back when you want him.” Blue crossed to the desk and opened a drawer. He set three wine glasses and a bottle on the desk.
“How is Twombley’s arm?” Sophia asked.
“Flesh wound, as you said. Wine?”
“A little. We need to call on Millie Jenkinson in a few hours.”
Adrian nodded when Blue offered him a glass. “What do you know about the Maîtriser group?”
Blue sipped his wine. “I know of the group. Is Twombley a member?”
“We believe so, but it’s going to take a bit of effort to get any information out of him.”
“You can break both of his legs, but he won’t talk.” Blue took a seat on a cream-colored chair. It was the only furnishing that didn’t clash with his yellow coat and green breeches. “He’d rather die than talk.”
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Adrian tensed. He saw Sophia draw in a breath and tighten her grip on her reticule. Who knew what weapons she had secreted inside?
The library door opened, and Melbourne stood in the opening. He was dressed impeccably, but the shadow of a beard indicated it had been a long day for him as well. Adrian ran a hand over his own stubble.
“This had better be worth it,” Melbourne growled. “My wife is not pleased, and when she’s not pleased, I’m not pleased.”
“A man broke into my library tonight,” Adrian said. “Agent Saint and I caught him.”
“So?” Melbourne marched forward, and Blue, who had risen and returned to the desk upon Melbourne’s arrival, handed him a glass of wine. Melbourne drank it in one swallow. “I don’t wake you every time someone breaks into my home.”
“Does that happen often?” Sophia asked.
Melbourne gave her a dark look.
“We have reason to believe this man”—Adrian interrupted—“he says his name is Twombley, is part of the Maîtriser group.”
Melbourne gave him a hard look and sat behind the desk. “Go on.”
“I need information about the group, where it’s headquartered, who leads it.”
The silence in the room stretched. The fire crackled, and somewhere a horse and carriage clopped by.
“I thought you were working on the Liverpool assignment.”
“We are.”
Melbourne closed his eyes. Then quite suddenly he rose, slammed his fist down, and cursed. “How can the Maîtriser group be involved?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir,” Sophia ventured.
“Liverpool is going to have my head,” Melbourne muttered, taking the wine Blue poured for him. “You know what this means, don’t you?” He glared at Adrian.
“Yes. Jenkinson was selling them something, probably information, but we need the proof before we go to Liverpool.”
“Oh, you need more than proof,” Melbourne said. “You need to be damn sure—more sure than you’ve ever been in your life—before you accuse the prime minister’s brother of being a traitor.”
“Then we need to find this Maîtriser group,” Sophia said, moving to stand beside Adrian. He resisted putting an arm about her waist, because he knew she wouldn’t like it, but he couldn’t help feeling protective of her. He didn’t want her involved in this. He wanted her safe at home, and he knew if she was the kind of woman who stayed safely at home, he wouldn’t be in love with her.
“And you think I know where they are?” Melbourne asked, voice defiant. “If I knew that, Foncé and his thugs would be dead.”
“Foncé is the leader?” Adrian asked.
“That’s our most recent information, but it’s over a year old,” Blue informed them. “The agent watching the Maîtriser group was found dead in Nice right after his report was filed. His throat had been slashed, and his body had been marked.”
“With an M?” Adrian asked. “The same way Jenkinson’s was marked.”
“What?” Melbourne shook his head. “I have no record of that.”
“Liverpool didn’t want to discuss the details. We had to coax it from the valet, who, by the way, was so scared he’s probably long gone by now.”
“Smart man,” Blue said. “The Maîtriser group is dangerous. Over the years, we’ve assigned half a dozen operatives to them. All have ended up dead or missing.”
Adrian definitely wanted Sophia home now.
“You don’t have to continue,” Melbourne said. “You can tell Liverpool your efforts were unsuccessful. I’ll support you.”
“And give up the position in the Barbican group?” Sophia shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“I’ve never failed at a mission yet,” Adrian pointed out. “I’m not going to quit.”
“That’s an admirable record, Agent Wolf.” Melbourne toasted him with the glass of wine. “But this isn’t worth dying over.”
“And how many more agents will die if we give up now?” Sophia asked. “Is it worth it to bring some justice to the dead? We can’t allow the Maîtriser group to go on unpunished.”
No one spoke for a long moment. Adrian saw Blue and Melbourne exchange a look. Finally, Melbourne said, “All right. Here’s what you’re going to do.”
***
“Mrs. Jenkinson is not at home,” the butler told them before Sophia could even speak her request. It was obvious he’d dressed quickly. His cravat was askew and his shirt still untucked under his coat.
“Is she with Linden?” Adrian demanded.
The butler’s brows flew up. “My lord. It is not even seven in the morning. If you would deign to call later at a decent hour, I assure you—”
Adrian pushed the door open, and though the butler tried to stand his ground, he moved back when Adrian towered over him. Sophia almost felt sorry for the servant who was only doing as he ought.
But then Adrian and his brute ways saved her quite a bit of time. If she had been alone, she would have had to talk her way in. Besides, watching Adrian flex his muscles made her heart beat just a little harder. “I’m afraid Lord Smythe will not be deterred from his purpose this morning,” she told the butler. “Is Mrs. Jenkinson in her bed? If so, I will go ahead and make sure she is presentable.”
The butler didn’t speak, and Adrian shoved him aside, starting for the steps.
“Sir! You can’t go up there!”
Adrian ignored him, and Sophia followed. She patted the man’s shoulder as she passed him. “You made a valiant effort.”
“Which door?” Adrian asked when they’d reached the second floor.
“I think it might be that one.” Sophia pointed. “The one Mr. Linden just came out of, brandishing his walking stick.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Linden, dressed only in a woman’s robe, waved the stick and barreled down the corridor.
Adrian gave her a look. “Do you want to handle this, or should I?”
While sparring with Linden might be a good deal of fun, her gown was new, and she didn’t want to risk dirtying it. “You take him. I’ll find her.”
Adrian nodded and started forward. Linden swung at him, and Adrian caught the stick, using the momentum to force Linden against the wall.
“Thank you!” Sophia squeezed by, leaving thumps and the sound of a painting crashing to the floor behind her. She entered Millie’s bedroom, and following her instinct, ducked and rolled. The vase Millie had been holding crashed against the dresser beside her.
“Oh!”
Sophia looked up and saw Millie had her hands to her mouth.
“Lady Smythe! I thought you were an attacker.”
Sophia rose to her feet. “Reasonable assumption. Lord Smythe is just disarming Mr. Linden. He’ll be here shortly, if you want to take a moment to dress.” She was clutching the sheet to her bare body. Behind her the large bed looked rumpled and well used.
“Yes.” Millie looked about, appearing confused.
“I think Mr. Linden borrowed your dressing gown. Do you have another?”
“I—ah—”
Sophia went to the dressing room, opened the clothespress, and pulled out a mantle. “Here.” She handed it to Millie. “Put this on.”
Keeping the sheet about her, Millie donned the mantle as Adrian walked into the room. “Where’s Randall?”
Adrian raised his brows. “You don’t really
want to speak of this in front of him, do you?”
Millie swallowed. “No.”
“May I?” Adrian gestured to a dainty chair before a dressing table, and without waiting for permission, turned it backward and sat. It would have looked ridiculous—such a large man straddling such a small, delicate chair—if it had been anyone but Adrian. Instead, he looked formidable and more than a little enticing.
Sophia swallowed her lust and turned to the objective at hand. “Millie, we need to ask you—”
“She knows why we’re here,” Adrian said. “Are you going to make Lady Smythe go through a charade, or are you going to tell us what we want to know?”
“Lord Liverpool went through all of George’s papers. I gave him full access to the library.” She clutched the mantle to her throat.
“But that wasn’t all of your husband’s papers, was it, Mrs. Jenkinson?”
“N-no. There were others hidden in his bedroom. I thought about giving them to Robert, but I was scared. Callows was scared. He said we should destroy them.”
“Tell me you didn’t destroy them,” Sophia said.
Millie’s face fell, and tears welled in her eyes. “What else was I to do? Callows was afraid. I was afraid. I didn’t want them to come back and hurt me or the baby.”
“Who?” Adrian asked. “What did the papers say?”
Millie closed her eyes, pressed her fingertips to them. “There were numbers.”
“Don’t play with me, Millie.”
Millie cast an appealing glance at Sophia, who gave her no sympathy.
“All right. They were amounts owed. George was collecting money from someone. He’d made a list of the amounts owed and when each was paid.”
“Who was paying him?”
Millie shook her head. “The only name I saw was Foncé. I don’t even know if that’s a name or a place.”
Sophia felt her heart thump against her ribs. They’d been right. Dear God, they’d been right. What would have happened to Millie had she turned those papers over?
“Last question,” Adrian said. “What was your husband collecting money for?”
Millie shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”