Benedict shot him a wry glance. “You know, Roderick, few members of the peerage are privileged to employ a man such as yourself. I can well imagine Lord Partridge’s butler speaking to him in such…deferential tones.”
“Lord Partridge doesn’t spend his life roaming deserts and the stinking alleys of London trying to get himself killed.”
“And I am to infer that my conduct concerns you?”
Roderick’s expression was appropriately somber. “Of course it does. If something were to happen to you, I am not likely to find an employer who pays as well and doesn’t live under his own roof for fifty weeks out of the year.”
“A touching sentiment, indeed.” Benedict bit back a grin. “I sense you will not leave me in peace until I disclose what is on my mind.”
“It has something to do with Miss Quinn, doesn’t it?”
Resting his elbows on his knees, Benedict stared up at the butler. “What in blazes would give you that idea?”
“Call it a hunch.”
Benedict shrugged. He damned well wasn’t going to reveal to his impertinent butler that he’d kissed his former fiancée, and he certainly had no intention of mentioning how much he’d enjoyed it.
“Roderick, tell me this—how did you manage to stay in my father’s good graces all those years? He had little patience for…directness.”
“I found it far easier to hold my tongue. Truth be told, I did not give a farthing if that man lived or died,” Roderick said, ever blunt. “I cannot say the same of you.”
Benedict pondered the butler’s words. “If I were a better man, I would take offense at an affront to my father’s memory.”
Roderick hiked a brow. “Consider yourself lucky you’ve got an honest man working for you.”
“Honesty, eh? Is that what they call it now?”
“You’re not going to tell me what’s troubling you, are you?”
“No.” Benedict slowly shook his head. “Not yet, at least. A butler worth his salt would see to it that I had some food in my belly before launching into an interrogation.”
“I’ve already thought of that, Lord Marlsbrook.” Was it Benedict’s imagination, or did the man sound even more insolent when he addressed him by his title than when he responded in far cruder terms?
“Have you now?” Benedict asked.
“Mrs. Hannaford is in the kitchen. I’ve asked her to prepare your breakfast.”
Benedict flashed a grin. “What would I ever do without you?”
“I shudder at the very notion,” the man said as he strolled from the room, abandoning Benedict to his thoughts.
…
The office on the Strand that served as the headquarters of the Colton Agency was for all intents and purposes exceedingly ordinary, a plain brick structure, like so many other buildings that housed London’s businesses. As Alex and her sister approached the agency’s headquarters, Alex was struck by the utter drabness of the building. How very ironic that the sophisticated detective service helmed by her brother-in-law was housed in such a bland location. Indeed, it seemed a form of camouflage for the agency. Those who passed by the office’s dull exterior every day had no way of knowing the very unique—and dangerous—nature of the Colton Agency’s investigations.
As the carriage slowed to a stop, Alex marveled at the chain of events that had led Jennie to this place in life. Had it been only two years since Jennie’s daring undercover investigation of a crime lord had led her to fall for the kingpin’s top lieutenant? The former Yardman had been dubbed The Sinister Inspector by the Herald. But Jennie had seen through the facade Matthew Colton had erected to the good, courageous man he was. At the time, Alex had been in Cairo, assisting Professor Stockwell with the cataloging of relics from the Valley of the Kings, but she’d returned in the nick of time to witness Jennie and Matthew speak their vows. Shortly after their marriage, Matthew and Jennie established the exclusive detective service at the behest of the Home Secretary. While they handled select cases of a more typical nature, if only to keep up the illusion that they were an ordinary detective service, the majority of their investigations explored matters of particular interest to the Crown.
Currently, the death of Sir Clayton Finch fit that description. A decorated military officer and explorer of the subcontinent, Sir Clayton had been counted among the queen’s favorite acquaintances. His untimely demise had stirred the interest of leaders at the highest levels of government. The Colton Agency had been tasked with determining the true circumstances of his death and ensuring that justice was done.
Earlier that morning, Matthew Colton and another top figure in the organization, MacAlister Campbell, had requested a meeting. Jennie had not gone into detail, but her sister had warned Alex that the men wanted to enlist her services as an agent of the organization.
“Do not allow them to intimidate you,” her sister had warned as they rode in the Colton’s sleek brougham carriage. “You’ve never been in the midst of an investigation. If you wish to decline their proposal, you will have my full support.”
Surprised at the concern in Jennie’s tone, Alex shot her sister a glance beneath her lashes. Did Jennie regard her as a dull bluestocking, content to live a life filled with papyruses and hieroglyphics? Alex had assisted on certain cases in the past. Did Jennie believe Alex would not prove up to this particular task?
She hiked a brow as she lowered her voice. “Am I to understand you do not feel I am capable of going into the field?”
“Of course I believe you are capable,” Jennie answered, perhaps a bit too quickly. “But ability is not the only factor here. I am not entirely comfortable exposing you to a situation that could prove quite dangerous. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”
“Given the risks you’ve taken going undercover for the Herald, I am surprised you would experience such misgivings. I’ve no doubt the dangers I might encounter in an investigation would pale in comparison to the menaces you’ve faced.”
“I suppose it’s different when you’re the observer, worrying over a loved one who might be putting herself in harm’s way,” Jennie explained.
“Indeed,” Alex agreed. “I cannot tell you how many nights Mother lost sleep over your exploits.”
At that, Jennie merely smiled and dismissed their mother’s concerns, but Alex knew better. Her sister had stared down a variety of threats through the course of her inquiries. When she’d first met Matthew, she had been immersed in an investigation fraught with danger. But they’d come through the ordeal, finding an enduring love in the process.
“Rest assured, I shall carefully evaluate whatever proposal Matthew offers.” Even as she spoke, Alex grew more eager to take on whatever challenge he might have in mind. She was not a stuffy academic. She was a Quinn, after all.
Upon entering the offices, they were greeted by the agency’s secretary, Miss Ada Everett. While new to the position, Miss Everett had quickly become a valued member of the organization.
Matthew Colton greeted her with considerably more warmth than he’d demonstrated in Benedict’s presence. Of course, his simmering hostility to Benedict was not surprising. She’d no doubt Jennie had shared the details of Alex’s youthful heartbreak.
MacAlister Campbell stood beside an elaborately carved desk. Tall and broad shouldered, his dark hair sprinkled with gray, Campbell was an attractive man, despite the sadness in his eyes that lent a perpetually somber appearance.
“I am sure that by now, Jennie has explained that we’d like to bring you aboard as an operative of this agency. Do you have any thoughts on the prospect of entering Her Majesty’s service?” Matthew was direct.
“I’d never considered such an endeavor, but I am willing to do my part.”
He gave a thoughtful nod as Campbell placed a valise on the desk. “We were hoping you’d say that. We believe your unique knowledge will prove to be useful to an investigation of great importance to Her Majesty.”
“Miss Quinn, we understand that Lord Ma
rlsbrook intervened when Rooney attacked you in your residence. What else do you know of Marlsbrook’s recent return to London?” Campbell asked.
“Very little, really. He explained his presence in the city last night—Marlsbrook left Egypt because he had reason to believe Rooney would come after me.”
“Did he explain how he came upon that information?” Campbell pressed.
“Our mentor, Professor Stockwell, confided his concerns to Benedict…to Lord Marlsbrook.”
Matthew Colton paced the room restlessly. “Do you believe him?”
Something in his tone she couldn’t quite define triggered an internal alarm. “I have no reason not to.”
“We suspect he has not told you the full truth,” Colton said. “You are in danger, Alexandra, and we must find out why. Marlsbrook’s inquiries since he’s returned to London indicate he’s come back for a reason other than watching over you. He’s after something.”
“He was trailing that vile man named Rooney,” Alex said.
“There is more to this story. Of that, I have no doubt,” Colton went on. “I take it you are aware of the deaths connected with him—and with Professor Stockwell.”
“Yes, I have been informed. Quite tragic.”
“At this time, we suspect Marlsbrook is a target. But we cannot rule him out as a conspirator in the crimes.”
“That cannot be,” Alex said with a gasp. “You cannot possibly believe he has played a role in these deaths.”
Colton’s expression was grim. “Marlsbrook is after something. The man came to your defense. That much cannot be disputed. But there is a complication you should be aware of—I tell you this in the strictest confidence…this can go no further than this room. One of the men who died, an Egyptian with Stockwell’s expedition, was working for the Crown.”
“Good heavens—the professor’s guide.”
Jennie’s forehead creased in confusion. “You know of him?”
Alex nodded slowly, composing her thoughts. “Marlsbrook spoke of him—of his death.”
“The agent was gathering intelligence on a cadre of smugglers operating out of Cairo,” Colton explained. “If Marlsbrook was involved with the criminals, he would have had motive to silence him.”
She dragged in a steadying breath. “Benedict is not a murderer.”
Colton’s dark eyes narrowed. “What did Marlsbrook tell you about the dead man?”
“There were symbols left behind…as the Egyptian lay dying. Marlsbrook gave me a photograph that depicts the glyphs. He’s asked me to interpret them.”
Jennie frowned. “Why didn’t you share this with us?”
“I’d no idea if the image was genuine. Given the circumstances, I needed time to make sense of it all.”
“I trust you will provide the photograph to our agents,” Jennie said, her mouth taut as a seam.
Alex cocked her chin. Her sister’s slightly imperious tone chafed like a too-tight collar. “In due time. After I’ve completed my analysis.”
“I’ve little doubt it’s real,” Colton said. “One of our agents in Egypt obtained a rendering of the symbols. We will need to compare it with the photograph in your possession.”
“That goes without saying,” Alex replied.
“It is unlikely that Marlsbrook played a part in the killing, but his behavior is out of character and, frankly, suspicious,” Campbell said. “He plans to involve you in his scheme, whatever it might be. I presume you are aware he has secured passage for you.”
“He asked me to come to Egypt with him. It goes without saying that I did not agree,” Alex said, folding her arms in indignation.
“By involving you, he widened the net of suspicion,” Colton said. “There are some who might speculate that you are a part of his scheme”
“Come now, Matthew.” Her sister’s voice took on a crisp edge. “You know that is not the case.”
“Of course,” Colton agreed. “But the fact remains that you are in danger, Alexandra. At this point, there’s no way to know if the person who engineered these killings is in Egypt. Rooney’s taunts lead me to believe the murderer may now be in England. If Marlsbrook is not involved in the crimes, his safety is at risk whether he is in Cairo or London. If the man leaves the country, we will not be able to protect him.”
“What is it you wish me to do? Convince him to stay in London…with me?”
“Precisely.” Matthew Colton set his jaw in a hard line. “It is imperative that we learn what Marlsbrook is after and what he knows of the deaths. And who better to glean that information from the man than you?”
Chapter Nine
Alex paced before the cheval mirror in her bedchamber, questioning her resolve and, to a lesser degree, her sanity. Why had she allowed herself to be brought into this scheme? Heaven knew she’d never counted deception as a talent. Of course, Colton’s plan would not call for her to lie. Not directly, at least, though the thought of leading Benedict on left a bitter taste in her mouth. But her reservations were of little consequence. She had to find out what he knew. She prayed she’d learn enough to clear him of the suspicion that hovered over him.
Pity the subtle deceit would put her in close proximity to her former fiancé. If only she were indifferent to him. But the truth of the matter was quite the opposite. She couldn’t deny how she’d responded to his touch. To his kiss. Her instincts had gotten the better of her. Longing for the most elemental contact with Benedict had overruled her good sense, traitor that her body was. She knew better than to give in to the hunger.
How could she hope to maintain an emotional distance while pretending to go along with his scheme?
She stopped her pacing long enough to re-pin a curl that had toppled loose from her coiffure. Such a bother. Ordinarily, she did not give a fig about her appearance. A rebellious tendril was the least of her worries, especially given the unsettling reality that another killer might be lurking about London with her in his sights.
She’d selected a skirt and jacket in a deep green hue, trimmed with black braid and a soft touch of lace at the collar. Perfectly prim. Perfectly proper. After all, it wasn’t as if she had any intention of launching an appeal to Benedict’s senses. He required her assistance. She’d provide him that.
And little else.
She’d keep her head about her this time. After all, she’d been unprepared the night before. From the brutish Rooney’s intrusion to Benedict’s arrival—playing the hero, no less—she’d been caught flat-footed.
But this was different.
Now, she knew what she was dealing with.
She knew Benedict.
Didn’t she?
Was he the same man he’d been eight years before—or had his time away from London left him quite thoroughly jaded? Had his pursuit of wealth by any means necessary left him indelibly hardened?
He was still utterly arrogant. That much had not changed. She smiled to herself. And his touch…ah, that had been the same, much to her chagrin. So very warm. Filled with a power he held tightly leashed. Heat simmered beneath the deliberate coolness of his demeanor. Once, she’d longed for him to cast aside that practiced reserve. Now, she sensed he was close to breaking free of the self-imposed restraints. The realization conjured a decidedly unwise anticipation deep within her.
Wanting Benedict was not a part of her task.
She’d be well-advised to keep her head about her, to keep him at arm’s length. If she became vulnerable to him—that could end in only one way.
And she would not have her heart shattered again.
Not by Benedict.
Not by any man.
She knew better than to even contemplate the thought.
Selecting an alabaster cameo from her jewelry chest, she pinned the piece she’d long cherished at her throat. Her grandmother had given her the small adornment upon her sixteenth birthday.
Be true to yourself, my darling girl. Her grandmother’s words whispered in her thoughts. As she entered the world of deceptio
n her sister and brother-in-law had become so well acquainted with through their service to the Crown, she’d do well to hold that wisdom close to her heart.
She had no intention of lying to Benedict. She’d disclose the facts that best served her purposes and induce him to reveal what he knew of the murderous path that wound its way back to him.
Shortly after her meeting with Colton and Jennie, she’d sent a courier to Benedict’s residence relaying a request for a meeting. He would soon arrive.
She cast another glance in the mirror, assessing her appearance one final time before she decided she was prepared. On some level, in a way she could not entirely describe, she felt as if she were heading off to battle.
Perhaps she was.
…
Benedict arrived at Alexandra’s townhouse within an hour of receiving her brief missive. At least he was entering through the front door this time. The night before, he’d slipped through a rear window. Not that doing so had proven to be a challenge. Come to think of it, he’d have to speak to her about locking the windows to keep out unsavory sorts—much like himself.
Standing at the entry, he stared curiously at the intricately wrought brass knocker. He would not have expected her to select such an elaborate adornment for her residence. She’d always been rather modest in her tastes. Rather surprising that the door boasted a gleaming replica of a panther’s head that seemed crafted to inspire conversation.
A grim-faced man whose craggy features bore the scars of hard living strolled along the pavement. If the bloke intended to appear to be a disinterested passerby, he’d failed miserably at his task. His pale eyes locked on Benedict, taking him in as if assessing a threat. One of Colton’s agents, no doubt. Did Matthew Colton recruit his organization’s operatives from the bare-knuckled brawlers sparring in London’s underbelly?
As the operative loitered by a lamppost, keeping Benedict in his sights, a willow-thin matron dressed in a crisp, dark dress and white apron came to the door. So, the Quinns’ housekeeper had now taken up residence in Alex’s home. Mrs. Thomas, if memory served.
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