When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service)

by Tara Kingston

  “I understand you feel a duty to ensure my safety. Since the incident at the tavern, you’ve appointed yourself the protector of defenseless women.”

  He tore his attention from her mouth. Defenseless? Jennie was as defenseless as a black widow spider. But no weapon she possessed would protect her from what might lay ahead.

  Her clever eyes studied him beneath the veil of her lashes. “Until tonight, Mr. Colton.”

  …

  The fading light of day cast a somber gray haze over the boardinghouse that served as Jennie’s London residence. In truth, its weathered brick was not so different from that which had stood the test of time on the stately country manor in which she’d spent her formative years. Of course, that was where any resemblance ended.

  Her family’s ancestral home boasted sprawling grounds, a lush green landscape dappled with wildflowers, and trees that had taken root centuries before Queen Victoria ruled the land. Jennie missed the freshness of the air, the smell of evergreens, the quiet of the meadow. And the library. Her heart pinched as she pictured herself curled by the fireplace in one of the overstuffed chairs. How delightful it would be to while away pleasant hours in that grand room once again.

  It was there that she’d first encountered her father’s former student, Macalister Campbell. Youthful and brash, he’d held Jennie spellbound with tales of his investigations, the dangers he’d faced head on in pursuit of facts he’d weave into riveting accounts in the pages of the Herald. She’d been a girl then, still under the tutelage of her reed-thin governess, Miss Simmons, but even then, Jennie knew she’d found her calling. She’d longed for the adventures young Mr. Campbell had recounted with gusto, yearned to ferret out elusive truths and expose crime and evil using the power of her clever pen.

  Against the odds, she’d succeeded. Her investigative reports had righted wrongs that had been ignored by decent folk smug in their comfortable homes. Her exposés had met with smashing success. Even if her readers could never know that she was the reporter behind the byline.

  Of course, Mama and Papa had worried so. Especially in the early days, when she was naïve and far too trusting. But Campbell had guided her. Protective as an older brother, he was. At times, that inclination of his to guard her seemed yet another obstacle. But she treasured the fact that beneath his gruff manner, he’d been a true mentor. Above all, he knew her capabilities. Her intellect. And he’d shown her a rare, ungrudging respect.

  Her mind’s wanderings conjured a renewed longing for the place she’d loved for so many years. She’d soon return home for a visit, after she’d seen justice for Mary. For now, she had only her memories of Larkspur Manor to comfort her.

  Staring up at the rows of curtained windows, she dashed off a silent plea to heaven that she’d make it to her room without catching the owner’s attention. Mrs. O’Brien fed her appetite for tasty bits and pieces of gossip with ravenous gusto, all in the name of keeping a protective eye on the women who roomed in her building. No point adding to the crafty widow’s abundant larder of scandalous tidbits.

  Pressing gently against the unlatched door, Jennie slipped inside and made it to the second floor landing. Hinges in desperate need of oiling screeched as a door at the far end of the corridor opened.

  Drat!

  A wraith of a woman in a lemon yellow dress stood with arms akimbo. Mrs. O’Brien’s sharp gaze darted over Jennie. Peculiar, how very much the matron resembled the budgie she kept caged in her parlor.

  Jennie forced a smile. There was no avoiding the woman now. Best to get it over with.

  “Busy as always, Mrs. O’Brien?”

  “There’s always work t’ be done. That no-good Polly Fletcher left a room full o’filth behind. An utter disgrace, I tell ye.”

  “How unfair that you’re left to clean up her mess.”

  The older woman’s eyes narrowed to pinpricks. “I always knew that girl was trouble. Out with a new gentleman each night. Some of ’em married, too.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “One of ’er admirers arranged a flat nearer to ’is residence. She likes t’pretend she’s all ’igh and mighty.” Mrs. O’Brien snorted under her breath. “Nothin’ but a pox-ridden strumpet, I tell you.”

  “Well, in that case, good riddance. You’ve no need for her kind.”

  “’Tis a wonder all the hairs on my head haven’t gone white as snow, worryin’ over you girls like I do.” Mrs. O’Brien patted the salt-and-pepper strands she’d piled in a messy bun for emphasis. “Could be worse, I s’pose. My Bert provided for me when ’e bought this house. Mr. O’Brien always was clever. He was a good man, in ’is way. That’s what ye need, my dear. A good man.”

  “A good man is exceedingly rare these days.”

  The matron waved away Jennie’s words with a bony hand. “Poppycock. Men ’ave always ’ad their wicked ways. It’s a woman’s job to lead ’em from their lustful urges.”

  Jennie toyed with the lace on her sleeve. Her encounter with Matthew Colton had confirmed she harbored no desire for a man without lustful urges. Evidently, she’d grown a bit wicked herself. “A tall order, indeed.”

  “I pray ye find yerself a man like my Bert,” Mrs. O’Brien prattled on. “A pretty girl like you doesn’t need t’ settle for toting ale t’ no-good wastrels who strip you bare wit’ their filthy eyes.”

  Unlike Mr. O’Brien, whose weak heart had given out in a doxy’s bed. The matron’s reminiscences of her dearly departed husband took on a far different tone after she’d partaken of a glass or two of sherry.

  Jennie offered her sweetest smile. “I’ve enjoyed our little chat, but I’m afraid I’ve developed a bit of a headache. I’m going to take a short rest before I’m off to the Lancaster.”

  Mrs. O’Brien gave her head a weary shake. “I’ll give thanks when yer days at that sinful place—”

  A screech erupted, high-pitched and pitiful. A fresh-faced girl bolted up the stairs as though she’d been chased by some unseen menace. Ruddy blotches stained Fannie Holt’s pale cheeks.

  “Mrs. O’Brien, come quick. There’s an evil hound runnin’ amok.” The words tumbled from her lips. “It started after me, but I was too quick for the vile creature. It has the devil’s eyes, I tell ye. Don’t you hear it growlin’ even now?”

  “Calm down, ye daft girl. Of course I hear it.” A sly grin brightened the matron’s careworn features. “That’s Barney, my terrier. All that fuss over a little dog.”

  Fannie scowled. “He’s a vicious little beast, he is. All teeth and growls.” She held out a leg and hiked her skirts to her calf. “Why, the scrawny runt nipped my shoes. These were new, I’ll ’ave ye know.”

  Mrs. O’Brien matched the girl’s scowl and shooed her away. “Let me ask ye this, girlie—’ave ye seen a rat in this place? Ever?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Ye’ve Barney t’ thank for that. Why, I’ll ’ave you know ’is sire was bred by the queen’s own rat catcher ’imself.”

  Fannie turned in a huff. “I don’t care what ye say. That mutt’s a vicious little beast. Be careful of ’im, Jennie.” She wrung her hands, the gesture as theatrical as the exaggeration of her indrawn breath. “I’m not going back down there ’til you do something with ’im. My shoes ’ave suffered enough for one day.”

  “Actresses,” Mrs. O’Brien muttered as she trudged wearily down the stairs. “A bunch of milksops, the lot of you.”

  Jennie bit back a laugh, thanked Providence she’d been blessed with a reprieve from the matron’s sage counsel, and rushed up the stairs to her room. Her hat was the first thing to go. It landed with a little thud on the bedside table. She sank into a chair and tugged at her shoelaces. Fifteen minutes of solitude. That was all she wanted. All she needed.

  A soft rapping at the door intruded on the silence. Jennie stilled. Perhaps if she ignored the taps, Mrs. O’Brien might go back to her yapping little dog.

  “It’s Sophie,” her assistant called softly.

&nbs
p; Jennie sighed. “It’s unlocked. Please let yourself in.”

  Sophie entered the chamber, her eyes bright with excitement. “I’ve learned something most intriguing.” The words gushed out in what was likely intended to be a whisper before she’d even closed the door behind her.

  Jennie’s mouth tensed with an annoyance she made no attempt to hide. By Athena’s garter, when would Sophie accept that discretion was needed at all times, in all settings? True, she was young. But at twenty-two, only three years Jennie’s junior, her assistant had been taught some matters were not to be openly discussed.

  “Sophie, the walls have ears.”

  The walls. And Mrs. O’Brien.

  “I’m sorry.” The door shut with a click of the latch. The gleam in Sophie’s eyes showed no sign of dimming as Jennie ushered her to the settee. “This is a most exciting development. Ever so much more intriguing than that dreadful charity ball I covered in your place. Watching plants grow would have proven more invigorating.”

  “Do you plan to enlighten me, or pout about the ball?”

  “Both.” Sophie held out a folded scrap of paper. “See for yourself.”

  Jennie lifted the vellum from Sophie’s palm. Fine linen. High quality. A working man—or woman—would not waste hard-earned coin on such a luxury.

  A single sentence, etched in a precise, masculine hand.

  Mary was not the first to die at the Emperor’s command.

  Jennie shuttered her gaze and drew a long, steadying breath.

  The Emperor. Claude Harwick.

  Dear God.

  “Do you have any idea who sent this?”

  Sophie shook her head. “It came through the post. There’s no way to trace it.”

  Jennie rubbed her temples. This all seemed a puzzle, its pieces scattered about so haphazardly, she’d no doubt some had gone missing.

  “Apparently, we’re not the only ones who wish to see Mary’s killer brought to justice. Someone knows who murdered her. And from the looks of this, he’s well-to-do.”

  “Another paramour?” Sophie ventured.

  “That’s likely the case. But whoever it is has knowledge of Harwick and his dealings. If we can ferret out the sender’s identity, we may be able to convince him to tell us what he knows.”

  …

  Matthew wet a cloth and toweled the blood from his knuckles. He rubbed the damp rag over his broken skin as he glanced at his shirt sleeves. Crimson spatters marred the white linen. He shrugged, dried his hands, and refastened his cuffs. His charcoal gray sack coat would conceal the stains.

  He was tired, he was hungry, and he’d had a hell of a day. Staring at his fists, he had one consolation—the man whose blood splattered his shirt had fared considerably worse in the altercation at the dockside tavern than he had. The hulking barkeeper had learned a hard lesson when Matthew flattened him and walked out with the payment he’d come to claim. Likely, the overgrown sot did not realize how fortunate he’d been that Matthew had taken it upon himself to go after the blunt. After all, the man was still alive to seek solace from an open bottle. If another of Harwick’s men had gone to collect the debt, the barkeep might’ve wound up in the morgue.

  Dragging in a breath, he stared down at his fingers. Jennie would notice the breaks in the skin over his knuckles, the signs he’d used his fists against another man. She’d draw back with a look of disapproval her carefully schooled features couldn’t conceal.

  Why do I give a damn?

  She was a beauty. There was no denying that. Enticing eyes. Lush mouth. Dark auburn hair so tempting, he had to clench his hands to keep from weaving his fingers through the silky strands. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d savored the subtle scent of a woman’s clean, unperfumed body, or sought the challenge in eyes sparkling with intelligence. A woman like Jennie would tempt a man to the end of his days.

  He gave his head a rueful shake. Only a damned fool gets worked up over a woman he can never have. Christ, he didn’t even know who she really was. None of his contacts had ever heard of Jennie Danvers. The barmaid had a secret, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  If he had any sense, he’d toss her out on her pretty bum the next time he caught her honeying up to the clientele and let fate have its way. Odds were, it would, whether he played the hero or not. Fate had certainly triumphed when he’d tried to prevent the events of that bloody night years earlier. Matthew’s world had collapsed around him, and he’d fallen into an abyss from which there was only one escape.

  Matthew loaded his revolver, tucked it into the back of his trousers, and arranged his jacket so the bulge didn’t show. Blast it all, he was a fool. But that didn’t change anything. He’d do what he had to do. He would not leave Jennie to the darkness. He’d already offered up a good portion of his soul. Damned if he’d surrender what little he still possessed.

  Chapter Six

  Jennie swirled a drying rag over a glass, her thoughts drifting far from the Lancaster’s jovial chaos. Matthew Colton had followed her to the bookseller’s shop. His appearance had been far from a coincidence. At what point had he begun to trail her? Had he spotted her at The Boar’s Head Tavern?

  Glancing up, she met a young barmaid’s wide blue eyes. Lizzy Stewart worried her lip. “Something troubling you, Jennie?”

  “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  Wiping her hands on her skirt, Lizzy sidled closer. The girl’s thin face seemed more pinched than usual. “You seem a bit uneasy, that’s all.”

  Jennie met the barmaid’s observation with a gossip’s whisper. “You see that old sot in the corner?”

  “The one with a ring o’ white hair ’round his head like a bloomin’ crown?”

  Jennie nodded. “The bastard pinched me when I brought him a drink. He’s looked this way twice. I’m trying to pretend I don’t see him.”

  A knowing smile brightened Lizzy’s eyes. “Ah, he’s a wicked one, he is. The bloke’s put ’is grubby paws on me rump more than once. But after what ye did to Duncan Poole, the ol’ devil might think twice ’bout where he puts his hands.” She toyed with a stray ringlet that had escaped the strawberry blond curls piled atop her head. “Will you be all right when I leave? I’ll stay if you need help.”

  “The place is quiet tonight. Only a handful of customers.” Jennie turned to the barkeeper. With Harry gone for the evening, his assistant had matters well in hand. “Paul’s here if I require assistance.”

  The wiry, bespectacled man behind the counter smiled. “Anything for ye, Jennie.”

  She patted Lizzy on the shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Go home.”

  The barmaid nodded and retrieved her serviceable wool cloak from the backroom. The door had scarcely swung shut behind her before the barkeep ambled over to Jennie.

  “I hear ye’ve made Mr. Colton’s acquaintance.” Paul’s voice lowered to a gruff whisper. “Ye need t’watch yerself with the likes of him.”

  The skin on Jennie’s forearms prickled into gooseflesh beneath her white blouse, whether from the barkeep’s uncomfortable proximity or the undercurrent of fear in his voice, she couldn’t be sure. She set a tray of empty glasses on the counter and leaned closer. The barkeep might well prove a reliable source. Perhaps if she played the innocent, Paul would loosen his generally tight lips and give her some information about his employer she could use.

  “Watch myself? Whatever are you talking about?”

  “I don’t mean nothin’ by it, Jennie. It’s just…well, Colton’s a tough one, he is. You don’t want to get on his bad side.” The barkeeper’s gaze plummeted to his scuffed boots. “I saw the way the bloke looked at ye last night. He’s a man who’s used t’gettin’ what he wants.”

  Feigning a nervous swallow, she lowered her voice to a near whisper. “And if he doesn’t?”

  “I can’t speak t’that.” Paul raked a hand through his pomaded salt-and-pepper strands. “Just keep yer distance. That’s all I can tell ye.”

  “You’ve nothing to wo
rry about.” She kept a conspiratorial tone. “I know how to handle a man like him.”

  If only she believed her own words.

  …

  The clock over the bar chimed at the midnight hour. Jennie bustled a round of ale to a trio of elegantly attired gentlemen sprawled around a rear table. Exhaustion permeated her bones to the marrow. Toting heavily laden trays to patrons while tolerating their lecherous comments drained her energy like a slow leak from one of the tavern’s kegs.

  Behind her, the entry creaked open. An icy gust of wind whipped a chill over her back, and she threw a glance over her shoulder. Still no sign of Matthew Colton. A stocky man whose bowler hat teetered precariously on his head shuffled in. The heavy door closed behind him with a thud, and he headed straight for the bar.

  A peculiar blend of disappointment and relief settled over her. After all, every moment in the Inspector’s company was an opportunity to glean information that might prove valuable to her investigation.

  Liar. The word exploded in her brain. The emptiness in her core had nothing to do with a quest for truth. Matthew Colton had stirred a yearning deep within, a sense of hollowness that abated whenever he stood near. She was drawn to him—a man her rational mind insisted she should detest. The man was a criminal of the worst sort. Even if his partner’s blood did not stain his hands, he was Harwick’s lieutenant. He’d established himself as a man to be feared. How was it that she craved his touch? His scent? The smoky notes of his voice?

  Giving her head a little shake as if that could possibly clear the miasma of her thoughts, she carried another tray to a quartet of half-sotted regulars. A thick-fingered paw splayed against her bottom. The uninvited touch jolted her as though the bloke had prodded her with a hot brand.

  The man hiked one bushy brow into a most unappealing question mark. “Why so quick, missy? I know how to treat a lady,” his deep voice slurred.

  Heated words danced on the tip of Jennie’s tongue. She clenched her hands, battling the impulse to dump the contents of a well-filled stein over the uncouth heathen’s head. Dash it all, her years at university had not prepared her for the likes of these inebriated fools. How she itched to give this bloke a proper setdown. If only she did not need every scrap of information she gleaned from the loosened lips of men in their cups, men who knew of London’s violent underbelly and might well know who silenced Mary McDaniel. Pulling in a breath, she whirled around, her skirts swishing around her ankles as she marched back to the bar.