Matthew Colton leaned against the polished wood counter with a lazy grace, watching her approach. How very like him to make his entrance without attracting notice.
His mouth hitched at the corners. He’d no doubt witnessed her latest mauling. “Trouble again, Miss Danvers?”
Averting her gaze, she grabbed a cloth and vigorously wiped down the counter. “It’s been a very quiet night, Mr. Colton.”
He leaned into her, so close the faint aroma of sandalwood filled her senses. His warm breath grazed her nape. She drank in his essence with a deep-seated thirst. Why did his nearness seem so natural, a part of her she hadn’t known to miss?
“Damn the luck. I was looking for an excuse to carry you off again.”
She could hear the smile in his words. Jennie stowed the rag behind the counter and faced him, idly smoothing out the creases in her skirt with her palms.
“Shall I set the gent straight? Teach him a lesson about putting his hand where it doesn’t belong?” Colton’s tone was even. Relaxed. So much so, Jennie suspected he was serious.
“I assure you that is not necessary.”
The hitch at the corner of his mouth intensified to something that might have been a smile. “Of course. You’ve already proven you know how to teach an ill-mannered lout a lesson he won’t soon forget.”
Before she could muster a proper response, Harry stormed through the door. Red-rimmed eyes gleamed, wild and unfocused. What had come over him? The gruff barkeeper was generally unflappable.
Matthew turned to him and clamped a hand over Harry’s thick shoulder. “What’s the meaning of this?”
The big man’s ruddy complexion deepened to a blotchy crimson. His lips moved, but no sound escaped. Finally, a raw whisper emerged.
“The fiend has killed our Lizzy.”
The words seemed a locomotive steaming toward Jennie. She stood frozen. Unable to move. Unable to think. Surely Harry was mistaken. Lizzy had intended to go home to her plain room, throw herself on her bed, and sleep ’til dawn. The barmaid wasn’t an unfortunate who put herself in danger on the streets.
But the shimmer of moisture in Harry’s eyes contradicted her logic. The grim truth was written on his face. Jennie stifled a sob against her palm. “Oh dear God, no.”
Harry wiped his sleeve against his nose. “A horrible death it was. If I get my hands on the bloody butcher—”
Colton shot him a narrow-eyed glare. “Not now, Harry.”
Jennie swiped away a trickle of tears. Colton produced a handkerchief from his jacket and brushed the linen square over her cheeks. “There’s nothing wrong with a lady crying,” he said, the words gentle as his touch.
The entry door swung open. Three boisterous, ruddy-faced men rambled inside. A deep, booming voice cut through the tavern noise. “The murderer damned near cut her head off, he did.”
Jennie felt the room tilt. The words unleashed fresh currents of horror. Memories of Mary McDaniel’s lifeless body flooded her vision. So much blood. A savage wound. Blue eyes staring blindly in mute accusation.
She hadn’t even been able to scream.
Brushing away her teardrops, Colton’s touch lingered. He swept his fingertips over Jennie’s cheek. “Stay here.” He shot Paul a terse glance. “Miss Danvers will be leaving now. You’ll need to shut the place for the night.”
He retrieved her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. “I’m taking you home.”
Her mind numb, Jennie followed his lead from the tavern to a waiting coach. Once inside, she huddled against the bench, wrapping her arms over her chest as if that could shield her from the brutal truth. Matthew’s long legs brushed against her skirt. Eyes focused ahead, a muscle in his jaw working furiously, he was silent in his thoughts. The knot of her arms tightened. She peered through the window into the gaslit night, seeing little but the images of carnage playing in her brain.
Damn and blast! Lizzy was…had been, she corrected herself…an amiable young woman. Surely the barmaid had no enemies. But she’d made no secret of her tastes, of her desire to forge a liaison with a man of wealth. Had her murder been a crime of passion? Or had a more sinister force been at work?
Mary and Lizzy both had ties to the Lancaster. Each had crossed paths with Claude Harwick.
And Matthew Colton.
Jennie turned away from the window, regarding Colton beneath her lashes. There was a weariness about him. His eyes reflected an unspoken misery that mirrored her own. Could he be so skilled at deception? Could he affect this look of barely leashed anger and sorrow, only to be a true villain with a taste for brutality?
In the course of her investigations, Jennie had encountered vile men. A corrupt politician who’d attempted to silence her with his hands on her throat. A doctor at the asylum she’d infiltrated, outwardly benevolent, yet guilty of such neglect and cruelty the memories had haunted Jennie long after her exposé had made the front page. A textile factory owner who had coerced females in his employ to spread their legs lest they lose their only means to put bread in their stomachs. That slimy piece of refuse had been none too pleased with Jennie’s response to his sickening demands. A forceful knee to his bollocks had sent the blighter howling. Ah, the obscenities he’d bellowed.
There were others. Some quite civilized. Others little better than brutes.
Matthew Colton was nothing like those men. After the evil she’d witnessed, shouldn’t she be able to detect duplicity? She saw no malice in Colton’s gaze, heard no threat in his voice, felt no inner warning when he touched her. Of course, her fragile intuition had never been confronted with such primal chemistry. His nearness confounded logic and prudence with an innate hunger that made her heart race and her skin heat.
As the coach ambled up to Mrs. O’Brien’s front steps, he curved an arm around her, drawing Jennie to his solid strength.
“Good night, Jennie.” His voice caressed her name.
Thirsting for the warmth of his touch, she embraced the madness and nestled against him. The steady rhythm of his breaths eased the sickening tension in her belly, leaving in its place a longing far too risky to sate.
Gently, she broke away. “Good night, Mr. Colton.”
“Not yet.” His husky rasp brushed over her lips like a kiss.
His fingertips traced her cheekbones. And then his mouth claimed hers, tenderness and need melding in an intoxicating blend. For a few precious moments, the world and its brutal reality dissolved. There was only Matthew and the comfort of his touch.
His fingertips lingered against her cheek, his mint-scented breath warm against her flesh. Reluctance shadowed his gaze, but he released her. “No matter how much I want to, I can’t forget you’re a lady.”
…
The first rays of morning light invaded Jennie’s room. Twisting the bedcovers around her, she turned from the window with a muttered groan and squeezed her eyes shut. She’d slept so little the night before, her slumber torn by terror-filled dreams.
Each nightmare was the same. Lizzy’s body, cold and lifeless in the police morgue. Side by side with Mary’s corpse. Eyes wide with terror. Mouths moving, yet horrifying in their silence.
Were their muted words in warning? Or bitter accusation?
Steeling herself to confront the day, Jennie dragged herself out of bed and dressed in a charcoal wool traveling skirt and jacket. The fabric’s somber hue suited her mood, mirroring the gray mist shrouding the streets of London.
She darted through the crush of wagons and people until the Boar’s Head’s familiar painted sign beckoned her. Sparing the dour-faced proprietress little more than a passing glance, Jennie marched directly to a table in the far back corner. Pungent smoke wafted to her nostrils.
Blasted Campbell and his bloody obnoxious cigars.
Her editor seemed to read her thoughts. Leaning back against his chair, Campbell indulged in a deep drag off the cheroot. “Good day, Jennie. You’re late. Again.”
“And you…you’re looking well.”
&
nbsp; He offered a slim smile. “Is that your candid opinion?”
“Of course,” she said with a bland little shrug. In truth, she’d seldom seen Campbell look more overdone. The disguises the man concocted were utterly outrageous. Why, he’d aged himself more than two decades.
She’d had to look twice to confirm the features Campbell obscured behind spectacles, bushy muttonchops, and false brows one might have used to dust an armoire were indeed his. And the teeth…my, those gleaming incisors were a bit much, even by his standards. The gap between them might have harbored a family of titmice. But only one who knew the man’s penchant for covert investigations could hope to connect the elderly gentleman at the table with the strapping, athletic editor who ran the Herald as though it were his own personal battalion.
Behind the lenses, his steely eyes narrowed. “Are you going to take a seat? Or are you going to stand there long enough for me to wish you well and send you on your way?”
She slid into a rickety chair across from his. If he thought to intimidate her, he would find himself greatly mistaken. She’d no intention of accepting any edict he decreed, especially not any that involved her termination from the staff he commanded like an overzealous general.
Leaning back in his chair, he eyed her coolly. “I told you I’d sack you. I trust you did not believe I’d spoken the words for my own amusement.”
She waved away his hardened words and stiffened her spine. “If you cut me, I’ll continue on my own and sell the story to the highest bidder. Then, I’ll take a voyage across the pond. I hear Mr. Pulitzer is seeking England’s answer to Nellie Bly.”
What little of Campbell’s complexion she could make out beneath the exaggerated sideburns reddened. “He’s contacted you?”
“That’s privileged information.”
He took another drag on the cigar. “Perhaps Pulitzer would be a better fit for your escapades. In any case, don’t underestimate me. I meant what I said.”
“Enough of these pleasantries.” She leaned closer, her voice whisper-soft. “What do you know about Elizabeth Stewart’s death?”
He blinked behind his spectacles. Behind the thick glass, his eyes looked ridiculously owllike. “The girl who was murdered last night?”
She nodded. “What have you learned?”
“Probably no more than you. The killer took a knife to her. Beyond that, if the Yard knows anything, they’re not letting on.”
Jennie laced her fingers to still their quivering. “Who has the story?”
“Fred Porter.”
“Porter?” Jennie repeated, digesting the revelation. “You might as well have sent a schoolgirl to cover the crime. That blathering milksop is far better suited to transcribing the mayor’s speeches than investigating a murder.”
Campbell crooked a thick gray eyebrow. “Who would you suggest?”
“Me.”
“Have you forgotten you’re already neck deep in vipers at the Lancaster?”
“This killing is likely connected with Mary McDaniel’s death. If the murderer thought Lizzy knew something about Mary, he’d go to any lengths to silence her. Two women connected to Harwick have died. This is more than chance. I know the area. I know the people. I can get the facts we need.”
“Your sniffing around the tavern is one thing. But this…” He shoved a hand through the unruly gray strands flopping over his spectacles. A single vein bulged against the pale expanse of his brow. “You’re in enough danger as it is.”
Well, then, that’s that. He’d made up his mind. There’d be no changing it. He’d never assign her to investigate Lizzy’s murder.
She’d simply have to assign herself.
Jennie composed her features. “You win.” She softly tapped her nails against the table in an even rhythm. “But you must promise me you’ll take that mollycoddled idiot Porter off the story.”
Campbell offered a brusque nod. One brow teetered precariously. Making a show of rubbing his temples, he pressed it back into place. “I’ll pull Richard Carlson off the loading docks. The place will still be a crime-infested hellhole long after these murders are solved.”
“Carlson’s a much sounder choice.”
Light flickered off his lenses. He speared her with his gaze. “You’re too damned agreeable.”
Jennie offered a deliberately bland smile. “Am I now?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. I’m close to pulling you off the Lancaster case. Harwick and his lot are not common thugs. They’re smart and they’re ruthless.”
The twinge of concern in his voice sobered her. “I don’t intend to put myself in danger.”
He regarded her pointedly over his cigar. “I’d sleep a hell of a lot better if I believed you. How much does Matthew Colton know about these killings?”
“There’s no reason to suspect his involvement.” A deep ache lodged in the pit of her stomach, and she pressed her fingertips against the marred tabletop.
“Balderdash.” Campbell brought the cigar to his mouth and dragged in another smoke-filled draught. “If Harwick had anything to do with these deaths, you can rest assured Colton has bloodied his hands once again.”
Chapter Seven
Claude Harwick held court in a rear corner of the tavern. His slicked-back dark hair intensified the liquid silver of his eyes as he lifted a crystal glass to his lips and emptied it. The brute at his side surveyed the Lancaster’s patrons, wielding a scowl that might have made Attila the Hun think twice before crossing his path.
Freddy Leonard. A perfectly ordinary name for a most repulsive man.
Jennie hurried behind the bar, snatched up a cleaning rag, and wove through the maze of patrons to a recently vacated table. Dodging Harwick’s line of sight, she busied herself clearing the mess. Her ears strained to pick up the muted voices drifting from the corner.
“Does Colton know who has it?” Leonard’s booming voice carried over the tavern chatter. “If he does, why didn’t he get the blasted thing?”
“He’s putting pressure on the bastard,” Harwick said, his tones lower, measured. “Perhaps not enough.”
“Let me take care o’ this. Colton’s wastin’ too much time. Some lightskirt in Whitechapel’s boastin’ o’ the sterlin’ comin’ her way. The wench goes by Ida. We need t’ave a talk.”
Leonard caught sight of Jennie. Peering down a mangled nose that told the tale of bar brawls past, he motioned her closer. “Luv, move your pretty little arse and fetch me a beer.”
Harwick’s eyes hardened. “Watch your mouth. This is a quality establishment.”
Jennie plastered a docile smile on her face. “I’d be happy to bring you a beverage.” She met Harwick’s harsh glare. “Would you like anything, sir?”
“Ale. Make sure Harry uses a clean glass.” His nod sent her on her way. She hurried back with a tray of nearly overflowing mugs as the men continued their heated discussion.
“I don’t know what the hell the bloke’s waitin’ for. The bastard needs someone to show him who’s in charge. Colton ain’t doing that,” Leonard rambled on.
Harwick’s icy gaze flickered to Jennie. “That will be all.”
She pivoted on her heel and made her way to a nearby table. Stalling, she wiped an imaginary spill until the surface gleamed. When she could straggle no longer, she maneuvered through the boisterous throng to the bar.
Harry filled a tray of glasses to the brim. “Long night?”
She massaged her temples and purposefully pinched her features. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to leave a bit early. I’ve suffered a dreadful megrim all day.”
He scanned the crowded tavern. “Well, I don’t know…”
“I suppose a man cannot understand how a woman suffers,” she added in a whisper. “A curse, indeed.”
The barkeeper’s ruddy face blanched. “I think Rose can make do without you.” He lifted his drying rag and jabbed it inside a glass. “I’ll get one of these fellows to see you home. You can trust ’em. I’ve kn
own these blokes for years.”
“That won’t be necessary. My journey is only a short distance. I’m confident I can make my way.”
“Mr. Colton won’t be pleased if you leave without an escort.”
“There’s no need. I’ll soon be tucked safely beneath my covers.”
Harry slowly shook his head. “After what happened to Lizzy—”
“There’s no need to worry. I carry a pistol.”
His eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be damned. A well-spoken lady like you.”
Her mouth curved in a wry smile. “It’s quite lovely, really. Pearl handles and gleaming steel. My derringer will serve as my escort tonight.”
Desolation and darkness closed around Jennie like a fog. She tugged her flannel cape over her chest, but the worn fabric offered meager defense against the chill’s bite. Her cashmere cloak offered far more warmth, but she’d left that in her room. Only a fool would boast such a luxurious garment in the hell-on-earth known as Whitechapel.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted a hollow-cheeked doxy eyeing her reticule with greedy interest. A shiver of instinctive warning crept along Jennie’s spine, threatening to derail her courage. She clutched the velveteen bag more tightly and bundled her arms against her body.
If only her father were there. She could always count on him to prod her along. He’d see what a skittish ninny she’d become, and he would smile in his loving way. And then, he’d admonish her to steel her spine and do what had to be done.
Quinns do not run like frightened rabbits.
Gritting her teeth, she kept going. A rat the size of her sister’s beloved cat skittered past a shadowed figure on the pavement, a scrawny soul collapsed in a pool of what appeared to be his own urine. Her stomach twisted. She tasted bile against her tongue. Perhaps she should heed the nagging remnants of common sense that urged her to turn back. Venturing into the bowels of London at a time when most women entertained sweet dreams in their cozy beds was decidedly imprudent.
When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) Page 8