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

by Tara Kingston

  His cock pulsed, issuing its own demands. Much more, and he’d have her on her back. Naked on his settee. His rod sheathed in her warmth.

  He had to stop this. He’d brought her pleasure. But there’d be no consequences from his touch. No chance of a babe born into an unwelcoming world, sired by a man who had no future to share with anyone, no good name to bequeath to an heir.

  He caught her hands. Her eyes went wide, and she searched his face.

  “I want this,” she said. “I want you.”

  The questions in her gaze speared him. But there was no choice.

  “At this point, you’ve done nothing to regret. I intend to keep it that way.”

  Her hands slipped to her sides. Straightening her chemise, Jennie met his eyes.

  “Your noble streak has once again reared its head. It does not become you in the least.” Scooping up her discarded garments, she infused her words with ice.

  He retrieved his shirt, shrugged it on, and worked the buttons closed. Damn this hollow burn deep inside. The throbbing in his balls could be managed. But there’d be no easing the bitter ache in his gut.

  Squaring her shoulders, she faced him as though their night had been quite ordinary. “I require a moment of privacy. It wouldn’t do for Bertram to witness my…disarray.”

  He nodded his agreement and retreated from the room. Damnation, he was a fool. Clinging to some ridiculous notion of what was right. She’d wanted him. Bloody hell, he should have taken whatever she was willing to give. He should have savored her kiss and the brush of her fingertips and the passion in her voice. He should go back through that door and drown himself in the pleasure of her touch.

  But the damnable shreds of the man he’d once been held him back. Character. Honor. Conscience. By thunder, it didn’t matter what he called it. If he wanted to protect her, he had to start with himself.

  He went to the window at the end of the corridor. His carriage waited below. So, Bertram had finally decided to haul his creaky bones to the tavern. The curmudgeon would seize the opportunity to transport Jennie to her boardinghouse. With the old sot’s luck, the owner would be up and about. He’d made no secret of his excitement at the prospect of laying eyes on Mrs. O’Brien. Hard to fathom the dour matron had once been a pleasing sight to behold.

  Jennie stepped from his office, her cloak flowing over her skirt. Only the heightened flush in her rounded cheeks gave any hint of what had gone between them.

  “I’ll see you to the coach.”

  “Thank you.” She’d stripped any trace of warmth from her voice. She might well have been addressing a bloke in the tavern. No one observing her stiff spine and cool gaze would suspect the intimacy they’d shared not a quarter hour earlier.

  They proceeded to the carriage in silence. He escorted her to the conveyance and informed Bertram of his instructions. The driver flashed a grin and bounded up to his seat as Matthew opened the door.

  “Good night, Jennie.”

  Christ, how he wanted to kiss her again. But that would be an indulgence he could not afford. Not now, when his desire for her was ready to break its tether. Not when the urge to carry her off to his bed threatened to overtake his good sense.

  “Good night, Mr. Colton.”

  He was no longer Matthew. She’d reconstructed the fragile barrier between them. What did it matter? In the morning, she’d realize how close they’d come to an irrevocable mistake. At this point, they’d lost nothing. In the long run, a man like him could only bring trouble. She’d see that after the sunrise.

  Damn shame the sense of loss seemed a punch in the gut.

  …

  Jennie curled beneath a patchwork quilt, one of the few possessions she’d brought to her small, stark room in Charing Cross. The collage of calico and gingham conjured childhood memories of afternoons at her grandmother’s side. Unfailingly patient as Jennie’s untrained fingers moved a needle and thread through the colorful squares in an inefficient rhythm, Grandmother Ginny had guided her until her stitches were even and crisp. Jennie had treasured those visits to Edinburgh, whiling away pleasant hours surrounded by her mother’s warm, loving family, venturing to the places where her mother had passed through girlhood. Those delightful days had flown by in the blink of an eye, the pain of separation that followed, a palpable thing. The quilt’s warmth had seemed her only comfort then. Just as it did now.

  What she wouldn’t give to wrap her hand around her grandmother’s wrinkled fingers once again, to inhale the robust aroma of her grandfather’s pipe. To hear the sound of her father’s gruff voice and her mother’s sweet laughter. How she missed the vigorous debates in which she’d engaged with her brother and sister. It seemed ages had passed since she’d last embraced those she loved. She’d missed so many celebrations while pursuing leads on the city’s soot-dusted streets, let so many milestones pass while she had chased after fodder for her next story, her next banner headline. Soon, she’d leave behind the chaos of London’s underbelly and savor treasured time with her family, if only for a little while.

  Soon. Such an elusive word. Not that she regretted the sacrifices she’d made. Her investigations had exposed dire hazards and brought criminals to their well-deserved justice. She relished the challenges of her inquiries, the experiences she’d never have tasted had she accepted some fine fellow’s proposal of marriage and settled into a comfortable existence.

  Some fine fellow. Heaven only knew she’d shuttered her heart against that prospect long before her investigation found her toting overflowing mugs at the Lancaster. Proper gentlemen wanted a wife who’d run a household with calm efficiency and bear apple-cheeked children. Proper gentlemen wanted a woman who’d sit demurely in the family portrait and offer a perfectly proper kiss at bedtime. Proper gentlemen walked away from women like her, just as her fiancé had done. She’d loved him, or so she’d thought. But not enough to be the wife he wanted. Not enough to lock away her dreams and her passion, forced to always wonder what might have been.

  No, a proper gentleman was not for her. Perhaps that was why Matthew Colton was so intriguing. No one would ever describe Matthew as proper, and he’d been all too clear that he made no claim to being a gentleman. What was it about the man that drew her like Pandora to the blasted box?

  Was it the keen intelligence that lit his dark eyes? Or perhaps, it was the unexpected chivalry of a man who’d garnered a reputation for ruthless efficiency. Well before he had allied himself with Harwick, Matthew had been known as a hardnosed Yard man who went after the truth with undeterred vigor, showing no care for the enemies his investigations garnered along the way. But she’d seen another side of him, a quiet benevolence and decency that flew in the face of the image he’d carefully crafted.

  Or was it the passion in his kiss? The gentleness in his caress? The way he looked at her, as though she meant more to him than a mere conquest to lure between his bedsheets?

  A sigh escaped her. Matthew Colton was an enigma. She so enjoyed solving puzzles. Even as a child, she’d delighted at ferreting out the truth behind a mystery.

  But Matthew was not a mystery she could afford to solve. The risks were far too great. No matter how very much she craved the secrets of the man who set her pulse pounding every time he came near. She could not let transient longings interfere with her pursuit of the truth.

  Not even now, when Matthew Colton’s touch left her wanting so much more, longing for the sound of his voice and the feel of his skin against hers and that devastatingly wicked kiss he employed like a weapon.

  She stared at the ceiling, willing her mind to go blank. If only sleep would come. She lit a lamp. Her gaze gravitated to the length of wool she’d carelessly tossed on a small chest. Matthew’s scarf. Soft and worn, infused with his scent. She swept it up and brought it to her cheek. His essence filled her senses, even as her heart clenched with a dull ache.

  How had she gotten herself into such a muddle? She’d always taken pride in her dedication and level head, her precise f
ocus on the investigation at hand. Falling into the arms of Harwick’s most trusted lieutenant was certainly not part of the plan.

  Crumpling the scarf between her fingers, she placed it back upon the dresser, then opened the shallow top drawer and took out her journal. Writing had always proven a tonic, the best method of sorting her jumbled thoughts. With pen in hand, she might make some sense of her tangled emotions.

  A peculiar noise at the door cut through the quiet. She eyed the door’s sturdy lock. Thank heavens she’d had the presence of mind to latch the bolt.

  “Sophie, is that you?”

  Silence met her inquiry. She crouched to the floor and peered through a thumb-wide gap between the bottom of the door and the worn planks, glimpsing a woman’s badly-scuffed shoes and the edge of a ragged hem. Her pulse slowed back to its normal pace. Perhaps Mrs. O’Brien had noticed her light and come to investigate.

  An envelope slid beneath the white-washed door. Bold, slashing script. Virginia. How very peculiar. She’d been Jennie to friends and acquaintances since her girlhood. Only her father insisted on calling her by the name she’d been given at her christening, and this brash script was definitely not his hand.

  Her heart pounded an unsteady tattoo. Pulling in a slow breath, she removed a square of carefully creased writing paper from the envelope.

  Heavy, jagged strokes of black ink marred the ivory patina. The words assaulted her.

  Each death brings us closer to our final rendezvous.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Huddled by the window, Jennie clutched a wrapper over her flannelette nightdress and watched the sun’s first rays slice through the darkness. Brilliant streaks of crimson and gold marked the sun’s ascent. The world outside her room bustled with activity. Street vendors set up for their day’s work, factory workers scurried to begin their shifts, and a pack of newsboys collected bundles of the morning edition. The breaking dawn cast a radiant haze over the muted chaos, but she scarcely took it in.

  She held the note to the glass and examined the message in the light of day. An elaborate scrawl. Each word slanted far to the right. Vivid slashes that brought an image of violence to her mind, a seething, unappeased anger.

  Jennie drew a long breath to calm the quiver in her fingers, as if she might so readily clear away the lingering fear. The miscreant who’d penned the cryptic threat knew her identity. Who she was. Where she lived. Was this an attempt to frighten her? To intimidate her? Or was this a madman’s warning? She was in his sights. How long before he came after her? She’d been in dangerous situations before. But she’d never experienced this terrifying sense that she was prey.

  Fighting a chill that had nothing to do with the frigid air, Jennie tucked the note inside her journal, retrieved her pistol from the chest, and loaded its single chamber. The weapon provided modest protection at best, but it was better than nothing.

  She glimpsed herself in the mirror. Eyes ringed with dark circles. A mouth taut with tension. Only her hair seemed to have escaped the sleepless night unscathed. Sunlight streaming through the window danced off the auburn hues. At this angle, her hair shone more red than brown.

  This girl is a dead ringer for your previous nightingale.

  Lawrence Bond’s words echoed in her brain. He’d been convinced she looked like Mary.

  Jennie studied her reflection. Their eyes were different, both in shape and color, and the songbird’s features had been more finely chiseled. Delicate. Framed with abundant ringlets gleaming with coppery red tones. But Jennie couldn’t deny the resemblance they shared. She’d stood eye-to-eye with Mary McDaniel, their hair nearly the same blend of reds and browns, their figures so similar they could have worn the same clothing.

  Sickening dread dug its talons into her belly. She stared down at her tightly clasped fingers. Her father’s voice drifted through her thoughts.

  You are made of sterner stuff than this.

  It wasn’t as if she’d never been in a tough spot before, and she was too close to unraveling the truth to tuck her tail between her legs and run like a frightened puppy.

  She would find the strength to see this through.

  Unless the killer got to her first.

  Shaking off the hideous doubt, Jennie forced herself to face the day. She moved as if lead weighted her limbs. If only she could stay tucked away within her plain but cozy room. Safe.

  At least for the moment.

  Balderdash. Jennie banished the notion. Indeed, Quinns were made of sterner stuff than that.

  She selected a white silk blouse and a fashionable suit of burgundy wool accented with thick bands of braided black ribbon. After securing her hair with tortoiseshell combs, she pinned her cameo brooch at her throat. If the murderous cur expected her to cower in a corner, he’d be sorely disappointed.

  Despite her renewed resolve, a staccato rap on the door rippled shockwaves down her spine. Her gaze cut to her Sharps Pepperbox. She’d keep the pistol at the ready.

  “Who’s there?” Her tone sounded shrill to her own ears. She steadied herself with a calming breath. It wouldn’t do to betray the emotions coursing through her.

  “It’s me…Sophie.”

  Jennie’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank heavens,” she said, unlatching the bolt.

  “What a lovely greeting.” Sophie deposited her valise on a small, doily-covered table. Her attention lingered for a moment on the gun lying in plain sight. She fixed Jennie with a questioning gaze. “What’s happened? I didn’t hear you come in last night.”

  “The hour was excessively late. Surely the dark circles under my eyes tell the tale,” Jennie said lightly. She certainly couldn’t divulge the details of the night before. If Campbell heard so much as a whisper of the truth, he’d have her covering fashion shows on the Continent. Facing a killer would be preferable to that fate.

  “You do look rather weary.” Sophie’s brow furrowed as she cast the pistol another glance. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing at all.” The lie tumbled easily from Jennie’s lips, but she wouldn’t be able to maintain the facade for long.

  Sophie gave a little shrug. “I don’t believe you. But there’ll be time to pry the truth out of you later. First, I’ve come upon some information you’ll find most interesting.”

  Cheeky girl. Her protégé knew her all too well. “So, tell me what you’ve found.”

  “I came across some records at a local parish. I took the liberty of borrowing them.”

  “You borrowed them? I doubt the parish operates like a lending library.”

  “Pity. Though it wasn’t much of a challenge to smuggle the documents out of there.” An impish smile tugged at Sophie’s mouth. “You are not the only one who can bat her eyes when the situation calls for it.”

  “I never bat my eyes,” Jennie countered. Sweeping her skirts to the side, she sank onto a chair. “Do you intend to keep me in suspense?”

  “The records pertain to your gallant knight, Matthew Colton.”

  She shot Sophie a scowl. “Gallant knight?”

  Sophie strolled to the window and closed the curtains. “I trust you’re familiar with Colton’s parentage.”

  “Of course. Matthew Colton is Lord Winthrop’s son, born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  “What do you know about his mother?”

  “Precious little. She died when he was a boy. Years later, his father learned of his son’s existence and took him into his household.”

  Sophie took a document from her valise. “Anne Colton contracted scarlet fever and died when her son was eight. Matthew Colton then lived with his grandmother until she also succumbed to illness, at which time he landed on his Uncle Bert’s doorstep.”

  “Uncle? My research revealed he’d been shuttled off to an orphanage at the age of ten.”

  “That was indeed the case. However, he spent at least six months with his uncle before that time. From what I gather, Bert Harwick was a miserable sot who wanted no part of his sibling’
s by-blow.”

  “Harwick?”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of mapping a few branches of Matthew Colton’s family tree.” Sophie pointed to her carefully printed diagram. “Colton’s grandmother was widowed young. That union produced one son. After she remarried, she gave birth to two daughters, Colton’s mother and his aunt. Anne Colton’s half brother, Bert Harwick, fathered three sons. Of those, only one survived to adulthood.”

  Invisible fingers constricted around Jennie’s heart. Blood ties run deep. “Good heavens.”

  “That’s right, Jennie.” Sophie smiled in triumph. “Claude Harwick and Mathew Colton are cousins.”

  “Blood is indeed thicker than any other loyalty. Or so it would seem.” The fingers burrowed deep within Jennie’s chest tightened their grip. She swallowed against the miserable ache. “I’m not quite certain where this will lead. Are you interested in pursuing another inquiry?”

  “Of course. But promise me I won’t have to spend hours poring over registry books.”

  Sophie craved the opportunity to explore something other than archives and the social register. This would be the perfect chance for her to gain vital investigative experience. If only doubt did not whisper in Jennie’s ear, subtle, questioning, and nagging. There was the chance—albeit a slim one—Sophie might stumble upon something that would thrust her into danger. Could she live with herself if any harm befell her assistant?

  Jennie pulled in another deep breath. Sophie was capable enough. The girl was bright and quick to find her way out of a predicament. But she must be careful and not let her ambitions override her sense of caution. Jennie would have to impress the value of prudence upon her eager apprentice. Quite ironic, indeed, given the risks Jennie had taken for the sake of a headline.

  “For this investigation, I suspect you’ll employ your smile more than your spectacles. I want you to find out everything you can about Lawrence Bond.”

  “Sir Lawrence? The theater patron?”