“The bastards.” Matthew clenched his hand into a fist. He eyed the oak paneling, the urge to punch something—anything—nearly overpowering his self-control. Tharrington had stood firm behind him during the days after his partner had been murdered. Now, the detective had met the same end as John Crosby. “You’re certain Longstreet was behind it?”
“There’s little doubt. Tharrington infiltrated Longstreet’s operations more than a year ago. Last month, someone sold information that enabled Longstreet’s major competitor to seize a major opium cargo smuggled out of Hong Kong. Longstreet knew he’d been betrayed by someone he trusted. He executed three of his lieutenants. Tharrington was one of them.”
Matthew felt a fist to the gut. “How does this involve me?”
“Longstreet wants retribution. He believes Harwick was behind the theft, and he intends to make him pay, with his own blood, most likely. He’s crowing that he has something Harwick wants, something Scotland Yard would be most interested in acquiring.”
“He’s bluffing. Longstreet doesn’t have a damn thing the Yard can use against Harwick.”
“You know what Harwick’s looking for, don’t you?” A gleam lit her eyes. “You’re clever not to tell me. After all, I could be working for Longstreet. Or Harwick.”
“What I know or don’t know doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving London.”
“So you have a death wish, do you?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“You think you do, more’s the pity,” she said with a shake of her head. “Don’t go getting yourself killed. I’ve always been fond of you.”
He slanted a sideways glance. “You’ve had a peculiar way of showing it all these years. How many times have you put my neck on the line?”
She grazed her fingertips over the edge of his jaw. “At times, I wonder if I shouldn’t break my rule about mixing pleasure with business.”
There’d been a time, not long before, when he would have crawled across shards of glass to sample Alicia’s strategically draped charms. But now, her lips weren’t the ones he longed to plunder.
Matthew cocked a brow. “You aren’t getting lax on me now? You have your standards.”
Gathering her cloak around her, she pivoted toward the door. “I’ll be on my way. Take care, Matthew.”
She sauntered from the room. Bertram stood at the ready, making no secret of his eagerness to escort her to the street. Matthew closed the door and went to the window, staring down to the pavement as Alicia stepped outside and into a waiting brougham.
Damn it to hell. Tharrington had been a good man. How many widows would Harwick’s war with Longstreet spawn? Brutal bastards, the bloody lot of them.
And he’d become a thug—little better than the cur he sought to destroy.
Matthew pictured his father’s face, the pain in his eyes nearly tangible. Despite his misery, the old gentleman had stood firm, never losing faith in Matthew despite the lurid accusations bandied about by the London press. If he lived a thousand lifetimes, Matthew would never forget his father’s proud stance day after day in the courtroom, the triumph in his expression when the grand jury found the evidence against Matthew too flimsy to issue a true bill of indictment. Matthew had walked from the Old Bailey a free man, hungry for retribution—vengeance that could only come by sacrificing himself.
The course he’d taken had sliced his father’s faith to ribbons. Matthew’s alliance with Harwick had been a vicious blow. The old man had disowned him. And yet, he continued to fight for Matthew, using every ounce of his influence to press for a new investigation to uncover the true culprit behind Crosby’s death.
Matthew didn’t need another investigation to reveal that bitter truth. As a lad, he’d scrapped with the bastard responsible for John Crosby’s murder. Taking blow upon blow, Matthew had endured the drubbings until he’d grown strong enough and tough enough to turn the tables on his surly cousin. Years later, Claude Harwick had ordered Crosby’s execution, and the jackal had taken pains to cast suspicion on Matthew.
No matter the outcome, the life Matthew had known was over. He’d escaped the gallows, condemned to live out his days in disgrace, viewed as a villain of the worst sort by the very men he’d considered his brothers-in-arms.
Claude had destroyed him.
And soon, Matthew would pay him back in kind. His cousin would rot. Whether behind bars or in the ground was of little consequence.
Still, Alicia’s visit had set Matthew on edge. What did Claude know? The bastard had always been suspicious. But the truth in Alicia’s warning was undeniable. Claude had kept his latest venture shrouded in secrecy. That fact alone raised an alarm deep in Matthew’s gut. If Claude believed he’d been betrayed, he would strike out.
Fear coiled in Matthew’s belly. Not for himself.
For Jennie.
Pressing his hand against the cool glass of the windowpane, Matthew stared into the dawn. An image of Jennie flickered in his mind’s eye. Damnation, it seemed a bitter irony that fate had thrust her into his path. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Bloody shame he had to send her away. As long as she was near him, she’d be in danger. He didn’t deserve her, but he’d do whatever it took to shield her. He had to get her away. Away from London. Away from him. If that meant dragging her kicking and screaming from here to Munich, so be it.
…
Jennie threw open the faded chintz curtains and soaked up the morning light, banishing the residue of a thoroughly miserable night. Horrid images had invaded her sleep, but she was not about to dwell on the nightmares. The only way to exorcise the fear that had permeated her dreams was through action.
Combing through her unadorned oak armoire, she selected a traveling suit of plum merino wool trimmed with wide black braid. The trim jacket and flowing curves of the skirt showed her figure to good advantage. She swept her thick waves into a topknot and crowned the tresses with a pert black hat. The feminine ensemble would serve her purposes well.
She tucked the envelope inscribed with her given name into a small carpetbag and hired a hansom to the shopping district. Upon disembarking at Oxford Street, Jennie pressed a silver coin into the driver’s gloved palm. “I’ll need you to wait for me. This should compensate you for your time.”
The driver stared down at the shiny crown. With a tip of his hat, he flashed a sly grin. “This’ll do quite nicely. Yes, indeed.”
“I shan’t be long,” she said and bustled off to a small shop marked by an elegantly lettered sign. Sterling Brothers. Fine Stationers.
Approaching the plump man behind the counter, Jennie waved the envelope like a battle flag. She thrust it under his snub nose. “I found this among my husband’s things. I’d like to know if it was purchased in your shop.”
The clerk blinked behind his spectacles. “I beg your pardon, miss.”
“Mrs.,” she corrected. She tapped a gloved finger against the ebony ink. “Of course, you could not possibly understand. You see, Virginia is not my name. My husband apparently went to great lengths to impress this trollop. Can you tell me if the deceitful cad acquired the stationery here?”
He took the envelope between two fingers and examined it. “This bears a distinctive watermark. I recognize the pattern.”
She drummed her fingers against the counter in a precise rhythm. “Just as I thought. My husband did obtain it here.”
The clerk placed the envelope on the counter between them. His brow furrowed. “I do not believe your husband patronized this establishment, Mrs.—”
“Smithson. Perhaps you might check your records for the purchase.”
He met her request with a bland shake of his head. “I don’t recall any customers by that name.”
Jennie laced her voice with honey. “Of course…Harold would be much too clever to use his own name. I’m hopeful you might find the transaction in your account book.”
The creases in the clerk’s fleshy brow deepened. “I don’t believe I can
be of assistance. Even if I were so inclined…”
She fanned herself with one hand. Her other hand went to her blouse, toying with the pearl button at her throat. “My goodness, it has grown warm in here.”
The man’s round face reddened. “I cannot—”
Jennie slipped the pearl through the loop. “How much longer must I wait? I am feeling a bit faint.”
He dabbed his brow with his fingertips and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Smithson, I regret that I cannot provide help in this matter other than to tell you I am quite certain your husband did not purchase this item here. We acquired a small quantity of this particular stationery, but our supply was depleted several weeks ago. A young woman made the purchase.”
“A woman?”
“A rather shabby young miss, if I may speak frankly. Who would imagine a chit in threadbare skirts spending such a sum on fine paper?”
“Do you remember what she looked like?”
His lip curled. “Not much meat on her bones. Rather pale. She looked scarcely old enough to be out of the schoolroom. If I may be so bold, if that is indeed the woman in question, I do believe your husband will soon come to his senses.”
She forced a smile, thanked the clerk for his trouble, and hurried to the hansom. Her thoughts raced at breakneck speed. Since receiving the first missive, she’d known a woman was involved. Was the messenger she’d spotted a pawn in this ugly business? Or the mastermind?
The deeper Jennie delved, the more perplexing the puzzle became. She had one more source to investigate that afternoon. Perhaps Lawrence Bond would prove as talkative as he’d been at the Lancaster.
…
Patrons flocked to the Savoy for more than the cuisine. Nouveau riche millionaires and American heiresses dined beside West End theater divas and flamboyant thespians. Jennie’s driver craned his neck, his gaze trailing American actress Lillian Russell’s grand entrance. Jennie offered silent thanks. Who would notice her when every eye was turned to the glamorous soprano?
While the driver sat transfixed, Jennie stepped from the coach and hurried to the entrance. The maître d’ glanced up from a reservation book. His pinched lips relaxed into a smile.
“May I help you?”
Time to play the scorned woman once again. She forced a quiet urgency into her voice. “Lawrence Bond—he’s here…with her. I know it.”
A mask of practiced discretion fell over the maître d’s thin features. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I do not wish to make a scene. I suggest you show me to his table.”
He shook his head, his lips squeezed together so tightly, they seemed to disappear. “That will not be possible.”
She leaned closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “They say he’s unfaithful. I can’t bear it. I must see for myself.”
The maître d’ cast a pointed glance at the door. “I suggest you leave now before you cause yourself embarrassment.”
“I simply must know.” Skirts swishing around her ankles, she darted into the dining room.
Bond sat at a table near the back of the bustling restaurant, a half-filled tumbler in his hand. His gaze took her in, a quick sweep at first, then lingering over her face. Recognition—and something more, a look of distinctly masculine appreciation—flickered in his eyes. His mouth slid into something that resembled a smile. At his side, a raven-haired beauty glared over a crystal glass.
Jennie sidled closer as the red-faced maître d’ maneuvered through the crowd in pursuit. Bond waved away the stiff-necked man with a sweep of his hand. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Do you remember what you told me? You offered to assist me if I wished to pursue the theater.”
“Absolutely, my dear. I count several producers among my closest friends. Perhaps I could arrange something for you.”
“I’d like that very much.”
He reached for Jennie’s hand. His low laugh hardened the frost in his companion’s sapphire eyes. “Come by my town house. We’ve much to discuss.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Amazing, how smoothly the lie flowed from her lips.
Bond’s eyes filled with greedy delight. “Sadly, my schedule tomorrow is burdened with obligations. Dreadfully boring appointments, not nearly as tempting as an afternoon with you. But I really must see you. I’ll send my driver for you—Friday, at noon. Now, my sweet, tell me where you’ll be.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She flashed a smile. “I can find my way.”
Bond reached for her hand. Jennie gave silent thanks for the gloves covering her skin.
“It would be no trouble, my sweet.” His attention slithered to his companion, then flickered back to Jennie. “Perhaps you might consider joining us now. You’ll find my Fiona quite enticing.”
His companion’s frosty blue eyes raked over Jennie. “Indeed. Our amusements might prove…interesting.”
The taste of revulsion rose to Jennie’s mouth, but she carefully schooled her features. “Perhaps another time.”
She glanced away. A subtle movement near the darkest corner of the room caught her interest. A lone figure, leaning rather casually in a chair, nearly—but not quite—concealed by the shadows. Even at this distance, she felt the intensity of Matthew’s watchful eyes boring into her. Her stomach did a little flip. By Athena’s spear, the scoundrel had followed her again. Well, if he thought she would be intimidated by his surveillance, he was mistaken. With a tip of her chin, she shot him a defiant glance. Fleeting. But serving notice that she’d caught on to his spying.
“Might we convince you to stay?” Fiona’s voice was as cool as her gaze.
Pulling her thoughts back to Bond and his companion, Jennie offered a bland shake of her head. “I’m afraid I’m running quite late—another obligation, you see. I look forward to our meeting.”
“By all means,” Bond said with a curl of his upper lip. He took another drink. “You wouldn’t want to keep his majesty—I mean Harwick—waiting.”
“My errand is actually quite mundane. Nothing Mr. Harwick would concern himself with.”
“I understand, my dear.” Bond tipped his glass to his lips again. “Friday cannot come swiftly enough.”
…
A quid in the maître d’s palm had been all it took for Matthew to get the best seat in the house. The best seat for his purposes, at least. The society matrons who came to the Savoy to be seen would have protested if they’d been seated out of view. But for Matthew, the far corner table was exactly what he needed.
Matthew nursed his whiskey and scanned the throng. Society types with too much money and time on their hands had come to rub elbows with London’s elite. He didn’t give a damn about catching a glimpse of Oscar Wilde.
He’d come after Lawrence Bond.
His quarry had been happily imbibing with an apple-cheeked brunette whose cold glower clashed with her twittering laughter—until an auburn-haired woman rushed to his side. The brunette’s eyes cast daggers at the newcomer, then lit with a voracious gleam. Damnable shame he couldn’t hear their dialogue. The exchange between the women might well prove interesting. Matthew skimmed the redhead’s hourglass figure. Her elegant traveling suit hugged every luscious curve. If her face was half as beautiful as her shape, she’d take a man’s breath away. No doubt another starstruck young diva out to make good use of Lawrence Bond’s connections with West End showmen. She moved closer to Bond, offering Matthew a fleeting glimpse of her profile.
Bollocks!
He’d planned to talk some sense into Bond before Harwick sent Mr. Leonard and his brass knuckles after the hapless sot. Did Jennie hope to manipulate the man into revealing what he knew of Harwick’s brutal enterprise? Hellfire and damnation, he’d not taken her to be so reckless. Simply being seen with Bond was enough to make her a target.
She reached up to touch her hair, coiling a wavy copper tendril around a slender finger. So, she was nervous. It was about damned time Jennie realized the dangerous game she
was playing.
She left Bond with a small wave. He trailed her as she marched to the door, keeping a distance between them as she approached the maître d’, lifted her chin in a haughty gesture, and breezed past the flustered man.
Her skirts rustled about her ankles as she flounced onto the pavement. Matthew thought she’d cry out in alarm when he caught her cloak-covered arm in his hand. Instead, she turned to face him, a look of clear challenge in her eyes.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Flushed from the brisk air and what seemed a sense of exhilaration, Jennie was vibrant and bright and evidently quite pleased with herself. Good God, she was perfect.
It’s a bloody shame I have to rein her in.
If they weren’t on a crowded street in broad daylight, he might have kissed the smug expression off her face. Instead, he gently clasped her arm. Jennie wouldn’t be cowed or cajoled. But she was a reasonable woman. She’d see the sense in what he had to say.
“I don’t know what your purpose was in seeking him out, but Bond is not the harmless drunk you obviously believe him to be. Things will go badly for him. I don’t want you mixed up with that man when they do.”
Her mouth thinned to a seam. The scathing condemnation in her eyes speared him. “Go badly? Quite a civilized way of describing the way men like you deal with problems.”
“Harwick is losing patience. With Bond. And with me.”
“I have decided an acquaintance with the man may prove advantageous.” She clipped the words between her teeth. “My associations should be of no concern to you.”
“Stay away from him.”
Jennie squared her shoulders. “You have no right—”
Damnation, if anything happened to Jennie, the rage and pain would be too much to bear. The very thought was like a blade twisting in his entrails. That gave him the right. But he couldn’t confess that truth.
“It would be better if you did think me a villain of the worst sort. Perhaps then you’d believe what I tell you—you need to stay away from no-good curs like Bond. And me.”
When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) Page 19