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

by Tara Kingston

  Jennie lowered her hand to the knob, but the sense that she was being watched pulled her attention back to the coach. Her instincts had not erred. The driver’s curious gaze continued to follow her movements. Drat the luck, why did the bloke linger? She’d made it clear she did not wish for him to wait.

  Once again, she tapped the brass ring against the door. Still no response. She steeled herself. An unanswered door was a small obstacle. But she’d need to give the impression she belonged in the home to avoid rousing the driver’s suspicions.

  “Lawrence, dearest, I’m home.” She infused her voice with an air of familiarity. Curving her fingers around the ornate latch, she opened the door and slipped inside.

  The sound of her entry would undoubtedly rouse some interest. Anticipating a housekeeper or gentleman’s gentleman to approach at any moment, she moved with cautious steps. Certainly Sir Lawrence would have informed his staff to expect a guest.

  The draperies in an adjacent parlor rustled. Her heart pounded, and she pulled in a breath. With a bored meow, a cat prowled from behind the brocade fabric. Tail in the air, the calico regarded Jennie with the feline equivalent of a shrug as it strolled into the entry hall.

  But where were the servants? Had Bond sent them away because he wanted privacy for her visit? The thought conjured butterflies the size of bats in her stomach.

  She padded through the house with a thief’s stealth. “Mr. Bond, I’ve come to speak with you.” Jennie forced confidence she did not feel into her cheerful tone.

  Perhaps the sot was already deep in his cups. That might make her task easier. Or, bolstered by an alcohol-fueled bravado, he might become aggressive. The image of Sir Lawrence’s bony, pawing hands churned another wave of revulsion in her belly. No matter. She knew how to douse a man’s unwanted ardor and bring him to his knees. Literally.

  Her steps quiet and measured, she stopped at a well-appointed parlor and peered inside. Tasteful furnishings. Mahogany and forest-green velvet. An elegant Aubusson rug in a subtle motif. She continued along the corridor to the carved staircase. Still no sign of the man. How very odd.

  She passed a room lined with shelves. Bond’s study, perhaps. A flash of movement in her peripheral vision drew her back. Was someone there?

  Jennie turned toward the room. The space appeared empty. Had she spotted the cat making some mischief?

  Stepping into the chamber, she glanced about. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing was amiss. She didn’t even see the calico inspecting its territory.

  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Until she glimpsed a polished shoe jutting out from behind a massive desk. Dread welled in her throat, and she swallowed against the bitter taste of fear.

  She caught the scent of Matthew’s cologne before she saw him. He approached her with slow, measured steps, his features unreadable.

  “You need to leave,” he said, his voice flat. Empty.

  Storm waves crashed about in the pit of her stomach. “What have you done?”

  “Not a goddamned thing.”

  Standing toe-to-toe with Matthew, her heart pounded with an instinctive wariness. His size had never intimidated her. She’d found his masculine power reassuring. But now, her vulnerability pierced like a dull blade.

  Angling her body away from him, she slipped one hand under her cloak. The weight of the pistol secured within the velvet reticule tethered to her wrist provided slim reassurance.

  “You’ve got to get out of here.” A peculiar urgency tinged his words. “You must go. There’s no time—”

  Jennie read the grim reality in his eyes. Her palms clammy, she bolted to the desk. Trouser-clad legs splayed over a blood-stained carpet. Bile crept up her throat. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, willing herself not to retch.

  A single, circular wound marred the center of Bond’s forehead. Blood etched a crooked path to the bridge of his prominent nose. His eyes stared, wide and unseeing.

  Her pulse thundered in her ears. She tasted the metallic essence of copper. Only then did she realize she’d bitten her bottom lip.

  “I didn’t want you to see this,” Matthew said, his voice laced with regret.

  Ice slithered along her spine. “What have you done?”

  “I did not kill him.”

  The sensation of Matthew’s hands on her shoulders tore a hushed, anguished cry from deep within. She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t face him. If she saw guilt in his eyes, her heart would rend in two.

  Misery welled in her throat. “I don’t believe you.” The simple words were nearly too unbearable to utter.

  “Dammit, Jennie. He was dead when I got here.”

  Slipping her reticule from the folds of her cloak, she retreated a step, then another. “What else should I expect from Harwick’s lieutenant?”

  Gulping back bitter tears, she stormed away. Matthew followed, inches from her heels. He coiled his fingers over her arms and turned her to face him. Dragging Jennie against his body, he clung to her like a drowning man clutching his last hope for survival.

  She pressed her palms to his chest. “Take your hands off me.”

  He stared down at her, unyielding as Big Ben. “You’re in danger. Every moment—”

  She spun on her heel with all the force she could muster. Wielding the reticule like a bludgeon, she slammed the bag and the pistol within it against his skull. Waves of shock crashed through her arms at the violent impact. The tense strength in his hands dissolved. He staggered beneath the blow.

  Shoving him aside, she fled the house.

  The door slammed shut behind her with a thud that rattled her ears. Frigid air filled her lungs. She gulped a breath, desperate to compose herself.

  Somehow, she managed to make her way down the street. Hiring a hansom to take her to Charing Cross, she shuttered herself inside the carriage. Slipping the curtains open a finger’s width, she peered out as the coach trundled over the cobbles, taking her away from Bond’s home. Away from the horror of another murder. Away from the man who’d nearly duped her into believing he was something other than a ruthless criminal. Ah, Matthew had swept away so many of her doubts, his caress making her so very unwise. She’d been so close to trusting him completely. She’d been such a fool. Burning misery seared her throat, and Jennie wondered if her heart could truly break.

  …

  A canopy of clouds shrouded the city. The relentless gray sky surrounded Mrs. O’Brien’s well-worn brick boardinghouse with an air of oppressive gloom. Beneath her feet, an icy chill radiated from the cobbles. Battling a shiver, Jennie pulled her cloak tight to her throat and craned her neck to scan the street behind her. With her pistol hidden beneath the folds of heavy wool, she approached the entrance. Still no sign she’d been followed. The breath that hovered in her throat escaped, and she sighed at her nervousness. She’d never allowed herself to feel so vulnerable. Of course, she’d never allowed a man like Matthew Colton into her life. Into her arms. Into her heart.

  She slipped inside the building, threw open the door to her room, and stalked inside. Tossing her cape onto a chair, she went to the window. Somehow, the relentless gloom wrapped around her like a blanket, oddly comforting even as the bitter lump in her throat throbbed. The sky matched her dark mood. How could she have allowed herself to be so vulnerable to a man—any man? She’d never lost objectivity. Until she’d shared Matthew Colton’s bed.

  Pressing her fingertips to the cool glass, she sketched the scene of Lawrence Bond’s murder in her thoughts. Crucial details had penetrated the veil of shock that had accompanied her discovery of Bond’s lifeless body. The bloody wound over his brow had been precise, far too small and well-defined to be the product of Matthew’s large caliber Webley. Of course, Matthew might have used a smaller-caliber gun. But why would he kill Bond? Any Yard inspector with a grain of sense would connect Harwick’s top enforcer with the murder of a man who’d become a vocal thorn in the crime lord’s side.

  Images of Bond in death haunted her. She should have
gone to the authorities. Was she protecting Matthew Colton—the man who might have been Bond’s executioner—or was she acting out of self-preservation?

  And what of her plan to meet with Bond? Surely the Yard would uncover that damning detail. Bond had crowed his invitation at the Savoy. His companion knew of his plans, as did anyone in earshot. An inquiry would expose her charade, her investigations. Claws gripped her insides. Dear God, she’d be a marked woman. A soft, insistent rapping on the door tore her from her misery.

  Sophie’s voice. Had she returned from her latest assignment, covering Lady Bittner’s society tea, so soon?

  Jennie forced an evenness into her voice as she opened the door. Best not to reveal the brutal truth—she’d compromised her investigation over a man’s touch.

  Sophie swept in, vivacious energy brimming around her. “Mr. Campbell has assigned me to a new story. The local society matrons are all abuzz. I suspect you’ll be interested as well.”

  “My, what would merit such enthusiasm?” Jennie pretended a bland interest. “Has Sarah Bernhardt decided to return to the London stage?”

  Sophie’s mouth formed a bland line. “Nothing so exciting as that. No, there’s a stir over an American heiress who arrived on a luxury liner from New York today. Campbell wants me to discover the amusements she plans to enjoy while she’s here and make a point to attend those events.”

  “A day in the life of a privileged young woman. How very original.”

  Sophie’s blond waves bobbed as she shook her head. “Oh, it’s not her story I believe you’ll find intriguing. While I was on the pier, I spotted a figure connected with the Inspector’s trial, a fellow named Dyson. Quite a handsome man, but cold-eyed.”

  A twinge skittered along Jennie’s spine. “Dyson is Harwick’s man in America. He’s said to be expanding Harwick’s reach to New York.”

  “Unless Dyson has a twin, he’s no longer there. I saw him leave the ship, not five minutes before the heiress stepped onto the dock. I made some subtle inquiries. Dyson traveled alone in posh accommodations.”

  “Would the scoundrel settle for anything less? During his last visit to London, he occupied a penthouse at the Savoy. The police had fished three bodies from the Thames during that time, each mutilated beyond recognition. The murders were believed to be Dyson’s handiwork, but there was no solid evidence to prove his involvement. The man is brilliant at covering his tracks.”

  Sophie’s brow crinkled. “If that’s the case, why would he sail under his own name?”

  “He behaves like a man who has nothing to hide. Few who encounter his charming smile would believe him capable of such brutality.”

  “Indeed. So now, the question is, why has he returned to London?”

  The talons dug deeper into Jennie’s stomach. “I believe something sinister is in the works. I must find Mary’s diary. If she knew what Dyson was up to, it will be in that book.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Collapsing on her bed in a weary heap, Jennie stared idly at the ceiling. She had a few hours to spare before she left for the Lancaster, precious time during which she might untangle the knot of her thoughts.

  A rap sounded at the door. “Jennie, are you there? I need to talk to you.”

  Mrs. O’Brien. Drat the luck, what did the woman want now? A sigh rippled through Jennie. Perhaps she could pretend she wasn’t in. Or perhaps Mrs. O’Brien might believe she’d fallen asleep. Of course, she wouldn’t put it past the matron to let herself in with her key.

  But something in Mrs. O’Brien’s tone beckoned her. Her voice had been stripped of its usually chirpy, gossipy joy. Forcing herself from her short-lived respite, Jennie plodded to the door.

  The matron’s stricken eyes betrayed her distress as clearly as a banner headline. “I come bearin’ terrible news, my dear.”

  Jennie placed a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Good heavens, what’s wrong?”

  Casting a miserable glance to the heavens, Mrs. O’Brien sniffled. “That pretty chit on the first floor, Sally Jennings. She must’ve been on her way from the factory. They found her in an alley this mornin’. Dead. Such a bold villain, roamin’ these streets.”

  The childlike blonde she’d spotted near her door. Murdered. Jennie clutched the doorjamb to steady herself. The taste of bile sickened her. “My heavens.”

  Mrs. O’Brien dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Constable Jones told me the poor dear’s throat was cut. I try t’warn my girls. But some…some don’t want t’listen.”

  “There was nothing more you could have done,” Jennie said, her tone calm even as a sense of urgency welled within her. She had to alert Sophie. The danger was real and growing stronger with each passing moment. If Jennie were indeed in a killer’s sights, Sophie might well become a target by virtue of their association. The possibility slammed into her like a vicious blow.

  “Thank ye, dear. Ye’re a sweet girl. And the constables, they don’t give a fig about a poor miss like Sally.” Mrs. O’Brien wrung her hands as her features settled into a look of resignation. “It’s not like she’s the first. Promise me ye’ll be careful with all those late hours you keep. I don’t want ye joinin’ those other poor souls.”

  Jennie bolted up the stairs to the fifth floor of the boardinghouse. Sophie answered the coded knock upon her door with a smile that quickly faded. “What’s happened? Something’s wrong.”

  Jennie stepped inside and latched the door behind her. Nearly tripping over a crinoline petticoat that lay carelessly discarded on the floor, she navigated the heaps of ruffled fabric scattered about, moving as far from the door and walls as the small chamber allowed. One never knew who might be listening. She sidestepped another pile of clothing. After years as a ward in her wealthy uncle’s household, Sophie had still not adjusted to living without a maid. Perhaps she would someday acquire a semblance of tidiness. Then again, perhaps not.

  Sophie plopped into a whitewashed spindle chair. “Good heavens, you look as though you’ve seen Marley’s ghost.”

  Jennie waded out of the sea of fabric. “I’d much prefer a ghost. I’m far more concerned about the threats that live and breathe. There’s been another murder.”

  As Jennie relayed the news from Mrs. O’Brien, Sophie went the slightest bit pale.

  “How distressing.” Sophie’s brow furrowed. “To think the victim lived in this very building.”

  “Whomever the killer is, I don’t want you in his path. It’s time for you to leave this place.”

  Indignation blazed in Sophie’s eyes. “I am not a child. I’ve no need to run and hide.”

  “I’ve received a threatening note. More than one, actually. Given recent events, we must take the implications seriously.”

  She’d expected Sophie’s eyes to widen in alarm. Instead, a sly smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “My, you must be making someone very nervous. What will you do?”

  “First things first. I need to know you’re safe. Gather your things and find Campbell. At this hour, he’s probably still at his office. Tell him what I’ve learned and inform him that I’ve instructed you to find other accommodations. He’ll see you comfortably settled in at the Savoy. He’s well acquainted with the management. Until this insanity has come to its conclusion, it’s the most sensible solution. I won’t have you in danger.”

  “And what of you? Where will you go?” Concern blazed in Sophie’s eyes.

  Jennie patted her on the arm. “No need to worry. I’ve already worked that out.” The comforting little lie flowed easily. “Now, pack your traveling bags. We’ll keep the room, but for now, I won’t see you spend another night in this place.”

  Sophie filled two suitcases and slipped away while Jennie engaged Mrs. O’Brien in fond reminiscences of her dearly departed husband. Jennie eased out of the conversation as soon as Sophie’s hired carriage clattered down the street.

  She allowed herself a few minutes of solitude before preparing to face the crowd at the Lancaster. Her tem
ples throbbed in protest, but she pushed past the low ache and dressed in a sensible yet attractive ensemble. Her black wool skirt skimmed her curves just enough to draw the male eye, while her crisp, white blouse with leg-of-mutton sleeves—drat it all, the garment hung in lopsided disarray. She’d skipped a button. Her clumsy inability to dress herself might have held some amusement if tension did not weight her limbs and burrow like a fist into her belly.

  She unbuttoned the blouse and refastened the closures. Chin high. No time to fret. Get to the task at hand. Her father’s voice flickered in her thoughts, and a smile tugged at her lips as she placed her Sharps in her reticule and quietly made her way down the stairs.

  Tugging the hood of her cloak forward to shield her features, she wove her way through the bustling streets. Street vendors in threadbare coats peddled their goods while young boys hawked the late edition of the Herald and The Times. Office workers dodged carriages and work wagons as they made their way home from the heart of the city.

  Jack Trent emerged from a hansom parked mere steps from her building. Bugger it, what did the man think he was doing, following her to her residence?

  “Just keep walking.” He clipped the words in a low, harsh voice. “We need to talk.”

  Blast his arrogant soul! Was he intent on spying on her every move? “Have you gone mad? If we’re spotted together—”

  “A man could certainly take an interest in a pretty barmaid, couldn’t he? Colton certainly did.”

  “You should know the value of discretion. It’s bad enough you made a scene at the Lancaster.”

  “Two jealous men sparring over a beautiful woman. Nothing remarkable there. In another age, men would do battle over a woman like you.”

  “Highly unlikely,” she said crisply. “Why are you here?”

  “Constables hauled Colton from his residence.” He paused with an actor’s flare for the dramatic. “Less than an hour ago.”

  His words stung, painful as an open-palmed slap across the face. She pulled in a steadying breath. Devil take it, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her.