When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) Page 11

  “When can I see you again? I want to know everything I’ve missed in the life of Jennie Quinn.”

  She retreated a single step. Her stomach did a little twist. Truth be told, she’d relish the opportunity to spend an evening on the town with Jack. Such a cherished friend from her early days at the paper. Witty. Droll. As starved for success as she was.

  But she couldn’t take the chance. Trent’s investigations had brought dozens of criminals to justice. He’d targeted Matthew Colton with a fierce dedication throughout the Yard man’s trial. If she were spotted with him, Colton would never trust her again.

  “Sadly, I’m neck-deep in an investigation. Another time, perhaps?”

  “Dine with me at the Savoy tonight. We always had a grand time there,” he persisted.

  “I’m afraid that’s not an option. Not now.”

  He stroked his clean-shaven chin. “There’s a man in your life. Of course.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing like that. How long will you be in London?”

  “Several days at best. My brother has taken ill. I’ve come at his wife’s behest.”

  “Bradley? I pray his condition isn’t serious.”

  “He’s expected to recover, but Cecily has no experience managing the household accounts and requires my assistance.” His gaze swept over her. A slow smile lifted his mouth. “I was a fool to let these years pass without seeing you. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  …

  Claude Harwick swept into the Lancaster, a painted blonde on one arm. His arrival set off a flurry of activity. Barmaids scurried about to ensure all the customers were content, while Harry gave each glass an extra swipe with his drying rag. Tending a group of customers seated in a dark corner of the tavern, Jennie hovered out of Harwick’s line of sight. Her shuttered gaze shadowed his movements.

  A pale, gaunt man who might have descended from Jack Spratt followed Harwick to a table. Glaring beneath hooded lids, the thin man’s dour expression posed a stark contrast to Harwick’s condescending smile.

  Sir Lawrence Bond.

  Jennie glanced away. Her mind raced. What in thunder was the scandal-plagued showman doing here? And with Harwick, no less?

  Bond leaned in toward Harwick. His jaw set in a hard angle, his mouth a grim line, Harwick shoved his chair to the side. What had Bond said to anger him? Foolish man, toying with a rabid cur like Harwick.

  Smiling politely as a customer bellowed another order, Jennie hurried back to the bar. Harry shot her a scowl.

  “What are ye doing here? Ye don’t want to keep the boss waitin’, now do ye?”

  With a brisk shake of her head, she marched to Harwick’s table. He acknowledged her as he came to his feet. “I’m heading up to my office. Bring a fine Scotch and two glasses.” He slanted the voluptuous blonde a smile. “And whatever my sweet Gloria wants.”

  As Harwick spoke, Bond’s gaze raked over Jennie. Bleary eyes seemed to look right through the tailored shirtwaist blouse she’d buttoned clear to her throat. He hovered a skeletal finger inches from her prim collar. Her skin crawled.

  “Modesty is an admirable trait, but it can be a damnable nuisance. You should display your beauty.” The strong odor of spirits on his breath thickened the air. “Have you considered the stage? I’d be willing to back you.”

  Harwick clamped rough fingers over Bond’s arm. “That’s enough.”

  Bond shrugged off his hold, keeping his gaze on Jennie. The greedy gleam in his eyes dimmed. A look of shock—and recognition—took its place. “Good God, you hired this one to replace your flame-haired songbird.”

  The faintly slurred words sparked anger in Harwick’s eyes. “I think we’ll only need one glass after all. Bond has had his fill.”

  “Yes, Mr. Harwick.” Jennie attempted her escape.

  Bond blocked her path with an outstretched arm. “Not so fast. Look at her, Claude. Surely you see it.”

  “What in bloody hell are ye blabberin’ about?” Harwick’s angry tone slipped into the rough cadences of his youth.

  “This girl is a dead ringer for your previous nightingale.”

  “You’re seeing things.” Harwick’s tone cooled. “Let’s get on with our business.”

  “She’s not painted up like Mary. But you can’t deny the resemblance.” Bond turned to Jennie. “He doesn’t want to admit it because he knows I’m right.”

  Harwick’s eyes narrowed in warning. “We need to get on with this. I don’t have all night.”

  “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten her so soon.” Swaying on unsteady legs, Bond backed away. “She was a beauty. Ah, so lovely. Before someone took a knife to her.”

  “You’re too damned deep in your cups. It’s time for you to get the hell out of here.”

  Bond threaded his fingers through the sparse strands on his balding pate as he made his retreat. “Claude, always such a temper.”

  Jennie turned to Harwick. “Shall I bring the Scotch, sir?”

  “Later,” he replied crisply. “After we’ve concluded our business.”

  Jennie nodded her acknowledgment and swiveled on her heel. She bit back a cry when strong, bony fingers bit into her wrist.

  “Mary had a fondness for me,” Bond stammered. “She was—”

  His words dissolved in a gasp. Harwick clutched the collar of Bond’s pristine white shirt. “Take your bleedin’ hands off her. This is a quality establishment.”

  Harwick accented his words with a shake that rattled the gangly man’s teeth. Bond’s hold relaxed. His eyes trailed Jennie as she backed away.

  “My apologies, my lovely—”

  “Bloody hell, Bond. You never could hold your liquor.” Harwick’s voice went low and harsh. “Now shut your mouth so we can get this over with. I don’t intend to spend the evening listening to your babbling.”

  “Temper, temper.” Bond smiled. “You forget, I’m the one holding the cards this time.”

  Harwick released Bond, thrust his hand inside the sot’s jacket, and withdrew an elegantly engraved gold watch. Tapping the glass with his forefinger, he eyed him with tightly leashed rage. “Ten minutes. I won’t waste any more of this night on the likes of you.”

  “We’ll do things your way.” Bond teetered on his heels. “You always were an impatient bastard.”

  “My office. Now.” Harwick ground out the words. He turned to Jennie. “Bring Gloria anything she’d like.”

  Stepping to the side, Jennie offered a nod. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Bond’s attention landed squarely on Jennie. “He knows I’m right. Let’s just hope you keep your pretty throat intact.”

  Harwick clamped a hand over Bond’s shoulder and propelled him to the stairs with a vicious shove. They mounted the steps to his office, reemerging so quickly, Jennie did not have time to deliver the tray containing a bottle of fine whiskey and two tumblers to Harwick.

  Bond slunk down the stairs. His Adam’s apple bobbed wildly beneath his parchment-pale skin. Fear-filled eyes stared ahead.

  “You’d better remember who you’re dealing with.” Harwick’s words were calm, quiet, and piercing as daggers.

  “Go to hell, Claude,” Bond replied with surprising vigor.

  Harwick chuckled. “We’ll see who gets there first.”

  “He’s here.”

  Rose’s conspiratorial whisper announced Matthew Colton’s arrival. The barmaid pinched her cheeks and smoothed her upswept honey-gold tresses. She leaned closer to Jennie, her expression sly and knowing. “Don’t let that fine suit fool you. He’s fierce as a pirate. Or so I’ve heard.”

  Fierce. And nearly as dangerous.

  Biting back her thoughts, Jennie busied herself at the bar. She studied Colton beneath the veil of her lashes. His tailored charcoal tweed sack coat defined broad, well-muscled shoulders. The ebony silk tie he’d carelessly knotted at his throat accented a strong jaw, while the deep chestnut hue of his neatly cropped strands intensified the darkness of that penetrating gaze.
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br />   He spared Rose a glance. A rake’s smile curved his lips. A scarlet flush spread over the barmaid’s cheeks, and the platter of steins in her hands shifted ever so slightly off-kilter.

  “Good evening, Mr. Colton.” Rose’s voice dripped spun sugar.

  “You might want to be careful.” Colton eyed the precariously tilted tray as he headed to the far end of the bar. Leaning an elbow against the counter, he addressed the barkeep. “Where’s Harwick?”

  Harry muttered something Jennie couldn’t discern. Colton turned away and took off toward the staircase, mounting the steps to Harwick’s office two at a time.

  “I’ve seen him looking at you,” Rose said, setting the tray down with a loud clatter. “How did you draw his attention? He’s usually…distant.”

  “I started a brawl,” she said casually.

  “You caused that ruckus a few nights ago?”

  Jennie savored the barmaid’s sudden puzzlement. “I suppose one could lay the blame at my feet.”

  “You’re having a spot of fun with me. You are always a lady with the customers.”

  “My manners weren’t the problem.”

  “Mr. Colton’s a mystery, he is. So well-spoken. And smart. Always looking to be calculating something. He doesn’t seem the kind to murder a man in cold blood.”

  “Murder?” Jennie feigned ignorance. Was the barmaid referring to the death of Colton’s partner, or did she have knowledge of yet another killing connected with the former Yard man?

  “I’d best not talk about it now. Some other time.” Rose smoothed her hair. “The walls have ears.”

  “Indeed.” Jennie offered a nod of understanding.

  Rose shot a glance toward the stairs. “I don’t think he’ll be here long. Harwick sent a messenger for him.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “I’m not sure what it meant.” She lowered her voice to a murmur. “Something about a threat. And that man Harwick had with him. The one stumbling over his own feet.”

  “Sir Lawrence threatened him?”

  Rose worried her lip, as if she knew she’d said too much. “I don’t know.”

  Before Jennie could delve deeper, one of Harwick’s associates bellowed an impatient request for the flaxen-haired barmaid’s attention.

  “Hold your hat, you old bounder,” Rose mumbled under her breath. “At least the bloke is free with his coin if you wiggle your rump.” She threw Jennie a wink over her shoulder and scurried off, her generous hips swaying beneath the voluminous folds of her skirts.

  Why had Rose hesitated to say more about Bond? What had her keen ears picked up? There’d be time to coax it out of her later. For now, she needed to discover Colton’s business with Harwick.

  Grabbing a tray, she motioned the barkeep over. “Harwick requested whiskey. I’ll bring it up to him.”

  Harry planted his palms on the counter. His gruff voice dropped low. “I wouldn’t want to be Bond. The poor bastard is goin’ to learn the hard way.” He edged closer. “You heard the sot rambling on about a songbird. There’s truth to his words. You look like her. Harwick’s last lady.”

  “His lady?”

  “For lack of a better word. Mary was a beauty. Same coloring as you. But painted up. She pranced around on the stage half-naked, played up to the fellows all right, teasing the coin from their pockets. That didn’t matter to Harwick as long as she filled his theater.”

  Jennie schooled her features. “What happened to her?”

  Swiping at a glass with a rag, the barkeep shot Harwick’s paramour a glance. Her bottom lip thrust out in an overdone pout, the blonde drummed her fingers against the table.

  “The boss got tired of her and took up with that strumpet. Damn shame, too. Mary was classy compared to that little shrew.”

  Jennie kept her expression purposefully bland. If Harry knew something about her informant’s death, she needed to find out. “What happened to her?”

  “She met her end a few weeks back. Murdered. Like our Lizzy.” Harry’s head bobbed from side to side, as if with regret. “There was talk on the streets…she was a thorn in Harwick’s side. When she took up with Bond, that was the last straw.”

  “With Bond?”

  Harry poured himself a shot of whiskey and downed it. “I overheard her arguing with Harwick one night. She threw it in the bloke’s face. Told him Bond wanted to marry her.”

  Jennie swallowed a gasp. She knew Mary had taken up with Bond when she needed another protector. Had Bond developed deeper intentions for their liaison?

  Harry rearranged a few glasses on the counter. “You’re goin’ to think I’ve gone daft, but I think Bond loved her. The poor bastard took her death hard. Been in his cups since they found her.”

  Startled by the raw timbre of his voice, Jennie studied the gruff barkeeper. “Did you know her well?”

  The creases on Harry’s weathered face deepened. “She knew how to speak to a fellow without acting like she had a stick up her arse. Under all that rouge and those bawdy clothes, she was a good woman. She didn’t deserve the end she got.”

  His words cut through Jennie like a dull blade, but she banished the emotion from her features. She had to change the subject. “Oh, Harry. I nearly forgot Mr. Harwick’s drinks.”

  He poured whiskey into two glasses and set them on a tray. “You sure he wants these now?”

  Jennie nodded. “Mr. Harwick requested them a while ago. As it is, I’ve kept him waiting.”

  The barkeep handed her the tray. “Just smile pretty and Harwick will forget all about the drinks. He’s always had an eye for redheads.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I don’t care what it takes. Get it.”

  Harwick’s words drilled through the closed office door. Bitter. Angry. Stripped of the thin veneer of refinement he wore like a disguise. “The son of a bitch thinks he can threaten me,” he went on. “I don’t care what you have to do. Make sure Bond keeps his goddamn mouth shut.”

  Jennie strained to hear Colton’s reply. She could make out a few muffled phrases, but his calm tones were hopelessly blurred as they drifted through the heavy barrier.

  She turned to the room adjacent to Harwick’s office, the bookkeeper’s closet-sized workspace. The wall between the rooms was thinner than the stout oak door. Sound would likely filter through with less distortion.

  She tested the handle. Locked. Drat the luck.

  Shrugging off the minor inconvenience, she set her tray on a sideboard and fished a pin from her upswept hair. A few twists and turns of the slender rod in the keyhole, and the lock released. Hinges creaked in protest. The door swung open.

  Jennie tucked the pin back in place, lit a small lamp, and placed the drink-laden tray on the only vacant surface she could find. Adjusting to the dim light, she scanned the room. Good heavens! She’d assumed the bookkeeper would be an orderly sort. But of course, one should never make assumptions.

  A chaos of documents met her eyes. Ledgers filled the shelves. Stuffed folders formed pillars against the walls. A modest desk overflowed with papers. Tidiness was apparently a virtue Harwick’s perpetually nervous bookkeeper did not possess.

  Spotting a ledger atop the tallest pile on the desk, she snatched it up. Thumbing through the worn volume, Jennie thanked providence for her good fortune. Within the book, the bookkeeper had recorded page upon page of entries in a small, precise hand. Income and expenditures, all quite ordinary, listed by date in cramped script.

  Until a most unusual entry drew her eye.

  November 7. Lawrence Bond. 1000 pounds. Legal Services.

  Her breath quickened. I’m the one holding the cards this time. Bond believed he had Harwick at a disadvantage. Had he extorted payment for his secrets? Foolish man, believing that vicious jackal could ever be cowed.

  Through the wall, Harwick’s venomous speech streamed an epithet-filled chorus. Judas. Bastard. Whoreson. His names of choice for a man he’d once counted among his closest associates. Had Bond’s affection for
Mary McDaniel destroyed that alliance?

  Keeping alert for anything Harwick might utter that would prove useful, Jennie paged through the ledger. Searching for other references to Bond and his dubious services, her gaze whipped over the meticulous entries.

  Nothing.

  No mention of Bond.

  Harwick’s words seemed to punch through the thin wall. The harsh cadences of a childhood on the streets of St. Giles trumped his consciously cultivated diction. “If you can’t get the sod to cooperate, I’ll bloody well find someone who will.”

  “This matter requires patience.” Colton’s voice. Calm. Direct. “If we put too much pressure on him now, he’ll run straight to the Yard.”

  “Find out his contacts. I want to know the name of every bloke he’s talked to and how much he’s told them.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  A quake rippled through Jennie’s stomach. She couldn’t chance discovery. The consequences would be disastrous.

  But she needed that entry, the single line that proved Bond had accepted payment from Harwick. The bookkeeper would miss the journal. But a single missing page would most likely go undetected. With quick, sure movements, she turned back to the ledger page, drew a fingernail along the inner edge, and ripped the sheet from its binding.

  She folded the ledger page into as small a square as she could manage and tucked it between her breasts. After extinguishing the light, she swept up the tray and slowly opened the door. Once again, the hinges protested, a low growl worthy of a dragon roused from its den.

  Harwick’s threats boomed over the sound. Sparing a quick glance at the office’s still-closed door, she tiptoed from the bookkeeper’s space to the stairs.

  Another set of equally contrary hinges sounded an unmistakable alarm. Harwick’s door. With a few hurried steps, she made it to the middle of the staircase. With a quick breath to slow her pulse, she turned to appear as if she was ascending the steps.

  The door closed behind Colton. He stalked from the room. Marching to the stairwell, he stared down at her. “What in thunder do you think you’re doing?”

  Jennie continued to the landing and held out the filled platter. “Drinks for Mr. Harwick.”