When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) Page 6

  As if for emphasis, the curly-haired moppet in the hat rubbed sleepy eyes with a small fist. Shock coursed through Jennie’s veins, even as emotion clogged her throat. The sight of the young boy clutching his sister’s chubby hand might have melted even Scrooge’s heart.

  Jennie shot Colton a glance beneath her lashes. How mistaken she’d been. He’d acted as the boy’s benefactor, not as one who’d employ the child to accomplish some sinister goal.

  Most unfair, surprising me so. She’d expected many things of Matthew Colton. This was not one of them.

  As if he’d read her thoughts, the harsh set of his mouth softened. He produced another coin from his pocket and placed it with the other in the child’s still outstretched hand.

  “Mrs. Callahan will have room for you both. This will pay young Sally’s board. Are there any others I need to know about before you run off again?”

  The boy shook his head and gave his sister’s hand a squeeze. “It’s just Sally and me. Thank ye, sir.” The lad shifted his sibling a look, then met Colton’s penetrating gaze. “Why, guv’nor? Why are ye doin’ this fer us?”

  “Let’s just say I was in your shoes a long time ago.”

  A band tightened around Jennie’s chest. As the children headed toward the boardinghouse, Colton’s gaze trailed after them. A distant sadness flickered in his eyes.

  “Mrs. Callahan will find chores to keep them busy,” he said in a low voice. “She could use some help in that rambling house.”

  A burning lump lodged at the base of Jennie’s throat. “You said you’d been in his shoes.”

  “That was a long time ago.” The raw words lowered a curtain over his past.

  She ached to reach out to him, to touch him, if only to ease the pain that swept over his visage. The glimpse of long-buried sorrow had been fleeting. He’d closed off that part of him, hidden it as surely as if he’d locked it away. Why did she long to comfort him, to somehow soothe the scars of his past?

  But she had to keep her wits about her. His momentary kindness to a child didn’t change a thing. Matthew Colton was still Harwick’s chief lieutenant.

  Despite his kisses. Despite the gentleness of his touch. Despite his benevolence to a street urchin.

  Still, she’d misjudged him, at least in that one harsh moment. “What you did was very kind,” she murmured.

  A haunting sadness flashed in his eyes. “I might need absolution for my sins someday. This could be considered a small down payment.”

  “I am safely home. You may find another damsel to rescue now,” Jennie announced as they approached Mrs. O’Brien’s Boardinghouse for Quality Women. “Your business here is done.”

  “Where you are concerned, I’m far from finished.” A blend of masculine hunger and unveiled suspicion marked his expression.

  So, this is how a mouse feels looking into the eyes of an alley cat.

  She drew her cape tight to her chin. “Good night, Mr. Colton.”

  He met her cool dismissal with a rake’s smile. “Good night, Jennie.”

  Without so much as a glance behind, she rushed up the stairs to her room, tossed her cloak onto a wobbly chair, and sank to the edge of the bed. Against her better judgment, she touched his scarf to her cheek. She closed her eyes. Traces of Matthew Colton’s scent conjured all-too-vivid sensations—the warmth of his kiss, the unexpected tenderness of his powerful hands.

  It was as if she’d known him for a very long time.

  Jennie sprawled over the bed and pulled the quilt around her. Matthew Colton could destroy her investigation. He could destroy her.

  She didn’t want to think about Matthew Colton.

  She didn’t want to drink in every nuance of his essence.

  She didn’t want to hunger for the heat of his body.

  When the scarf fluttered to the floor, she didn’t retrieve it.

  …

  Matthew lingered in the street beyond the boardinghouse. A lamp illuminated a window on the third floor. Jennie’s room, most likely. If she was as sensible as she was clever, she’d bolt the door, pull the covers around her, and dream of a man who could offer her far more than the shards of his shattered soul.

  He’d been harsh with her. He’d gone too far. Hell and damnation, he’d kissed her, then uttered insinuations even a harlot would not deserve. But she hadn’t shrunk from him. She had not retreated. To the contrary, she’d squared her shoulders and faced him directly, spirited and uncowed, regarding him as if he’d gone quite mad.

  Indeed. Perhaps this was a form of madness. The thought of her drawing the eye of a lowlife ruffian like Cathcart had triggered a protectiveness in him unlike any he’d ever known. Not that his wariness of the man was not justified. The scrawny sot was unpredictable and volatile. Could Jennie fathom the risks of tempting a man like that with the sweetness of her smile?

  He’d never experienced this overpowering need to shield a woman. Pretty barmaids flounced about the tavern, swinging their hips and flashing painted smiles every night of the week. Why was this woman different? What was it about Jennie that made him want to keep her out of reach of brutal men and their ruthless ways? What was it about her that made him give a damn?

  Even now, he felt regret twist in his gut. Regret. And something more. Devil take it, he’d ensure Cathcart stayed away. But the scarecrow was the least of his worries. God only knew he couldn’t afford to let his guard down. He could trust no one. Much less a woman like Jennie who was a puzzle he itched to solve.

  His breath fogged against the evening chill. And still he waited, watching that solitary light. The clock tower chimed. The window went black.

  She would be safe for the night from men who’d plunder her spirit and her beauty. From men like him.

  Turning, he headed toward his town house, covering the distance with long, brisk strides. He’d pour himself a stiff drink and will his body to sleep.

  When this night turned into another day, he’d reclaim his focus. He’d keep to his mission. And he’d protect Jennie from the menace that permeated the Lancaster. Even if it meant sending her away from the tavern. He’d see her out of Harwick’s sights. And his own.

  He’d failed his partner. John Crosby had not deserved his bitter fate.

  Damned if he’d let Jennie cross paths with the devil.

  Chapter Five

  The midday sun broke through the clouds, providing a measure of warmth to counter the frigid wind blowing off the Thames. Bracing himself against the damp chill, Matthew stalked toward his destination. Around him, work wagons, hansom cabs, and sleek phaetons vied for space while harried pedestrians rushed about like mice set loose in an elaborate maze. He pulled his hat low to shadow his features and picked up his pace.

  He slipped inside the rear entry of the Boar’s Head Tavern. The proprietress, his ruddy-faced aunt who’d put men to shame with both her ability to hold her liquor and her skill at tossing drunks out on their arses, met him at the door. Her stout arms folded over an equally ample chest, she raised her gaze as if to challenge him to remove the obstruction she posed.

  “What brings ye here, Matthew-My-Love?”

  His back teeth ground at the endearment. Flashing an exaggerated scowl, he met her amused eyes. “If you call me that again, I’ll haul you into the bloody river.”

  She waved away the threat. “Bollocks! Ye should be used to it, ye big, tough man. After all, ye’ve been hearin’ those words since I changed yer nappies all those years ago.”

  Matthew uttered a silent prayer for strength. God above, he’d no time for reminiscences. “Mum was a candidate for Bedlam, trusting you to watch over me.”

  “Bah, ye had no complaints. Besides, Annie had t’feed ye. She had t’earn her keep, and she couldn’t do that with a babe in arms. Ye’ll always be my boy, Matthew.” She swiped at her broad cheek. As if he’d believe a tear had actually come to her eye.

  Always theatrical, that one. Geraldine had missed her calling on the stage. She shot him a well-timed glance and
swiped at her cheek again.

  “But ye haven’t come to see yer auntie now, have ye?” She flashed a conspirator’s grin. “What brings ye here this fine afternoon?”

  “A woman,” he said, baiting the hook.

  “Ain’t it always?”

  “I need you to keep an eye on her. She’s here now.” He led Geraldine to a recessed corridor that offered an unhampered view of the tavern. Seated in a far corner with her back to him, Jennie sipped tea while her companion lifted a stein of ale to his mouth. “That one.”

  “The pretty bird with a feather in her hat?”

  “Yes.” He allowed his attention to linger on Jennie longer than necessary. A moment. A blink perhaps, nothing more. But Geraldine picked up on his hesitation to look away, blast the woman and her observant soul.

  “Who is she to ye, Matthew?”

  “An employee.”

  Geraldine’s brows shot up. “Is that so? She doesn’t look like…Harwick’s kind.”

  “She’s not.” He bit off the words. “I need to find out what she’s up to.”

  “And the man? Ye want me t’keep an eye out for the bloke as well?”

  Matthew studied the big-boned, dark-haired man who occupied Jennie’s interest at the moment. Damn shame he couldn’t see the blighter’s face. She’d certainly been in a hurry to get to him. From his spot in a coach parked across from her boardinghouse, Matthew had watched her bustle down the street. Strikingly pretty in a prim hat and cape, she would have caught his eye even if he wasn’t determined to find out what the barmaid was about. Wherever she was going, his gut had insisted it wasn’t a social call.

  He’d trailed her to the Boar’s Head. Why would a woman like Jennie venture into a workman’s pub? What sort of bloke would choose this wretched hole for a rendezvous? Surely a man of quality, even a rake seeking her favors as a mistress, would steal his moments with her in an establishment where the chef had trained in Paris, not the bowels of Whitechapel.

  Whatever their business, Jennie’s encounter bore no hallmarks of seduction. She offered the man a curt nod, stood and smoothed her skirt, then marched away as quickly as she’d come.

  “My, my, she’s in a bit of a rush, ain’t she?” Geraldine observed. “Looks like the gent ain’t gonna get a taste o’that.”

  Matthew’s clenched hand relaxed. Leave it to Gerry to read his bloody thoughts as plainly as a headline in the Daily News. “Keep a lookout for her. And the man. Make a note of what they’re about if either comes in here again. Can I count on you?”

  “Is there ever a doubt?”

  “No.” Peculiar, the truth in that small word. Aunt Gerry had been his fiercest ally since childhood. Though scarcely a decade older than himself, she’d moved heaven and earth to rescue him from a hellish existence after his mother’s death and had ensured his father knew the child he’d fathered. Her gruff exterior shielded a heart that was both tender and valiant.

  A furrow marked the bridge of her nose. Geraldine eyed him curiously. “The woman—she means something t’ye?”

  “I need to keep an eye on her. That’s all.”

  “Holding out on yer auntie, are ye? I’ll wheedle it out o’ye, in time.”

  Matthew stared after Jennie as her feather and cape disappeared out the door. From his vantage point in the shadows, he shifted his gaze to the man she’d left behind. The bloke hoisted the tankard to his mouth and took a long swig. His shoulders set in a taut line despite the ale he’d gulped. He dragged a hand through his hair. Whatever had gone between him and Jennie, the tension in his movements betrayed frustration rather than any sense of conquest. He had not gotten what he wanted. What had he sought from Jennie?

  “My, she’s a refined one. Tin t’spare.” Gerry gave a soft shake of her head. “That cap on her pretty head…fit for a duchess, it is.”

  “Indeed.”

  He rubbed his jaw as if that would blot out the sudden ache. Nothing made sense. The clever beauty had sipped tea in a dank pub with a man she’d soon left behind to down his ale alone. Blast it all, what was she about?

  A piece of the puzzle that was Jennie was still out of his reach. He’d bloody well find it before Harwick caught on to the contradictions. If the bastard suspected she’d come to the Lancaster as part of some scheme—blackmail, perhaps—he would show no mercy. And Matthew would be a dead man, if only for good measure, his own plans for retribution extinguished after years of sacrificing his life to this ugly quest.

  What in blazes was she up to? Why had Jennie insinuated herself into Harwick’s brutal empire?

  The questions tore at him. The only sure way to protect Jennie was to extricate her from Harwick’s world. He should give her the sack. But she’d caught Harwick’s eye. He’d ask questions—questions that might put both their necks on the line.

  Matthew couldn’t take that risk. Not yet. For the time being, he would protect her. He would figure a way to keep them both alive.

  But first, he needed to discover what the bloody hell was going on.

  …

  Just another man in a dark hat and coat, Matthew became part of the milling crowd. Following Jennie as she bustled to Oxford Street, he kept his distance as she made her way past shop after shop. Sparing little more than a glance at the window displays, she finally slowed before a milliner’s boutique.

  Her expression grew wistful. What had caught her eye? Another hat to teeter on her abundance of upswept curls? Another feather-adorned creation, or did this headpiece boast some other feminine frippery? He pictured his hands lifting away her frivolous little hat and tugging the pins from her hair, his fingers gliding through the wavy tresses until her copper-tinged locks tumbled nearly to her waist.

  Jennie threw a glance over her shoulder, dousing his waking fantasy with ruthless efficiency. Stepping back to take cover behind a stout fellow’s immense bowler, he watched as she resumed her brisk pace. She didn’t pause again until she approached the last merchant on the row. Abbott and Sons, Booksellers. Reaching up, she righted her windblown hat so it perched at just the proper angle. When she turned, her gaze fixed on him.

  “What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Colton. I hadn’t expected to encounter you here. Have you come for Miss Braddon’s latest?” Her delicate brows knit in something that looked like a frown. “No, of course you haven’t. I don’t take you for a man who enjoys sensation novels. I’d wager Mr. Stevenson is more your cup of tea.”

  “I’ve little time for such amusements.”

  She offered a solemn nod. Her eyes flashed brilliant green, the color of the Yorkshire dales in the spring.

  “Of course. What was I thinking? I daresay following your employees about the city must be quite an exhausting endeavor.”

  “This is a public street. Now who’s seeing intrigue where there is none?”

  “Quite true.” She gave a little wave of her gloved hand in the direction of the milliner’s shop. “Perhaps you’ve come to purchase a pretty hat for your mistress. I couldn’t help but notice your interest. I debated whether to part with my hard-earned coin for a new headpiece or pay my landlady this month.”

  “I have no mistress.” He shot a glance toward the plume. “And if I did, she wouldn’t wear bloody pointless scraps of felt and feathers on her head.”

  Her teeth grazed her bottom lip, as though she’d tucked her reply safely away. Ah, the things he wanted to do to that mouth. The taste he’d sampled had only provoked a hunger for more.

  Much more.

  She regarded him with a narrow-eyed stare that brought to mind one particularly shrewish governess his father had employed. Of course, if that harpy had possessed lips the color of ripe berries, Matthew might have paid far more exacting attention to his Latin declensions.

  “It has been a pleasure, Mr. Colton, but I must complete my errands.” Her curt nod seemed a dismissal. “Until tonight.”

  He reached for her. “Not quite yet, Miss Danvers.”

  She didn’t try to pull away. Rather, she fac
ed him directly, her eyes widening, her expression softening. A hint of a smile tugged at her mouth.

  “You have my word that I shall not offend the patrons with my dastardly feather. After all, some might feel great sympathy for the unfortunate bird that parted with it, especially after the fellows have imbibed an ale or three.”

  “As long as you keep your interactions with the customers focused on whatever they came to slog down, what you wear does not signify.”

  He’d expected her to stiffen, but if anything, the amusement playing on Jennie’s mouth intensified. “I’d only hoped to be congenial. I shall do my best to adopt a more efficient manner.”

  “That will be a start,” he said, well aware the sincerity in her lively green eyes could not hide the plain truth. She didn’t mean a word she said. In his gut, he knew she had good reason for the attention she paid to stench-ridden bastards like Duncan Poole.

  No, she wasn’t at the Lancaster to keep a roof over her head. She’d tangled herself in a dangerous web. Invited the threat. Encouraged it. But why?

  He’d ferret out her motives. He had to. Jennie had no idea what she faced, what terror was to come if she triggered Harwick’s distrust. A woman like her could not imagine the brutality that awaited anyone who crossed the cur.

  Somehow, he had to shield her. Matthew felt that truth in his bones.

  Bloody ironic, that. Christ, he was a marked man himself. He’d no way of knowing when his associates would put a bullet in his brain. A year? A month? A day?

  Sooner or later, he’d wind up face down in the Thames. Just like his partner at the Yard. John Crosby hadn’t deserved the death he’d been dealt. Matthew should have been the one to die that night. At least he’d courted his fate.

  Before long, he’d get his due.

  His fingers closed around Jennie’s wrist. Her pulse throbbed against his touch. At the moment, her pretty face bore tiny crinkles around her eyes and a distinct vee between her brows. “Are you all right, Mr. Colton?” The concern in her voice sounded genuine.

  He nodded as he released her. “I’ll take no more of your time.”