And she could not help but wonder if the information and experience she had to offer the Special League would ever be enough. They were fighting a shadowy hydra. One which may well prove impossible to defeat.
At last, they slipped inside the hotel, an impressive edifice from both the outside and in, where the atmosphere was considerably less chaotic than the streets, and yet, still tense. A handful of gentlemen milled about in the lobby, some of them engaged in deep, distressed conversation.
A clerk at the front desk greeted them, appearing nervous to Hazel’s well-trained eye. The young gentleman’s eyes were darting about. She could not be certain just yet whether his reaction was caused by the fear of the unrest surrounding his general vicinity, or if it was because he had something to hide.
“Good evening, sir,” Arden greeted him coolly. “We are here on behalf of—”
She squeezed his arm in warning and spoke over his voice, her instincts warning her with an edge too strong to ignore. “We are here to inquire as to whether or not you have an open room we are free to view. My husband acquired lodging for us at a different hotel, and I am afraid it did not meet my exacting standards. Some hotels in this city are not as concerned about keeping a tidy and clean space, I have discovered.”
She took care to emphasize her drawl, so her words emerged slow as molasses and sweet as sugar. And when the young clerk’s eyes settled upon her, she gave him a bold smile. It was a technique she had used often. Say far too much, make it apparent she was an outsider, lower the other person’s guard, and smile at him as if he were a tall glass of lemonade she could not wait to devour.
Arden made a sound of protestation, likely displeased by the manner in which she had ignored his earlier edict to follow his lead. She remained unaffected. After all, had he truly expected her to obey him?
She patted Arden’s hand and turned her false smile in his direction, telling herself she must look upon him as if he were a man she loved. When their gazes connected, something hot and unwanted flared to life, and she had to work to muster her thoughts. “Is that not right, my darling?”
He cleared his throat, then turned a ferocious frown upon the clerk, who was still staring at Hazel with wide-eyed confusion. “My wife wishes to see a room. You can accommodate her request, can you not?”
“Th-there was an explosion on th-the railway this evening, s-sir,” the unfortunate clerk stuttered. “I-I do not know if we are allowing additional—”
“Have you rooms?” Arden snapped, clearly losing his patience.
And she did not blame him, for they were wasting precious time. But she had a plan she intended to see to fruition. Her instincts had never before led her astray.
“More importantly,” she added, giving the clerk another slow and steady smile, “have you many American travelers who frequent your establishment, sir? Call me silly, if you wish, but I cannot help but think it wise to find lodging in a hotel where my fellow countrymen have also stayed.”
“We…er, yes.” The poor young man blinked, then shifted his gaze to the left once more. “Recently, we have had several Americans.”
The young man’s reaction to her query, coupled with his nervousness, told her everything she needed to know. There were Americans in residence, and it was quite likely some of them were responsible for the bombings today. And further, they had offered him money in exchange for some favors, which explained his awkward mannerisms and general anxiety.
“Excellent.” She smiled so hard, her cheeks ached with the effort. “If you will but direct us to an open room, sir, I will have a look, then we will return directly.”
“Er, room seven is not currently occupied,” he said. “You may have a look there. The door is unlocked. It is to be found down the hall, just over there, on the left.”
“Oh, but the Americans,” she drawled. “I would very much like to know where they are staying, so that I may view a room comparable to theirs, as our expectations are likely to be similar. Tell me, if you please, where those who have most recently arrived are residing.”
“Twelve and fourteen, but I do not believe there are any available apartments near those at the moment, madam.” The clerk paused. “I do apologize.”
Arden’s hand tightened over hers, as if in warning.
But she preceded with her plans. “Thank you, sir. We shall have a look at room seven, as you say, then return forthwith.”
Arden inclined his head toward the clerk, his only response, then led her away. When they were beyond earshot of the clerk, he made his irritation known.
“What the devil happened to you following my lead?” he growled softly.
“I never agreed to such a thing,” she returned through her teeth.
“You were smiling at him as if he alone is responsible for hanging the sun in the sky each morning,” he gritted.
Was the Duke of Arden jealous? She would be lying if she claimed the thought did not give her a trill down her spine. Even in the midst of their investigations, he was a potent force at her side. And she could not deny her reaction to him, any more than she could deny the longing he triggered within her. The man was a weakness she did not dare indulge in, but one that dogged her every step nonetheless.
“I was smiling at him as if he was a guilty-looking clerk, who was attempting to hide information at the behest of the Americans who paid handsomely for his silence,” she countered. “He had information I wanted, but announcing we are here on behalf of the Home Office or the Special League was not going to accomplish our gaining that information. He would have put up a wall and refused to allow us to climb it. But this way, we not only have access to the hotel, but knowledge of where the current American guests are residing.”
“I concede the merit of your approach, but that does not mean I like it.” His tone was dark and low.
“You do not have to like it, Arden,” she pointed out to him. It was true, after all. She was not his paramour, not his wife, and not a lady he was courting. What had transpired between them the other night in his study had decidedly muddied the waters, but nothing had changed, aside from the unwanted provocation of lust he stirred deep within her.
“You are correct,” he clipped, his tone cold. “I do not have to like it, and neither do I have to respect it. Forgive me for suggesting otherwise. It is merely that, if you wish to use your wiles upon every male you encounter in the course of an investigation, I shall have to prepare myself.”
They reached the apartments bearing the placard Number 7 and paused. She cast a glance over her shoulder in the direction of the clerk and the main desk. They were decidedly out of sight.
“I have no intention of using my wiles, if indeed I possess any,” she countered wryly.
“You possess them.” His response was quick. “You most certainly possess them, Miss Montgomery.”
Before she could respond, or even mull over Arden’s assertion, a gentleman bearing a valise bustled around the corner and straight into their path. It happened so swiftly, none of them had the opportunity to stop before a collision ensued.
The man’s valise fell to the ground with a loud, unnatural thump. It landed with such force, it split open, and the contents of the case spilled out, all over the polished hall.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said, as he stooped to hastily stuff the contents of his valise back inside it. “I ought not to have been traveling without paying attention.”
His accent gave him away. He was American. Of that, she had no doubt. And although he was on the wrong floor, that meant nothing. He had seemingly been in the act of moving to another destination with haste.
“Nonsense,” Arden said easily, his tone congenial. “The fault is mine. I was determined that my wife ought to examine the apartments available here, for she found the last establishment sorely lacking.”
“Indeed.” The American was hunkered down, frantically stuffing the contents of his valise within it once more.
Hazel studied the papers and attempted t
o read every word she saw printed upon the pages. She spied a map of London. Innocuous enough in the possession of any traveler, but on an American, who seemed eager to escape after Fenian bombs had just exploded on the railways, it was damning indeed.
“Nonsense, sir.” Arden bent down as well, snagging some of the papers. “Allow me to help you.”
“No thank you!” the man protested, his tone vehement. Too vehement.
Before Hazel could even formulate another thought, the American stuffed a handful of his spilled belongings in his valise and abruptly broke into a run, sprinting for the lobby. Arden growled a curse.
“Wait here for me,” he bit out, then ran after the man.
Chapter Nine
If Arden thought Hazel was going to remain where she was and simply await his return, he was mistaken. One suspicious American, hell-bent upon leaving the hotel in a hurry, meant there could be more. She wasted no time in finding the staircase leading to the second floor and took the steps as quickly as she could. When she reached the top, a quick scan of the placards led her to her quarry.
Room twelve.
She offered a quick knock on the door, and when there was no answer forthcoming, she tried the latch. It was unlocked. Casting a glance either way down the empty hall, she hesitated not a moment, before slipping inside.
The room was bathed in shadows and lit by a lone gas lamp. She made her way about the chamber, looking for any shred of evidence—newspapers, correspondence, books, maps—but the room was spartanly kept, and indeed, looked as if it had never even been inhabited.
Swiftly, she left the chamber, intent upon investigating number fourteen as well. But when she reached the hall, she discovered a man leaving that particular room, a hat worn low over his brow, and a portmanteau in hand.
“Sir,” she called out, belatedly recalling she had neglected to tuck her small pistol into her reticule before leaving for Winchelsea’s townhome.
The man’s head jerked up, and the luminaries in the hall cast light over his countenance. She barely suppressed her gasp of shock, for she knew the man staring back at her. She had served him at the Emerald Club in New York, when she had been disguised as Mrs. Mulligan.
Sean Flannery.
Although she had suspected the bombings this evening had been the products of the Emerald Club, seeing a member she knew so well, still rocked her.
“Have we met before, madam?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I do not recall ever having met you before, sir,” she lied, careful to mimic an English accent, clipped and precise. “Forgive my interruption. You seem to be going somewhere in haste. I was merely looking for an acquaintance of mine.”
“You were in my room,” said a deep voice behind her. “Why?”
The hackles on her neck rose as she slowly turned to face the man who had approached her from behind so soundlessly. Recognition hit her, along with a burst of dread. Thomas Mulroney, one of McKenna’s most trusted men.
And she saw recognition flare in his eyes as well, along with a dawning comprehension. Damnation, she had no means of defending herself, and she was in the untenable position of facing two men who had potentially just caused dozens of people to be injured, or worse.
“What are you doing here, Mrs. Mulligan?” Mulroney asked, steel in his voice.
In the next moment, something blunt and sharp connected with the back of her skull. The force was sudden, unexpected, and painful. Her vision clouded, darkening at the edges, as she struggled to maintain consciousness. But a second forceful blow hit her just then. Her vision went black, stars burst before her eyes, and she felt her body go limp, just before the darkness claimed her.
Lucien was not one bit surprised when he returned to the place where he had left Miss Montgomery and found her gone. The bastard he had followed into the crowded street had managed to disappear with ease in the throng. One moment, Lucien had been gaining on him, and the next, he had vanished. Though he had done his damnedest to fight his way through the street and apprehend the fleeing American, Lucien had been forced to acknowledge he was losing valuable time.
He had retraced his steps, ignoring the sputtering questions and demands of the desk clerk as he strode down the hall in search of his “wife.” Unfortunately, she was missing. Fortunately, he had a good idea of where he might find her, and unless he missed his guess, it would be somewhere in the vicinity of rooms twelve and fourteen.
He climbed the staircase two steps at a time, worry churning in his gut. If there were more Americans, and if they were indeed guilty of setting the bombs which had exploded on the railway that evening, Miss Montgomery approaching them alone would be not just foolhardy, but dangerous.
His fears were confirmed when he reached the second floor and discovered a prone female form. He recognized those skirts, damn it. Had she been shot? Good, sweet God. A sickening wave of dread hit him as he raced to her side. She was unmoving, lying facedown on the carpet. Lucien sank to his knees, fear knifing through him.
She was not dead. She could not be dead. He refused to believe it. She was too vibrant, too fearless. The thought of her lifeless stole all the saliva from his mouth. Made his gut cramp and terror roil through him.
No, no, no, no. It could not be.
“Hazel,” he panted, forcing himself to remain calm only through the exertion of great control.
This was not the first time he had come upon one of his fellow agents incapacitated. He told himself there was no difference between Miss Montgomery and the rest of the men he had worked alongside over the years. Then he noticed the blood in her hair, and he told himself he was wrong. She was different, and not just because she was a woman, but because he cared about her.
He did not know when or how it had happened, but at some point between the moment she had first sauntered into his office and offered him her hand to shake, and now, she had managed to storm his battlements. Hands trembling, he rolled her onto her back with as much tender care as he could. She was unconscious, but her chest was rising and falling. Thank Christ.
“Hazel,” he repeated, but she did not stir.
He was acutely aware of the tenuousness of their situation, and he knew he could not afford to remain in the hotel. They were on their own, she had been attacked, and the stakes were far too high. He had no way of knowing what had happened to her, or how badly she had been injured. All he did know was, whoever had done this to her could return.
Hunting down her assailant and the bastard who had bombed the railway—likely one and the same—would have to wait for another day. Hazel’s welfare was his primary focus. Abruptly, he was reminded of another day, long ago, when he had held his mother’s lifeless and waterlogged body in his arms.
She had walked into the North Sea, and though he had done everything to find her and save her, his efforts had been too little, too late. She had drowned, just as she had wanted, though somehow, the ocean had mercifully washed her back ashore, so he could find her and bring her home one last time.
He had failed his mother, but he would not fail Hazel Montgomery.
“Hazel,” he said again, gently patting her cheek. “Wake up for me, sweetheart. Come back to me.”
She emitted a low moan of misery, her eyelids fluttering, as she struggled to come to. All signs indicated she had received a blow to the head, rather than having been shot. The foolish, brave woman. If she had remained where he had told her to, she would not have been attacked.
“There you are,” he said, as a profound sense of relief hit him in the gut. “Open your eyes for me.”
“Arden?” she croaked, her eyes opening at last, bright and blue, reflecting her confusion. She shuddered, her hand lifting to the back of her head. “What…happened?”
“You were attacked.” He gathered her in his arms and stood. “But I have you now. All will be well.”
It was a promise he would do his utmost to keep. As he carried her to the first floor of the hotel, he also vowed he would bring the bastards res
ponsible for her pain, and the suffering of countless others, to justice. Even if it was the last thing he did upon this earth.
Hazel’s head felt as if someone had taken a hammer to it. She clutched at Arden’s shoulders, confused and disoriented, as he carried her down a set of steps as if she weighed no more than a babe in his arms. Awareness and lucidity returned to her slowly, in time with the pounding misery throbbing through her skull.
She was in the Great Western Hotel, she recalled, and she had run across Emerald Club members she recognized. But, most importantly, they had recognized her. Even without her disguise. Her voice was likely at fault, for she had interacted with Mulroney quite extensively in her capacity as Mrs. Mulligan. Someone had walloped her over the head, and she would be willing to wager her last nickel it had been Sean Flannery.
Hazel could not be certain which shocked her more: the recognition she had seen in Mulroney’s gaze, the sudden knock to her head, or the realization she was being carried by the Duke of Arden. She blinked up at his rigid jawline and his harsh countenance.
What had become of Mulroney and Flannery? Had they been able to disappear, thanks to her misstep in turning her back upon Flannery? She could only hope not. But in truth, she feared she knew the answer. Arden seemed grim indeed.
“Arden,” she managed to say, again vaguely aware of a commotion surrounding them in the lobby of the hotel.
A flurry of unfamiliar voices assailed her, much as it had earlier in the street.
“Excuse me, sir, you cannot simply…
“Good heavens! What has happened to her?”
“Is the lady unwell?”
“Touch her at your peril,” Arden snarled at someone.
And then, they were once more in the chaos of the street. The glow of street lamps, and the sound of horses and jangling tack, mingled with dozens of voices and orders being issued by policemen.
Shameless Duke Page 12
