“I wanted you there. I knew you’d watch over her.” Simon poured two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and took a hearty gulp of the stuff. “It would be to our advantage to recover the relic. If the dagger is indeed authentic, it is both irreplaceable and priceless. The elders in the Antiquities Guild would view it as quite an accomplishment—one that would go a long way toward clearing the fiasco with Lady Caversham’s emeralds from their minds.”
“Their opinion of me is the least of my concerns.”
“Is it, now?” Simon cocked a dubious brow. “Has it occurred to you that if Jones is afforded the opportunity, he could lay claim to the dagger as evidence? It’d be a damned shame if that sgian dubh winds up in American hands. I’d considered calling upon Connor or Gerard to go after the relic, but I assumed you would seize the opportunity.”
Opportunity. Harrison scowled. Simon certainly prodded his weak spots. If he thought to spur Harrison into engaging in a pointless competition with his brothers, he was mistaken.
“They far surpass me in recklessness. There’s no contest there. But their impulsiveness could be an asset in the search for the dagger.”
Simon nodded his agreement. “I cannot argue that.”
“Assuming the evidence does indeed connect O’Hanlon with the investigator’s death, how does this tie in with the heiress’s intended?”
“We have established a definite connection. Lowry’s killer made a mistake. He was interrupted before he could finish off his victim. A constable came upon the gravely wounded man. Too late to save him. The poor bastard managed to utter a few words before he died.”
“He identified O’Hanlon as his killer?”
Simon gave his head a slow, weary shake. Exhaustion was coming over him, just as it had settled into Harrison’s bones. “The investigator gave a name—Lyceum. We believe he’d found evidence at the Lyceum Theater. Raibert was one of the most acclaimed members of their troupe.”
“And there is the link to Raibert.”
“One of many,” Simon agreed. “We suspect Raibert and O’Hanlon are connected to a trio of deaths in Brooklyn, all very nasty affairs. Raibert has been very adept at covering his tracks. He’s clever, unlike his brutish associate. In any case, there’s something else to consider—assuming Raibert has the dagger, we need to determine how he got his hands on it. If Miss Fairchild was involved, he may want to silence her. Guilty or innocent, she may be in grave danger.”
“Indeed.”
“We’ve good reason to believe Raibert has had men killed in the past. There’s no reason to think he won’t do it again if the murder suits his purposes.”
“All the more reason to send an experienced agent. If you give a damn about Miss Winters’s safety, you will convince Jones to call off the mission.”
“We both know he’s not going to walk away empty-handed. Jones has got too much on the line—he’d rather risk her life than his own ambition.” Simon rubbed his neck wearily. “He has an ally in the Home Office. Miss Fairchild’s involvement makes this a sensitive matter for our government. They expect the matter to be settled, by any means necessary.”
“Bugger it,” Harrison muttered under his breath.
“Jones will forge ahead with this plan, with or without our cooperation. And Miss Winters will go along with his demands. Where her future is concerned, he’s holding all the cards.”
“The bastard is willing to risk her life?”
“Jones does not see it that way. If you refuse this mission, he intends to provide her security.”
“I bloody well hope the man does a better job of it than he did tonight.” Harrison gritted the words between his teeth. “O’Hanlon wasn’t going to let her walk out of that place alive. If I hadn’t gone after her…”
“O’Hanlon would’ve silenced her.”
Harrison clenched his hand into a fist. How could his reason-driven brother involve any woman—much less a woman who’d never been trained in the art of defense—in such a scheme?
“The danger is unacceptable. I cannot fathom your willingness to go along with Jones’s plans.”
“The final decision is out of my hands.” Simon leaned over his desk, tension setting his jaw into a grim line. “Jones is determined to go after Miss Fairchild, no matter what it takes. Miss Winters is the key to getting the evidence he needs. He’s confident he can defend her.”
“He’s a damned fool.”
Simon nodded his agreement. “We need you for this mission, Harry. Go with her. Unless you would see her walk into a vipers’ lair with only the American to watch over her.”
Blast it, his brother could always touch a nerve.
What choice did he have? How could he rest his head at night knowing they’d sent an ill-prepared woman—even a thief and a liar like Grace—into danger?
“I’ll do it. You know better than to think I would turn away from my duty.”
As if duty is my sole motivation. Does Simon see through me?
“I have full confidence in your ability to protect her.”
And if I cannot keep her safe? What happens then?
He’d failed once before. The guilt clawed at him still, even in his dreams.
With an effort, he shook off the thought. Doubt would only make him weak.
“I’m glad you see it that way. However, we do have one complication,” Simon went on. “Miss Winters expects this mission will absolve her and her aunt of their crimes. That may be the case regarding their infractions across the Atlantic, but no such arrangement exists with the Highland authorities. As it stands now, Miss Winters will face justice in Scotland before she ever returns home. Are you prepared to face that situation when it arises?”
The question twisted in Harrison’s gut like a punch he hadn’t seen coming. He let out a low breath. Grace was a cheat and a deceiver. Seeing her pay for her crimes should not cost him a wink of sleep. He’d protect her, but when the time came, he’d do what was right. He’d follow his duty.
He took another drink, gulping down the remainder of the scotch.
“In the end, Gracie Mae Winters will get what she deserves.”
Chapter Seven
When Grace had been a very young girl, her mother had urged her to take her castor oil in one foul gulp. Over and done, Mama gently coaxed. Despite her revulsion, Grace had dutifully choked down the awful-tasting stuff. Her mother had been right. It was better to get unpleasantness over with and move on to what lay ahead.
As she took in the plain, weathered brick building that housed Simon MacMasters’s office in the light of day, she considered Mama’s words. Over and done. Yes, that’s what she would do. She would keep her chin up and get the job done. As was the case when she’d been a child with a tummy ache, she had few options, none pleasant. She’d simply have to put up with the revolting taste of the task ahead and keep her thoughts focused on the future.
Squinting, she stared up at the three-story structure from her place in the carriage. A hint of sunlight peeked through the crowds, and she blinked against it. Nestled in a history-rich city that boasted its share of striking architecture, this particular building was surprisingly nondescript. Was that by design? After all, this place would draw little attention from passersby. No one was apt to guess that Simon MacMasters, a barrister of unremarkable success, was actually the chief strategist of a covert organization that had ties to the Home Office and the Crown. Mr. Jones had actually seemed impressed by his achievements, a rare thing for a man who appeared to be built of arrogance and a brash sense of duty.
The young agent named Bradshaw had arrived at the hotel shortly before noon to transport Grace to this outwardly ordinary place where decidedly unusual business was conducted. Aunt Thelma had stayed behind at the hotel. The less the woman learned of their plans, the better. She’d been told only enough to ease her mind over Grace’s well-being.
The driver of the carriage rambled along at a brisk pace. She recognized the old gent from an earlier journey through the Highla
nds. Fergus Royce had been pleasant enough as he greeted her with a tip of his bowler hat.
“Aye, I hadn’t counted on seein’ that bonny face of yours around these parts,” he’d said with a broad, craggy-faced grin before taking his place on the bench.
The distance traveled was mercifully brief. Mr. Bradshaw had maintained a cultivated reserve, careful to act the gentleman during their time unchaperoned in the coach. At least these men treated her with respect. She could not say the same for some of those who’d paid for her unique services in the past. She’d grown accustomed to cutting looks from the highbrow gents and ladies who expended considerable sums for her larcenous expertise, their silent condemnation for the sins she committed on their behalf.
“You’ll be getting well-acquainted with Fergus’s skill with the reins. He’s one of the best drivers in the business,” Mr. Bradshaw said, breaking the silence. “He’s been handpicked for this mission by Simon MacMasters—quite an honor, I’d say.”
“I am well-acquainted with Mr. Royce’s skill, if that is indeed the name for it.” She managed a small smile. “At this point, I feel as if my back teeth might soon rattle out of my head.”
His mouth curved up, a mere hint of a grin. “If we’re ever in trouble, you’ll see what I mean.”
As the carriage rumbled to a stop, Grace remained thoroughly unconvinced of Mr. Royce’s talent for guiding a team of horses. Rather, she gave silent thanks as the jarring motion of the coach stopped. Touching her fingers to her jawline, she gave the area a little massage, assuring herself all of her teeth remained firmly in place.
The agent escorted her from the carriage into the office. With a tiny tug, she lifted her ebony wool skirt so the hem brushed her ankles as she mounted the steps. As Mr. Bradshaw rapped upon the door, an unusual rhythm she surmised must be a code, she smoothed out the fabric. Nervous energy coursed through her body, and suddenly, her high collar was too tight, the lace scratchy against her skin. Reaching up, she adjusted the cameo at her throat.
The door opened, and Simon MacMasters ushered them inside. A quick glance around the room confirmed that Harrison was not present. She let out a low breath. Not quite relief. But an emotion she could not hope to define.
Mr. Jones stood by a window, appearing to keep watch. He spared her a glance, but said nothing as MacMasters offered her a seat.
“I trust you slept well, Miss Winters,” he said as she swept her bulky skirt to the side and settled onto the cushioned chair.
“I’d be lying if I said I did. But that doesn’t really matter now, does it? We’ve no need for pleasantries neither of us really mean.”
“You are direct, aren’t you?” MacMasters said. Not quite as tall and lean as his brother, he bore a striking similarity to Harrison. With his carved jaw and eyes that gleamed with a dynamic intelligence, he was a handsome man who carried himself with an air of fierce self-control. Simon MacMasters was not a man to give freely of his emotions. Grace read that truth about the man as clearly as if he’d written it on a banner and displayed it on the wall.
“I try to be, when the occasion allows for it. There are many times when I’m forced to withhold my honest observations. In my line of work, agreeability is a prime asset.”
He nodded his understanding. “You’ve mastered that art.”
“Through necessity, not by any whim on my part.”
She sighed. Why did it matter to her that these men understood the reasons for her deceptions? They didn’t care about her motives. They didn’t give a damn that her conscience troubled her. All that counted in their eyes was that she put her unorthodox skills to good use for their benefit.
Jones turned to her. “Let’s get on with what we’ve come here to do—you’re prepared to undertake this mission?”
“Yes,” she said. “Now, may we get on with our business?”
“Of course,” MacMasters said, glancing past her to the door as another series of raps broke through their terse conversation. He turned to the door, opened it, and spoke to the person who stood just beyond the entrance. “You’re late. We were expecting the carriage to arrive more than an hour ago.”
“Bugger off.” Fergus Royce strolled through the threshold, his craggy chin at a cocky angle. “Ye’re bloody lucky to have me.”
“Now that is a matter for debate,” MacMasters replied drolly as he peered past the skeleton-thin driver to Harrison. “I see you finally decided to join us.”
Harrison’s cold gaze settled on his brother. “I second Royce’s sentiment.”
Grace’s heart thudded wildly. She’d been so certain he wouldn’t come, so positive he wanted no part of this endeavor—nor any other that involved her, other than seeing her behind bars in a cold, dank cell. Why in blazes was he here?
Something that might have been amusement played on Mr. Jones’s full mouth as he turned to Harrison. “I assume you’ve made your decision.”
“I have,” he said, without revealing what said decision actually was. Harrison could be an infuriating man. Feeling his attention fall on her, she steadied herself. Her mouth went dry, but she wasn’t about to betray that.
“Why are you here?” she asked, amazing herself that she managed such an emotionless tone.
His eyes gleamed, hard as jade. “I might ask the same of you. I thought you, of all people, would have had better sense than to agree to such a far-fetched scheme.”
The cool reproach in his tone pierced her heart. Her pulse stuttered, and she carefully considered her response. Harrison MacMasters had no right to speak to her with such derision. The man had no idea what she faced if she refused Jones’s offer. His arrogance was born of means, of privilege. He’d likely never had to concern himself with another’s well-being, with providing for those he loved. How dare he look at her with that fire in his eyes, as if she were the most gullible of fools?
She faced him directly. “My sense—or lack of it—is none of your concern.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” he said. “From this moment forward, our fates will be intertwined. At least, for the next fortnight or so.”
“Our fates…intertwined? Why, Dr. MacMasters, I do believe you’ve missed your calling. Surely there is a market for overwrought drama. There must be some melodramatic thespian who’d love to spout that line.”
Jones looked as if he wanted to say something, but held his tongue. Grace turned to him. “Do you intend to tell me what’s going on?”
“There’s been a change in our plan… I’d worked it out that we would be traveling under the guise of brother and sister, but I’ve been made aware of certain flaws in that scenario.”
“Flaws?” Grace crinkled her nose. “I thought it would work.”
Seeming to stall his answer, Jones plowed a hand through his dark hair. He let out a low breath. Whatever he was about to tell her, it was going to be a humdinger.
“As far as Belle Fairchild and her cronies are concerned, you are no longer going to be a bridesmaid.” Jones met her eyes. “This time, you’re going to be the bride.”
“Bride?” The question came out as a gasp.
“Well, a recent bride,” he went on. “For the purposes of this mission, you will be traveling with your newly wedded husband at your side.”
Good heavens, the man was infuriating. She’d neither the time nor patience for what seemed a bizarre puzzle.
“Husband? What in blazes are you talking about?”
As if on cue, Harrison crossed the room. Slowly, each step measured, he kept his eyes on Grace. Reaching for her left hand, he gently slid a rose-gold band over her ring finger. His mouth curved at the corners, but no sane person would have dubbed the tilt of his lips a smile.
“Consider this part of your disguise, Miss Winters. Or should I say—my darling wife?”
…
If Harrison had been a mere onlooker and not a participant in this ill-conceived farce of a mission, he might have found Grace’s expression humorous. At the very least, he might’ve ta
ken some satisfaction in the fact they’d found something capable of rendering a woman who’d mastered conversation as a weapon momentarily speechless. She stood very still, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide with shock. Or was that disbelief? In either case, she seemed to reach for words that would not come.
But given the circumstances—and the fact that his own initial reaction to this newest aspect of Jones’s scheme had mirrored her own—he found neither humor nor satisfaction in the situation. The prospect of masquerading as newlyweds bordered on the inconceivable. At this point, Grace could scarcely look his way without tiny shards of glass gleaming in her gaze. Whatever tender feeling she might have once possessed for him had been trampled into bits. In her eyes, he was now the enemy—an enemy who wished to keep her alive long enough to see her punished for her crimes.
Her eyes narrowed as she folded her arms over her chest. “Isn’t it a little early to have started drinking?”
He met her cold glare. “Actually, I’d be in a far better mood if I had imbibed this morning. I am by no means overjoyed at the prospect of carrying out this charade.”
She heaved a sigh, a bit more dramatic than he’d expected. Not that he doubted her dismay. God only knew he was far from overjoyed at the prospect of pretending to be her newly minted husband. How the hell was he supposed to gallivant around Scotland with this woman—out of all of the women on the planet—and keep his focus on the investigation?
Planting her hands on her hips, she turned to Jones. “This is absurd. Was this your idea?”
He nodded. “It’s the only way we can make this work and ensure your security.”
“Why, I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a harebrained proposition in all my days.”
Her complexion flushed as anger sharpened the rounded edges of her words. She was furious. And absolutely beautiful. Vibrant and alive, her velvet-brown eyes flashing, she bore little resemblance to the mousier woman who’d stood in this room the night before and agreed to sell her soul in exchange for her freedom.
“Believe me, Miss Winters, we have discussed several alternatives. None of them will work,” Simon explained.
Tempting the Highland Spy Page 6
