When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord (Her Majesty's Most Secret Service)

by Kingston, Tara

  “Professor Baker succumbed to a snake bite,” he said. “The man was not in the field at the time. Rather, he was in his bed at an elegant hotel in Cairo. He died without even attempting to summon help.”

  “An undoubtedly tragic circumstance,” she said softly. “It stands to reason he’d been overcome by the venom.”

  “The viper that bit him was never found, despite a thorough search of the hotel premises.”

  She cocked a feathered brow. “What precisely are you implying?”

  “I do not pretend to know what really happened to Baker. But his death may not have been an accident.”

  “Surely, you do not believe he was murdered.”

  “Is it so difficult to imagine a circumstance where a poisonous snake might be employed as a weapon?”

  She frowned. “Handling such a creature would expose an assassin to considerable risk. Any number of weapons would be far less dangerous and ultimately more predictable.”

  “If the murderer intended to create the illusion that the death was accidental, such a method would make sense.”

  “Perhaps.” Her frown deepened. “But you cannot doubt that Lord Carruthers’s death was an accident. He took a fall minutes before he was to present a lecture. There were more than a dozen witnesses.”

  “Professor Stockwell was convinced Carruthers had been poisoned. When he lost consciousness, the fall down the stairs created the illusion that his death was a tragic mishap.”

  “The illusion?” Alex scoffed. “Members of the audience who’d gathered for his presentation were quite certain of what they’d seen. There can be no doubt.”

  Benedict shook his head. “There is always doubt. At first, I also believed Carruthers’s death was nothing more than an accident. But then, I learned of a third death—an Egyptian who’d served as a guide on several of Stockwell’s expeditions.”

  “Another murder staged to look like an accident, I suppose.” Alex pursed her lips skeptically.

  He shook his head. “The guide was found just beyond the Great Pyramid at Giza. He’d been stabbed to death.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “As horrid as that is, he may have fallen victim to a bandit.”

  “Your theory has merit, save for one detail—before he died, Hamid left behind a message on a stone slab, symbols like hieroglyphs rendered in his own blood.”

  She blanched. “How dreadful. I presume Professor Stockwell was able to interpret the message.”

  “He translated two of the symbols, but the others were unlike any he’d ever seen. He confessed to being baffled by the glyphs.”

  “How very odd. His expertise was remarkable.” She glanced down at her hands, seeming to ponder the revelation. “The hieroglyphs that he interpreted—do you know what they depicted?”

  “He believed one symbolized a woman…a goddess.”

  “And the other?”

  “That one was the most obvious, according to Stockwell—it represents death.”

  “Death?” A gasp escaped her lips. “That’s rather morbid. The professor was certain of its meaning?”

  “He was adamant about his interpretation. And Alex, there was something else written on that slab—a name. Akhetaten.”

  “Good heavens. We were members of that expedition.”

  “Stockwell took it as a sign that anyone who’d been involved in the search for the priestess’s tomb has been marked for death.”

  She firmed her chin as she met his gaze. “If I am understanding this correctly, you believe we have been targeted.”

  “That would seem to be the case.”

  “But the expedition was years ago. If someone had opposed the dig, why would they wait until now to take action?”

  “I cannot speculate as to the killer’s motives. But after what happened here tonight, I am convinced you are in danger.”

  Her chest rose and fell as she drew in a deep breath. “After the initial exploration was over and we returned to Cairo, I translated the papyruses you and the professor recovered.”

  “Your interpretation of the symbols led to further exploration…to the hidden antechamber.”

  Her mouth thinned. “An action I regret to this day.”

  The censure in her eyes was like a blow. Alex had begged him not to smuggle the ancient jeweled ankh from the tomb. She’d expected him to be noble, to settle for an academic’s life and the pitiful coffers that went with it. If only she could understand how everything had changed when he had come into his title. He’d been deemed a lord, but without the funds to maintain the family estate or meet his obligations, the title had been nothing but a weight on his shoulders. That single relic he’d claimed for a wealthy collector had brought him enough blunt to lay the foundation for his future—for an existence that did not depend on spoiled title-hunting heiresses, for a life that afforded him freedom from his family’s debts.

  Of course, that choice had come with a price.

  It had cost him Alexandra’s love. He would never stop craving the passion he’d found in her arms. But he’d done what he had to do.

  “You’ve made that regret abundantly clear.” He met her piercing gaze. Even now, the amber fire in her eyes had the ability to detect his every weakness. “But given what we’re facing, that’s of little consequence. I am in need of your services. Your ability to translate these symbols will prove invaluable.”

  “And if I disagree? I have no interest in whatever scheme you’ve come up with. I am certain, at some point, the endeavor will involve adding to your fortune.”

  “If you doubt my motives, I suggest you visit your study and take another look at the bastard who came after you tonight. Rooney would have killed you. You cannot doubt that.”

  She rubbed her upper arms, as if to ease away the violence the vermin had inflicted upon her. Her response was subdued, just as it had been all those years ago when Benedict had walked away. She’d bravely tipped up her chin and held back her tears, even as he’d kissed her for the last time.

  Damn it, it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice.

  At least, he’d told himself that during those bitter days and nights after he’d left her, fool that he was.

  He shoved aside the thought. He had to focus on what mattered most—keeping them both alive.

  “Precisely why did you come here?” she asked, an artificial coolness infusing her voice. “Did you intend to save me…or yourself?”

  “Both.” He saw no reason to mince words.

  “What is it you want from me?” Her eyes had gone as frosty as her tone.

  “Your expertise may enable both of us to stay alive.”

  “Expertise, is it? I’m more inclined to think you’re after the map Professor Stockwell supposedly gave me for safekeeping.”

  “If you have the map—and I believe you do—I am asking you to give it to me. That will be a start. I also need you to interpret the symbols the guide left behind.”

  She folded her arms before her as if erecting her own personal suit of armor. “You think I will be able to interpret them? Given Professor Stockwell was stymied, I find that rather unlikely.”

  “Your skills are superior to Stockwell’s. You demonstrate an intuitive understanding of the syntax.”

  She gave a little shrug. “Assuming I can prepare a translation, how will it be used?”

  “If the symbols were indeed meant to convey a warning, the message will offer an advantage in preparing a defense against the threat.”

  “How can I be certain this is a not a ruse…to persuade me to lead you to yet another treasure?”

  He lightly draped her shoulders with his hands. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  Her throat constricted, even as the fire returned to her eyes. Slowly, she shifted her head side to side. “I cannot say that you have. Not directly, at least. But we both know you’ve quite a talent for evading inconvenient details.”

  “You are bitter about what went on between us?”

  “I would not use that word.” H
er mouth pulled tight, and she pinned him with her gaze. “In any case, you must admit your decision to leave London came quite abruptly. Before that morning when you informed me of your intentions, you’d offered no hint that the future you envisioned did not involve me. I would have appreciated your honesty regarding your feelings…toward us.”

  “It had to come to an end. There was no future. There was no us.”

  He made no effort to soften the hard edges of his tone. Damnation, the words were difficult to utter. No us. Regret churned through his gut, but he forged past it. This was no time for sentiment that would only serve to cloud his thinking.

  She regarded him for the span of several heartbeats, her luminous brown eyes wide and searching. “There was a time when you’d convinced me quite the opposite was true.”

  Blast it, when she looked at him like that, it seemed she saw through to his very soul. “I had nothing to offer a woman like you.”

  “So you said before you left. Peculiar, how that works. All I wanted was you. Not a blasted title. Not a manor house. Nor a country estate. Only you.”

  “We were young. Foolish. Blinded by primitive emotion.”

  “I would not describe what I felt as unevolved. But that was then, wasn’t it? Everything has changed.”

  “Indeed,” he said, allowing himself a moment to drink in the softness of her beauty. “Now, I have to keep us both alive.”

  She cocked a feathered brow. “You need not trouble yourself with me. Have you forgotten that my sister is married to the founder of the premier investigative service in all of Britain?”

  “Colton cannot protect you… Not against this risk. I need answers. You have the Pharaoh’s Sun. For now, I will not press you to entrust it to me. But I must know what Stockwell told you about the amulet.”

  Her expression softened, though suspicion continued to darken her eyes to amber. “He warned me of the whispers that followed the piece, the talk of a hex on the object. Or something of that sort. You cannot possibly believe that drivel.”

  “I’m afraid I do not know what to believe… Stockwell was convinced he’d discovered the truth.”

  Josiah Stockwell had been his mentor—and so much more. The man had been closer to Benedict than his own father. When the professor had summoned him, there was never a question of if he would watch over Alex. To protect her seemed as natural as breathing. He hadn’t needed to think twice. This was Alex, after all.

  His Alex.

  Odd, how even now, he thought of her in that possessive way. A lie through and through. She was not his. He’d tossed aside her love for a mad, impulsive quest.

  He’d made the choice to leave.

  He hadn’t intended to hurt her.

  Yet, somehow, even now, he knew Alexandra Quinn would always hold a piece of him.

  He’d gone so damned long without seeing her. Without holding her. Without breathing in her scent.

  Eight long years.

  He turned back to the window. Slipping the curtain to the side, he surveyed the quiet, darkened street. No sign of trouble. That, at least, worked in his favor.

  If only he knew who’d sent Rooney after Alex. The antiquities collectors he’d encountered would not deal with the likes of that blighter. Only a man without a speck of conscience would dispatch such a vile rotter after a woman.

  Bugger it, he wanted to kill the bastard. He’d struggled to rein in his fury when he’d swung the bludgeon against Rooney’s thick skull. The sight of the hulking bastard’s hand pressed to Alex’s throat had sparked a primitive rage, but he’d kept the emotion tightly leashed, if only for her sake. They had to discover what the cad knew of the threat.

  If only Rooney’s trail had not gone cold. Benedict had raced back to London, only to learn the man he’d pursued was hiding in plain sight. Damnable shame he had not gotten to Alex before the vicious cur put his filthy hands on her.

  But he’d neutralized the danger. He’d done that much.

  He did not deceive himself that the threat had passed. To the contrary, in his gut, he knew the events of the evening were only the beginning.

  …

  Keeping an eye on Benedict as he stood with his back to her, peering into the darkness beyond the window, Alex retrieved ammunition from a drawer in the sideboard and reloaded her Sharps. She felt no fear of him, even after all these years. But prudence had always been one of her strong suits, or so she’d been told—best to be prepared should a new menace rear its head.

  “I want you to know I’ve reloaded my pistol,” she said, keeping her voice calm and even.

  His broad shoulders lifted and fell. “I am also armed,” he said, not bothering to turn around. “Surely, you don’t think I came here with a hunk of wood as my only weapon.”

  “To be perfectly frank, I do not know what to think about any of this. If you have a gun in your possession, why didn’t you use it? As I recall, you are a crack shot.”

  “I’d been advised Rooney would be wearing body armor,” he explained. “It’s a habit the rotter cultivated. A gun is not useless against him, but I did not intend to inflict a fatal wound.”

  With a nod of understanding, she joined Benedict at the window. He peered out, searching the darkness.

  He stilled.

  “Someone is there…voices…outside the house.” He retrieved a Webley revolver from a holster beneath his jacket.

  Coupled with Benedict’s pronouncement, the quiet knock against the front door might as well have been an explosion, it startled her so. Alex took in the sound. Two taps. Followed by three raps in quick succession.

  She let out the breath she’d gulped at Benedict’s announcement and stilled him with a gentle touch. “Wait. I know who it is.”

  His brow furrowed. “You were expecting a guest?”

  If she hadn’t known better, she might have believed him jealous at the prospect of a late-night arrival. She cast aside the thought. She had far more pressing matters to consider.

  “No… Not a guest. I suspect my sister’s husband has gotten word about the situation. As you well know, Colton has informants throughout the city.”

  She turned to the doorway, but Benedict caught her by the arm. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t be certain it’s him.”

  Another coded knock drifted through the glass. “Colton and I have worked this out—it’s an alert.”

  Benedict flashed a questioning glance. “You speak as if this occurs on a regular basis.”

  “I would not say it is a typical occurrence,” she offered, deliberately vague. It wouldn’t be wise to reveal too much of her involvement in the high-level investigative service her brother-in-law had established at the Crown’s behest. She’d offer no more on the subject. “I really should answer the door. If Colton does not receive the expected response, he will take action.”

  “Stay here.” Benedict stalked from the room down the corridor to the front entry, weapon in hand.

  She hurried after him. “Do be careful, Benedict. I cannot guarantee that Matthew Colton will not shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Chapter Five

  Benedict cast a glance over his shoulder. As he’d suspected, Alexandra had trailed him. Despite her confidence that the latest man to arrive at her home tonight was her brother-in-law, Benedict could not risk her safety. If someone other than the head of the Colton Agency stood beyond the stout panel, the bloke would have to get past his revolver before he could lay a hand on Alex.

  Approaching the door, he motioned Alex away. If this was a trap, he’d take the brunt of the attack.

  “Who’s there?” she called out.

  “Matthew Colton.” His voice sounded muffled through the heavy oak. “An agent reported the sound of gunfire from this vicinity.”

  She slipped in front of Benedict and opened the door. “You’ve no need for concern,” she announced by way of greeting. “I was forced to put my Sharps to good use, but I’m perfectly well.”

  Benedict recognize
d Colton on sight. The London press had plastered the Sinister Inspector’s likeness on the front page during the man’s trial for murder. The former Scotland Yard outcast had risen from disgrace to lead a mysterious agency rumored to work directly for the highest-level officials of Buckingham Palace.

  Given the scowl on Colton’s face, he’d recognized Benedict as well. How much did he know of his history with Alex? Given the choice between encountering another ruffian of Alfred Rooney’s ilk and the calculating menace in Matthew Colton’s expression, Benedict would’ve preferred to face the dull-witted thug.

  “Good evening, Alexandra,” Colton said. “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” she said brightly. “I assume you have an idea of what’s happened.”

  “Possibly.” Colton was deliberately vague as his attention settled on Benedict. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  Holstering his weapon, Benedict held his ground. He’d traveled hundreds of miles to protect Alex. Damned if he was going to let a man who’d scarcely avoided the hangman stare him down.

  He met the other man’s glare with a look of nonchalance. “Have we met?”

  “Marlsbrook, you know damned well who I am.” Colton entered the townhouse. “The question that must be settled is this—what conceivable reason might you have for entering Miss Quinn’s residence at this bloody hour of the night?”

  “Come now, there’s no need to be unpleasant,” Alex said. “Benedict…Lord Marlsbrook…arrived on a rather crucial quest.”

  “A quest?” Colton’s eyes narrowed. “What is going on here? An agent interrupted my sleep to inform me that you might be in danger.”

  Alex planted her hands on her hips. “Precisely how did this agent come by such information? I trust you have not ordered surveillance of my comings and goings.”

  “Nothing of the sort. The agent was on the trail of a criminal, a hired killer suspected in the death of one of Her Majesty’s most trusted couriers,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Informants in Whitechapel indicated the man was near your residence. When she arrived, she could not be certain of the exact location of the shots fired. If she had been able to verify their source, she would have intervened.”