“What is that?” the man demanded.
“Professor Stockwell’s field journal.”
“Give it to me,” he ordered.
If she surrendered them too readily, he would suspect they carried little worth. “I do not believe that would be wise. There’s nothing in there that would interest you. Only dry accounts of the best methods for excavation and such.”
He stared down at her, cold brutality in his gaze. “Get me the damned book.”
“Very well,” she said. Adding a sigh for effect, she took the journal in her hands.
“You had better pray this book has some use. It might just keep you alive.” Lunging for her, he caught her wrist in one powerful hand and dragged her to him. The sour smell of liquor tainted his words. “You’re coming with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Benedict poured a measure of whisky, the finest blend from a well-established Highland distillery and raised the tumbler to his mouth. The Scotch warmed him, easing through the tension that set every nerve on edge. Rubbing the back of his neck, he reclined in a well-used, overstuffed chair in his study. Though decidedly lacking in elegance, the sturdy piece was by far the most comfortable item in the whole damned house. His grandfather had favored the chair, and after his death, Benedict’s father had held on to it, if only to spite his wife. With its faded blue tones, the chair clashed miserably with the forest green draperies and the pale taupe walls. But Benedict did not give a damn.
Setting the glass on a side table, he rubbed his upper arm. As a lad, he’d broken the bone near his shoulder in a fall from a horse. The long-healed break still ached like the very devil on days when moisture filled the air with relentless gray hues and rumbles of thunder overshadowed the noise of the city.
Taking up the tumbler, he helped himself to a hearty draught. If he didn’t have so bloody much ahead of him on this day, he might consider getting himself well and truly foxed. God knew he could use some respite from his thoughts.
He didn’t regret coming back to London. He’d chased Rooney down just in the nick of time. Had he not, Alex probably would not have survived the ugly encounter. The very notion that she could have been harmed sickened him. But he’d protected her. He’d honored his pledge to the professor. Now, she no longer needed him to watch over her. There was no sense in staying in the gloom-ridden city any longer.
So why did he feel like a coward?
Coming to his feet, he moved to the window, swept aside the curtain, and studied the sky. A storm loomed on the horizon. It wouldn’t be long now before it erupted.
How bloody appropriate on this day when he’d walked away from Alexandra. Again.
He turned away from the window. Behind him, the curtain fell back into place. Deep within, he felt a storm brewing, one he had no more power to control than the one blowing in over the Thames.
He longed for Alexandra. He wanted her. Now, more than ever. If he had any sense, he’d pull himself together and put the notion of a life with her out of his mind.
Impulsiveness and raw emotion had little place in his life.
But all that changed whenever he was near her.
One look at Alexandra’s beautiful face, and his self-control had careened out the window like a bat let loose from the bowels of hell. God above, he’d nearly taken her in her study, inches from a stack of dry reference tomes and within arm’s reach of her blasted cat’s ridiculous little bed. When he was in the same room with her, all he could think of was how damned much he wanted to kiss her. Even now, separated by bricks and mortar and distance, his hunger for her had not abated.
Damned shame he knew better than to consider a future with Alexandra—whatever having a future with someone even meant. In all his years, he’d seen very few relationships in which the parties actually shared a future, rather than being occupants of the same residence with little else to bind them together. His parents had certainly not made a life together. Not truly. His father’s gambling had spurred his mother’s discontent. Her fears that they’d end up in poverty—that she’d have to turn to her brother for funds—had driven a wedge between them. Perhaps his father and mother had once loved each other. Or perhaps not. Damned if he knew. But he could not remember a time when his mother had looked upon his father without unadulterated contempt.
If he tried to build a life with Alexandra, would she always kiss him with passion? Would she whisper words of love against his ear as they lay in each other’s arms? Or would they eventually settle into a pattern of cynicism and derision as his parents had done? She’d looked upon him with disdain that afternoon. She’d made her feelings clear, her disappointment at the notion of him profiting from his explorations. Not a promising start for a future together. Not at all.
Of course, he couldn’t blame her. He’d spent nearly a decade earning her scorn.
It was too late to change that now. Damnation, he knew what he needed to do.
He had to get the hell out of London. Away from Alexandra—the one woman who held the power to distract him from his objectives.
The doorbell’s chime sounded through the house. Who the bloody hell might that be? The question seemed a growl of irritation.
Colton’s voice reached his ears. He surged to his feet. What in blazes was going on?
Roderick called out to him, but Colton got to him first.
“Where is she?” he demanded, marching up to Benedict.
The expression on Colton’s face made Benedict’s blood run cold. Something was very wrong.
Where is she?
God above, was he referring to Alexandra?
“What the hell do you mean?” Benedict countered.
Colton turned to Roderick. “How long has he been here? Tell me the truth.”
Roderick regarded him with a bland expression. “Lord Marlsbrook has been in his residence for more than two hours. At the risk of appearing insolent, why are you asking me that question when the man is standing before your very eyes?”
Ignoring the butler’s inquiry, Colton appeared satisfied by Roderick’s answer. He turned his focus to Benedict. “Why were you at Alexandra’s home this morning?”
“She sent a messenger for me. But I am sure you already knew that.”
“I had to confirm my source,” Colton explained. “Why did she send for you?”
“She found the map. Again, I’m sure you were aware of that.”
“You have it in your possession?” Colton pressed.
An invisible fist burrowed deep into his gut. Whatever was going on was not good. And it involved Alexandra. “No. I did not view it. Our meeting was rather brief. What in hellfire is going on?
Colton tore a hand through his hair. His features hardened to an impenetrable mask.
“Alexandra has gone missing.”
Benedict did not deceive himself that he’d never felt fear. In his life, he’d endured a fair measure of the emotion. As a lad, he’d learned to withdraw from his father’s contempt, the cutting way his sire regarded him as a scrawny runt. He’d hide away when his father stormed through the door, spewing curses after a late night of carousing and gambling, smashing porcelain plates and destroying anything within reach. Benedict would slip inside a pantry closet or simply retreat to his bedchamber to avoid the violence. Cowering under the bed or concealing himself behind some clothing in his wardrobe chest was preferable to weathering his father’s drunken rages. Once, when he’d been a boy of eight, he hadn’t been quick enough to flee the man’s path. A resounding slap across his face had been his punishment for the insolence his father had perceived in his expression. The hard blow had brought his mother running. She’d put herself between them, taking the beating to shield her only son. His terror had been very real. He still had nightmares of that brutal night.
But nothing he’d ever experienced compared to the raw fear that dug its barbed tentacles into his gut. Alexandra had disappeared. She’d departed her residence abruptly, leaving behind no indication of where she’d gone,
who had accompanied her, nor any explanation for why she’d left in the middle of the day. It appeared she’d taken the professor’s research journals with her.
Now, standing in Matthew Colton’s office in his agency headquarters, Benedict fought to rein in the emotion. He had to focus his energy on rational thought. He needed to deduce what might have occurred and formulate a plan to find her. He would not allow her to become the next victim. Whatever it took, he would save her. Fear, no matter how well justified, served no purpose.
“Her housekeeper had gone to market, escorted by our driver, Bertram.” Colton tapped the nib of his fountain pen against the map of London spread out over his desk. “Alexandra’s residence is located here, on Weatherby Street. Mrs. Thomas spotted Alexandra entering a carriage that proceeded to move away from the townhouse as she and Bertram approached. The housekeeper could not get a good look at Alexandra, but she’s convinced foul play is involved. It’s not like her to simply leave without providing any notice of her plans.”
“The housekeeper provided information about the carriage,” Jennie Colton said, her voice steady despite the concern in her eyes. “The thing of it is—she might have described yours, down to the monogram on the side.”
He turned to her, forcing an evenness to his tone. “There are any number of coaches in the city that bear an M on the door.”
“Of course,” she said. “But her description of the crest beneath the initial was quite detailed. I’d say it matches yours rather precisely.”
“Are you implying I am withholding the truth?” A current of indignation simmered through him. Surely they could not believe he’d harmed Alex, then calmly returned to his townhome and sprawled out in a chair to take a rest from his exertion.
She offered a brisk shake of her head. “No, nothing of that nature. I feel entirely confident in the strength of your word.” She wove her fingers in a nervous knot before meeting his gaze. “It would appear that whoever came for Alex intended to mislead any witnesses to her departure. An observer who briefly spotted the carriage would note the most obvious details and provide a description that would lead investigators to you.”
“Why would anyone do such a thing? What you’re describing would require planning at an intricate level.”
“Indeed,” she replied as Matthew Colton looked on, his jaw hard, his features unreadable. “Matthew, do you have Alex’s analysis of those symbols at hand?”
With a nod, Colton produced the list Alex had prepared. “If you consider the symbols, it would appear that one of those indicated is not grouped with the victims,” he said.
Jennie pointed to the hieroglyph. “It is quite possible that this particular icon—which, as you know, was noted to represent Capricorn—is meant to identify the perpetrator. It would seem that someone is attempting to make it appear that you are the guilty party. That odious man who attacked Alex alluded to that possibility.”
Rooney’s words came back to him. A sense of horrible understanding washed over him.
“I will meet the executioner first. But Marlsbrook will not be far behind.”
“As I see it, the dying man in Egypt intended to send a clear warning,” she said, her voice taut with tension. “He may have known about the killer’s intention to make it seem you had a hand in the crimes, but that is unlikely. Rather, there are two symbols for Capricorn. One is the killer. One is a victim.” She hesitated, a brief but significant moment. “In this case, the killer might well intend that your death will come later, an innocent man wrongly convicted.”
At her words, Colton’s fist clenched at his side, as if he sought to contain his emotions. He knew all too well the misery that beset a man falsely accused of a crime. Years earlier, the former Scotland Yard detective had been set up as the culprit in his partner’s murder. Despite a jury refusing to convict him, the Sinister Inspector had endured disgrace until his wife’s journalistic investigation had led to his final vindication. Even now, whispered innuendo still followed him. Many preferred to believe him a cold-blooded murderer who’d dodged the executioner.
A crisp knock sounded against the door. “Mr. Colton, you have a visitor,” the agency’s secretary called through the door. “A young man is here to see you. He says it’s an urgent matter. Bertram sent him.”
“By all means, send him in, Miss Everett,” Colton replied.
The messenger who’d brought the brief note from Alex earlier in the day strode through the door. He raked a hand though his overly long strands. Shifting on his feet, he could not contain his agitation. His gaze darted from Benedict to Colton and his wife.
“You say Bertram sent you?” Colton focused his gaze intently on the youth.
“Yes, sir, he did.” The young man produced a folded missive. “He says I’m to give these to you.”
Colton took the neatly creased squares of paper from the messenger. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he offered a quick perusal. When he handed the first leaf to his wife, her complexion went as white as the crocheted doily on the side table.
“This is not what I had hoped.” The softest of quivers marked her words.
Bloody hell, what was going on?
“There has been a development… Our driver, Bertram, located another witness—one of Alex’s neighbors.” Jennie Colton extended the letter in her hand to Benedict. “She was able to offer a description of the man who led her into the carriage.”
Dark-haired male. Approximately thirty years of age. Average height. Stocky physique.
Benedict quickly took in the woman’s account of the bastard who’d taken Alex away. The neighbor’s casual observation noted that she’d appeared to be under duress, that her movements had been stiff and awkward as she’d walked to the carriage. He had not escorted her of her own free will. He’d coerced her into entering that coach.
A mental picture formed. Suddenly, the truth became clear. “Edward Nelson.” The name sounded like an epithet as it left his mouth.
Colton nodded somberly. “The man does fit the description, though we have no proof.”
“What reason would he have to take her away?” Jennie Colton asked, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes.
Benedict met her concerned gaze. “The map.”
Colton nodded solemnly. “Nelson has financed Raymond Stockwell’s recent ventures. It stands to reason that Stockwell is indebted to him. This may be his way of repaying the debt.”
“Nelson is an unscrupulous criminal. Kidnapping would certainly not be out of the question.” Jennie Colton poured brandy in a crystal glass and took a sip. “But why would he take her away? If he’s after the map, searching her residence would be a logical move. But the place was not ransacked. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Thomas, her housekeeper, reported that nothing appeared to be out of place.”
“There was no sign of a struggle,” Colton said. “That is positive. He had no cause to injure her.”
“Not yet.” A grim tone infused Jennie’s slightly trembling voice.
God above, had Professor Stockwell’s own son conspired against him? The thought had occurred to Benedict in passing, but he’d dismissed it, unable to consider that a son would turn so viciously against his father. Had Raymond Stockwell been involved in this deadly plot?
Had he orchestrated the killings?
Had he ordered the murder of his own father?
The possibility plowed into Benedict like a brutal, bare-knuckled punch to the gut. Anger melded with fear for Alexandra. Why would Nelson force her to leave? It didn’t make sense. The map was somewhere in her home. Why hadn’t he searched for it?
Did the conspirators believe she’d given it to him?
“I have to go after her.” Benedict turned to Colton. “Nelson must believe I have the map.”
Colton’s eyes narrowed. “Where is it?”
“I have no bloody idea. She did not give it to me.”
“Most likely, Alex hid it somewhere in her study,” Jennie Colton said. “When she spoke of it to Matthew
, she was adamant that the treasure—if there is, indeed, a lost tomb—should not be used for an individual’s gain.”
Benedict’s mind raced. Somehow, he had to convince Nelson to release her. Could he deceive him into believing he had the map?
“Do you know if they took the Pharaoh’s Sun?” he asked.
Jennie shook her head. “I cannot be certain. The locked drawer in which she’d secured it was empty, but that does not mean she turned it over. We don’t know what’s become of it.”
“There is a second message,” Matthew Colton said, his tone grim. “Evidently, her captor has issued a ransom demand. The note is unsigned, but he has designated a meeting place. An exchange is desired. He demands the map.”
“We can offer a convincing forgery. After all, they haven’t seen the actual document.” Jennie’s voice displayed courageous hope.
Colton’s somber gaze settled on his wife. “That will buy time, at best. I suspect whoever is after the map has an idea of what it depicts. There’s no telling how much Professor Stockwell revealed, especially to his own son.”
The sensation of a dull blade pierced his heart. The odds were against them, but they had to do everything in their power to get to her. “There’s no alternative,” Benedict said. “If we use force to rescue her, God only knows what they’ll do to avoid capture.”
“There is one more thing.” Jennie’s expression was grim as she stared down at the second missive.
Benedict read the stricken look in her eyes. “What is it?”
“The exchange they demand is twofold,” she said softly. “They want the map. But there is something else…a bargain they expect in return for Alex’s safe return.”
“What is it, Mrs. Colton?” Benedict forced an even tone into his voice.
“They demand a life.” Jennie’s voice cracked with raw emotion and fear.
He pulled in a breath. “You can speak the words. I suspect I know what it says.”
She gave her head a desperate shake. Tears glistened in her eyes. “No…I cannot do this. I cannot put this burden on you.”
When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord (Her Majesty's Most Secret Service) Page 20
