When a Lady Kisses a Scot (Her Majesty's Most Secret Service)

by Tara Kingston

  “Bertram, you old rascal.” Jennie’s fondness for the old gent shined through her words. “Always one to charm a lady.”

  “Even a lovely lady in a slouch hat.” His gaze settled on Rose, and his smile broadened.

  Jennie went about the introductions, then briefly informed Bertram of the situation at hand. He puffed out his scrawny chest.

  “Ye know ye can count on me. I’ve never let ye down.”

  “Never,” Colton agreed, an uncharacteristic smile on his features as he regarded the driver.

  Quietly observing the scene, Mac smiled to himself. The friendship between Matthew Colton and the old man was an unlikely one, forged many years earlier during Colton’s youth. The bond between the two men had grown only stronger over time, and Jennie Quinn, the Herald’s star reporter, had charmed the irascible gent, just as she’d turned Colton’s life upside down. Her first encounter with Colton had been in the midst of an undercover investigation. He’d been a man of secrets—secrets Jennie had been determined to uncover. Matthew Colton had met his match in the beauty who’d invaded his criminal world on her quest for justice. Together, they’d beaten the odds to find happiness and build a life together.

  Happiness. Odd, how the word drew his gaze to Rose.

  She shuffled on her feet, appearing nervous. Was the reality of the situation weighing on her?

  Jennie also seemed to notice the sudden tension on Rose’s features. She leaned closer. “Is anything wrong?”

  “A twinge of nerves, nothing more serious. I will be thankful when this is over and done…you and your husband…you didn’t even know me before this morning.” Rose sighed. “And now, you’re putting yourselves in danger.”

  Jennie clasped her hand over Rose’s. “You need our help. We wouldn’t leave you to face this threat on your own.”

  Mac felt as if he were eavesdropping. Approaching the women, he met Rose’s gaze, and her eyes locked with his for the briefest of moments. Her top teeth grazed her bottom lip, a fleeting, unconscious gesture.

  “I could not forgive myself if something happened.” Rose’s attention flickered to Bertram. “To any of you.”

  “If you’re worrying about Bertram, don’t,” Mac said. “That man is tougher than the lot of us.”

  “Indeed. Bertram is made of sturdy stock. You won’t find a more courageous man,” Jennie said. “If you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave. My children have been engaged with their tutor throughout the day, but I promised I would be home in time for our evening meal. I do hope you understand.”

  Despite his attempt to maintain a cool reserve, Mac smiled. The Coltons’ children were precocious, keenly intelligent, and the light of their parents’ lives. Adopted soon after Jennie and Matthew had spoken their vows, the orphans they’d first encountered during one of her investigations were fine children, drinking in knowledge with a natural curiosity much like their mother and father.

  “Of course.” The warmth in Rose’s voice matched that in her eyes. “Thank you ever so much for your help.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Jennie’s attention darted to the young man carrying a compact leather case down the stairs. “To avoid arousing suspicion that you’d left MacAllister’s home, we took the liberty of transferring some of your things to this case rather than transporting your trunk. I do hope you don’t mind.”

  “Thank you,” Rose said. Letting out a small sigh, she turned to Mac. “I suppose we should begin our evening, much as I dread it.”

  “I understand your fear, Rose. Believe me, I do.” Jennie squeezed her hand. “But I wouldn’t allow this investigation to move forward if I didn’t believe you will succeed. I trust MacAllister with my life. I assure you, you can do the same.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  With the curtains drawn in the carriage, only the faintest slivers of light illuminated the coach as Rose and MacAllister traveled along the gaslit streets of London. The rhythmic tap of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles offered Rose a faint distraction from her mind’s musings, as MacAllister reclined against the upholstered bench across from her, deep in his own thoughts.

  Looking to break the silence, she turned to him. “Mrs. Colton is a fascinating woman. I understand she’s experienced a good many adventures.”

  “Adventures, you say?” Moonlight fell across his face. “I attribute the gray hair at my temples to Jennie Quinn’s adventures. She is the most daring journalist I’ve ever known, and I’ve worked with many of the finest reporters in London.”

  “She appears to be quite fearless,” said Rose.

  “I wouldn’t say she’s without fear. But when she believes in a cause, she is unstoppable.”

  “I wish I could say the same. There are times when I don’t know if I can carry on.”

  “You wouldn’t be here right now if you didn’t have courage.” MacAllister leaned closer, pressing a hand over hers. “Look at how you survived and made a life for yourself after you left Scotland.”

  “What do you know about me, MacAllister?” she asked. “Do you know how I’ve earned my livelihood?”

  “Yes.” His answer came without hesitation.

  “How did you find out?”

  “Your stage name is well known. If I’d known you were still alive…if I’d known Lily York’s true identity, I’d have gone to America.”

  “For the longest time, it was as if the woman who grew up as Rose Fleming had truly died that day. I forgot how to feel, how to think of anything other than surviving without compromising my worth in my own eyes.”

  “I’m impressed by how well you’ve done. You’ve used your talents and your wits to flourish.”

  “Really, MacAllister? You’re not at all shocked to learn that I stroll around on a stage and sing ballads about broken hearts and loves that weren’t to be. I’ve learned to create an illusion of allure. My gowns are the talk of Manhattan.”

  “Did you believe I would think less of you because you’re on the stage?”

  She nodded. “I understand how performers like me are viewed by decent society. I’m not desired as a guest in the homes of the very people who come night after night to see my show. Men and women alike will pay good money for a drink and a few love songs, but they’ll turn their heads when they see me on the street.”

  “They’re fools. The women know they can’t hold a candle to you, and the men know they don’t deserve you.”

  His words stunned her. She’d expected him to view her as so many others did, as a woman not worthy of a good and decent man—as a woman not worthy of him. The men who’d dangled jewels and promises as bait would have never considered taking her as a wife.

  “Thank you,” she said as the carriage rattled up to the elegant red brick mansion known as Quinn House.

  Jeremy Quinn greeted Rose and MacAllister at the door, welcoming them to his home as he escorted them on a brief tour of the premises. His hair was a light, vibrant blend of browns and golden hues, worn close cropped in a fashionable style, while his carved jaw was defined with the beginnings of a rich brown beard. His hazel eyes gleamed with a keen intelligence as his gaze swept over her, taking in her masculine attire. A touch of amusement played on his full mouth.

  “You and Jennie must be about the same size. As I recall, my sister wore those trousers during the course of an investigation.”

  Rose hadn’t considered the source of the garments, but in hindsight, his observation was entirely logical. “She did suggest this outfit. I have to say, the trousers are actually quite comfortable.”

  “My sister raved about the sense of freedom she experienced without those heavy skirts women wear,” Quinn reminisced. “I’m rather surprised she hasn’t taken to donning trousers on a regular basis.”

  While their host led them down a long corridor, Rose was struck by Jeremy Quinn’s choice of décor. The walls bore little embellishment, other than a few photographs of Egyptian landmarks and portraits of people she supposed were members of his family. A striking ima
ge of Jennie posing for the camera with another young woman, each dressed in a flowing white Grecian-style gown and carrying what appeared to be a spear, caught Rose’s eye.

  “My sister was rather young in this photograph, perhaps sixteen. As I recall, she’d dragged our sister, Alex, out to a costume ball, dressed as some goddess or other,” Jeremy explained. “Jennie was rather pleased with herself that she’d dressed as Athena, providing her an excuse to carry a dull-tipped spear with which to dissuade overly enthused young bucks.”

  “Clever,” Rose said. “Were you in attendance at the affair?”

  “Of course. Our father insisted I attend to look out for my sisters’ best interests. Not that they needed my help that night. Or any other, for that matter. Jennie was eager to put that blasted spear to good use.”

  The warmth in his voice brought Rose’s brother to mind. An image of Angus’s kind gray eyes flashed through her thoughts. Once again, she longed for the older brother who’d always tried to protect her.

  Quinn’s butler, an exceedingly well-groomed man who looked as if a smile was the rarest of occurrences, strode toward them. A slender young woman, smartly dressed in a tweed wool traveling suit and pert, braid-trimmed hat crowning her honey-gold waves, matched his even strides. Her gaze swept over Jennie, taking in her unconventional attire without so much as a touch of surprise.

  “Mr. Quinn, Miss Pearson is here to see you,” the butler said.

  “Actually, I am here to meet with Miss Fleming,” the woman corrected gently.

  “Thank you, Findley,” Jeremy said, dismissing the butler with a nod. “Irene, it’s good to see you again.”

  “And you as well,” the woman replied.

  Jeremy set about the introductions. After he’d concluded the formalities, Irene turned to Rose. “It will be my pleasure to work with you, Miss Fleming. I will be joining you and Mr. Campbell in your inquiries.”

  Rose slanted MacAllister a glance. “This all feels a bit too much…two agents assigned to protect me?”

  Miss Pearson slowly shook her head. “I am actually not here to protect you. I was assigned to this case because the situation is of high interest to Her Majesty’s government. Bradenmyre’s murderers must be apprehended. The authorities believe they have a culprit in custody, but we suspect the assassin wielded the knife on another’s orders. You’re the best hope we have of dragging the viper responsible for Sir Louis’s death out of its den.”

  Selecting an elegant wool suit in a rich shade of claret red, Rose dressed for her dinner meeting with Mr. Crabtree. She pinned her hair up, freeing a few tendrils around her face to soften the effect, then topped the ensemble with a prim black hat with a lace veil. If only she could mentally ready herself for the rendezvous as easily as she arranged her hair.

  As she entered the drawing room, MacAllister looked up from the evening edition of the Herald. Seated in a leather chair, he folded the paper and set it to the side.

  He cleared his throat, then swept his gaze over her again. “The color becomes you.”

  She flashed a little smile. “You are not scandalized by a lady in red?”

  His brow furrowed. “Do you think I give a damn about something so trivial as the color of a fabric?”

  “I was once advised that women of refinement do not wear red.” In her mind’s eye, Rose pictured the horsefaced society matron who’d berated her for wearing a gown of scarlet velvet to the opera. The biddy would have been well advised to concentrate her energies on the lecher she called a husband.

  “The woman—whoever in blazes she is—was daft.”

  “I can’t say her opinion mattered to me. Not in the least. I’d rather not play the highbrow lady sipping tea in a corner while the world goes on around me.”

  “By thunder, what a waste of your intellect that would be.”

  Entering the carriage, they embarked on the short journey to a small establishment tucked away among the bustling shops of Charing Cross. Upon their arrival, they entered the café separately and were seated at different tables. Now, waiting alone for the investigator in the elegant, gaslit dining room, she studied MacAllister beneath the veil of her lashes. Not that she truly needed to hide her interest. After all, what was more natural than a woman gazing upon a man with MacAllister’s handsome face and broad-shouldered physique—especially when that man also dined alone?

  He took his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and glanced at it. MacAllister had never been a patient man, and passing time before her rendezvous with Mr. Crabtree appeared to test his reserves. He’d ordered a glass of red wine, likely for the sake of appearance, but barely touched it.

  The waiter approached, pale and stiff-necked as his starched cuffs. “Might I bring you something, miss?”

  She reached for her glass of sherry and took a sip. “Thank you, but I’d prefer to wait for my dinner companion to arrive. He should be here at any moment.”

  “Of course,” the waiter said, a note of impatience coloring his tone.

  MacAllister shot her a glance as the waiter pivoted on his heel and walked away. Again, he looked at his watch. Rose gave her shoulders a slight shrug. It wasn’t like Mr. Crabtree to be late. The investigator had proven himself an exceptionally punctual man. Perhaps he’d happened upon additional evidence to present to her.

  Taking another sip of sherry, she mulled an expression Miss Pearson had used earlier that day. Drawing the viper out of its den. What in blazes had she meant? Were the Colton Agency operatives using her as a lure? When the agent had spoken of Bradenmyre’s death, MacAllister had shot her a little scowl. Had Miss Pearson’s words caught him off guard?

  Rose tapped a fingernail against the crystal glass. For the time being, she wouldn’t speak of her concerns. But she considered herself forewarned. If Matthew Colton and his operatives viewed her as mere bait for a trap, she’d be better off relying on her own devices.

  Pushing her sudden apprehension aside, she turned her attention back to MacAllister. Watching him from the short distance was somehow exciting. Illicit. A bit daring. It was as if they were two strangers toying with a spark of attraction they could not deny.

  He was a handsome man. The years had brought out a ruggedness in him, a maturity to his expression that intensified his natural good looks.

  A wall sconce beamed gold light against his chestnut brown hair. How long had it been since she’d run her fingers through the silky, neatly clipped strands? The very thought of it provoked all manner of fantasies, all the more dangerous for how natural they seemed. Her fingertips grazing his scalp, gliding through his golden-tinged hair. Her lips brushing against his throat as she loosened the silk tie around his throat. His low moan of desire, urging her to cast aside her restraint and unbutton the pale linen shirt beneath his paisley silk waistcoat.

  Her throat went dry with newly awakened longing. Stifling a little sigh, she pressed her hand to her mouth.

  She glanced up, meeting the waiter’s inquiring gaze.

  He regarded her with forced politeness. “I trust everything is to your satisfaction, miss.”

  She swallowed against the sudden sensation of cotton in her mouth. “Quite so. Thank you.”

  With a curt nod, he headed toward a nearby table. A scream froze him in his tracks.

  A woman’s voice, shrill with terror.

  MacAllister came to his feet. She met his eyes. What in heaven and earth was going on?

  The maître d’ rushed into the dining room. Vivid red stains marred the formerly pristine linen of his shirt. “Is there a physician in the house?” he called out.

  A burly, mustachioed man identified himself as a doctor. “Has there been an accident?”

  “I assure you, your assistance is needed.” The maître d’s tone was grim.

  The physician maneuvered through the maze of tables, then trailed the maître d’ into the kitchen. MacAllister motioned for Rose to follow him.

  Skirting the perimeter, he made his way to the kitchen door. Rose allowed
a few moments to pass before leaving her seat, then proceeded to follow them along a different path.

  The kitchen workers remained at their stations, tension clear in their voices. A man in a chef’s hat glared at Rose, scowling at the sight of yet another intruder in his kitchen.

  She made her way to a door at the back of the building. Through the glass, she observed the physician examining a man who lay unmoving upon the ground.

  Dread slithered through her belly, but she pushed past it and left the controlled chaos of the kitchen for what lay beyond its door. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Even before she reached MacAllister, she knew what she would find.

  “This man is beyond my help,” the physician announced solemnly.

  Dear God. Her knees went weak. Reaching for MacAllister, her fingers curved over his forearm, and she steadied herself.

  Mr. Crabtree lay on his back, his eyes unblinking behind his shattered spectacles. Blood pooled on the cobbles beneath the investigator’s head, the gas lamps casting light over the wound at the base of his throat.

  Oh, no. Oh, no. The words echoed in her brain in a tortured litany.

  Dead. Because of Me.

  …

  “Come with me,” MacAllister whispered against Rose’s ear. “It’s best if you’re not here when the constables arrive.”

  Beneath the gaslight, she’d blanched, white as the crescent moon in the sky. Her lower lip quivered, and she looked as if her knees might buckle. He had to get her away from the brutal scene before she broke down, before she attracted attention they could ill afford.

  “Hold my hand,” he said, interlacing his fingers with hers. “I’ll take you away from here.”

  “Yes.” Her voice choked with emotion, and she followed him to the carriage.

  Once Rose was inside, he instructed Bertram to proceed to the Hawk’s Nest tavern. He had to ensure they hadn’t been followed from the café. If the investigator’s killer lurked about, Mac couldn’t chance leading the bastard back to the Quinn residence.

  The coach rattled over the pavement, arriving at the pub’s rear entrance.