When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord_Her Majesty's Most Secret Service

by Tara Kingston

  “No,” Alex said with a shake of her head.

  The housekeeper furrowed her brow and gave a little shake of her head. Had she seen through the harmless little lie so easily? Not surprising, really. Deceit had never been Alex’s strong suit.

  “Are you sure of that, dear?”

  Alex sighed. “Is it so very obvious?”

  Mrs. Thomas nodded. “Are you forgetting I’ve been with the Quinn family since you were scarcely past your father’s knee? I know when you’re upset. What’s happened?”

  “I received word last night that Professor Stockwell has…died.” How very painful it was to utter that word.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Thomas cupped a hand over her mouth. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “I am not entirely sure what happened. I shall let you know the details when I become apprised of the full circumstances.”

  “I know how much the professor meant to you.” The housekeeper brushed away a tear of her own. “He was a good man.”

  “Yes,” Alex said, choking back her grief. “He was an original.”

  “I’ll give you a bit of privacy, my dear,” Mrs. Thomas said. “If you need me, I will be in the kitchen, preparing my order for the market.”

  “Thank you,” Alex said as the housekeeper quietly walked away.

  Taking up her pearl-handled letter opener, Alex neatly slit the envelope and removed the neatly folded missive. A tear slid down her cheek, and she swept it away with the heel of her hand.

  How had everything changed so very quickly? Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Rooney had invaded her home.

  As she perused the letter, her breath caught in her throat.

  No. This cannot be.

  Standing as if that might clear her head, she pressed her palms to the desk, steadying herself.

  Again, she read the professor’s words—

  My dearest Alexandra,

  I regret that I must write to you with dire news. I am afraid it is too late for me. But I pray you will evade this treacherous web. It is not my intention to frighten you, but you must know the truth. You are in danger, and it is my fault. I deeply regret burdening you with the relic. It cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands—I fear its evil cannot be stopped. I no longer know whom I can trust. Take caution, my dear girl. The enemy is one of us.

  Alex dragged in a harsh breath.

  The enemy is one of us.

  The words hammered in her thoughts. One of us.

  Professor Stockwell would not have considered a hired thug like Rooney to be a member of his inner circle. The enemy was someone he’d viewed as a colleague. As a friend.

  Someone he’d held in high regard.

  But had Stockwell acted from a place of logic when he composed the missive? Or had fear gotten the better of him?

  If the professor was right, someone he trusted had plotted against him and the others who’d been killed.

  Dear God, Benedict had spoken the truth.

  If he believed the menace came in the form of a stranger, Benedict might let down his guard. He was in true danger.

  She had to warn him.

  Bolting from behind her desk, she nearly collided with her housekeeper.

  She met the woman’s surprised eyes. “Mrs. Thomas, I have to leave.”

  The housekeeper looked her over in a quick appraisal. “I’ll prepare your shirtwaist and your skirt while you put a dab of cream on those dark circles under your eyes.”

  “There’s no time for that.” Perhaps she did look a fright, wearing a comfortable but drab day dress while her features betrayed a lack of sleep, but that was of no consequence. She needed to tell him the message she’d worked out. She could not be certain she’d interpreted it correctly. But if she was right, it could be a matter of life—and death.

  His.

  Chimes rang out from the hall clock. Twelve in all.

  Concern etched the matron’s features. Had she read the fear in Alex’s expression?

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Quite possibly. Keep the entryways locked. Do not open the door for anyone until I return.”

  With Mrs. Thomas trailing after her, she hurried to leave. Slipping her cloak off the coat rack, she draped it over her shoulders.

  A soft rapping upon the front door stopped Alex in her tracks. She gave a nod to the housekeeper. “Be sure to check the peep hole.”

  “My, you are making me more than a bit skittish,” Mrs. Thomas murmured with a little frown.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to…but I’ve reason to believe we have greater need than usual for caution.”

  Mrs. Thomas gave a nod and went to the door. When she turned back to Alex, the small lines marking her forehead had deepened with worry. “Your sister is here. I’ve seldom seen her look so grim.”

  “Please, do let her in.” Alex let out a low breath as a wave of apprehension washed over her. “I wonder what has happened.”

  Mrs. Thomas opened the door, and Jennie crossed the threshold. The housekeeper had not exaggerated. Her younger sister’s features were drawn and serious, her green eyes darkened to a mossy hue, as they tended to do when she was troubled.

  “Hullo, Jennie. I suspect this is not a social call.”

  “I’m afraid it is not.” Her sister’s eyes narrowed as she took note of Alex’s cloak. “You were going somewhere?”

  “I have…an errand I must attend to.”

  Jennie cocked a brow. “An errand?”

  “Yes.” Alex swallowed hard. Evasion did not come easily. “Might we postpone this conversation until later, perhaps this evening?”

  “I don’t believe that would be advisable.”

  “Jennie, if this is about what happened last night, I assure you that Benedict—Lord Marlsbrook—and Matthew had the situation well in hand. The criminal they apprehended should pose no further threat.”

  “Benedict, is it?” Jennie slanted the housekeeper a glance, then settled her gaze back on Alex. “Might we talk privately?”

  Alex held back a sigh. It wasn’t like Jennie to cluck over her like a mother hen. She’d best humor her, at least for a few minutes, to reassure her. It went without saying that she’d save any mention of the professor’s letter for later, when there was more time for discussion.

  “Of course.”

  Alex turned, leading her sister to her study. “Shall I ask Mrs. Thomas to bring you a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Jennie took a seat in an overstuffed chair. “Alex, I understand Lord Marlsbrook has requested that you join him in Egypt. He’s gone so far as to secure your passage.”

  “That was indeed a bold move on his part. He wishes me to consult with him…on a rather specialized endeavor,” Alex said, sitting across from her sister.

  An inverted vee etched itself between Jennie’s brows. “An endeavor. That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Jennie, if you’ve come here to stop me from leaving with him, you’ve no worries. I have no intention of tossing aside my obligations to venture on a journey with him, now or ever.”

  “Did Marlsbrook tell you why he is here…in London?”

  “Yes,” Alex said. “Given what happened last night, I suspect you already know the gist of it.”

  “He claims he came here to protect you.”

  “He did come to my defense, making short work of a brute who had the brazen nerve to attack me. In my own residence, no less.”

  “Did he tell you how he knew you would be facing a threat?”

  Alex considered her words carefully. She’d no desire to alarm her sister. “Professor Stockwell was concerned for my safety. He asked Benedict to ensure I was not in danger.”

  “Are you aware… Did he tell you the man is now deceased?”

  Hearing the words again seemed a fresh dagger strike to her heart. Gulping a breath, Alex steadied herself against the rush of pain. “He did bring that horrible news.”

  “What did he tell you of Stockwell’s death?” Jenn
ie pressed on.

  “Only that he’d been killed in the field. I do not believe Benedict was aware of the full circumstances.”

  “My, that is convenient.” Jennie folded her hands primly in her lap. “Did he mention that the professor was killed the night before Marlsbrook left Egypt?”

  “The night before…” The revelation crashed into Alex like a rogue wave. What in heaven was Jennie implying?

  “Stockwell was found within his tent quarters when he failed to meet the members of the expedition the next morning. At first glance, it appeared he’d choked on a bite of food, but suspicious marks on his body point to suffocation.”

  “Oh, dear. Benedict indicated he’d followed that horrible man who attacked me—Rooney—from Cairo. Is it possible that brute might be the killer?”

  Jennie slowly shook her head. “Our sources indicate that Rooney was not in Egypt that night. He was well on his way to England. Alex, are you aware that five men have been killed in the last nine weeks? All were connected in some way to Stockwell’s expeditions.”

  Alex pondered her words. “Five men? Are you quite sure? I was told that three men were killed before the professor’s death.”

  “There has been another death. “I trust you read of Sir Clayton Finch’s death in the Herald.”

  She pulled in a low breath. “Good heavens, how can this be?”

  “The man had survived countless battles only to die in his own bath.”

  “Could he have suffered an accident?”

  “Highly unlikely. A postmortem examination revealed no sign of injury that would result from a fall. No fractures. No blunt trauma to his skull. Nothing that would explain how he ended up dead in his own tub with water in his lungs. Matthew’s contact at Scotland Yard believes he was drugged. Sir Clayton was known to consume a tumbler of whisky before he retired in the evening. His drink may have been dosed with a powerful sedative before he settled into the bath.”

  Alex pressed her hand to her mouth as horrified understanding filled her. “Benedict warned me that we were in danger.”

  “Are you aware that Marlsbrook arrived in London three days ago? Sir Clayton died that night.”

  “A bizarre coincidence, I’m sure.”

  “Can you be so certain?” Jennie’s mouth thinned with tension she did not try to hide. “Matthew and I share a deep concern regarding the many coincidences surrounding Lord Marlsbrook’s recent time in Egypt and his return to London.”

  “I received a letter today from Professor Stockwell,” Alex offered, struggling to make sense of it all. “He feared my safety was at risk, even though I was far from Egypt. Benedict may also be in grave danger.”

  “That is certainly a possibility,” Jennie said, her tones soft and measured. “But another explanation exists.”

  “Another explanation?” Alex studied her sister’s face, searching for understanding. “Surely, you are not implying Benedict is a killer.”

  “That’s not it, though I would be dishonest if I did not admit the possibility had entered my mind. Matthew instructed one of his agents to make inquiries regarding Lord Marlsbrook’s whereabouts since he arrived in London. Evidently, the night that Sir Clayton died, Marlsbrook was making his way through London’s underbelly. He was nowhere near the dead man’s residence.”

  “He was searching for Rooney.” A peculiar sense of relief filled Alex. Benedict was many things—heaven knew she’d selected many a choice epithet to describe the man after he’d left her heart in tatters, but he was not evil. He was not a murderer.

  “That would appear to be the case.”

  “Could Rooney have killed Sir Clayton?”

  “We don’t believe so,” Jennie said. “It does not appear that Alfred Rooney was in the city at the time. Our sources are confident that Rooney traveled through Rome and stayed in Paris for at least two nights before he arrived in London two days ago, shortly after Marlsbrook arrived by steamer.”

  “Benedict had mentioned that Rooney’s trail had gone cold.”

  “It appears he has been honest with you. But the fact remains—someone killed Sir Clayton before Rooney came to London. The danger is real, Alex. And it appears to be following Lord Marlsbrook.”

  Chapter Eight

  Rousing from his comfortable bed in the Mayfair townhouse that served as his residence on those rare nights he spent in London, Benedict moved with cautious stealth from one room to the next. After the night before, he was taking no chances. He’d little doubt his butler would sound the alarm if an intruder dared enter, but Roderick was not as young as he used to be. If anyone lay in wait, the rotter would soon become acquainted with the business end of Benedict’s revolver.

  With the plush carpet muffling his footfalls, he stepped into the library. Odd, how this room out of all of those in the residence felt the most like home. As a boy, he’d spent long hours devouring every book he could find, gleaning knowledge of the ancient world while avoiding the stony silence that surrounded his parents’ marriage. After years of unhappiness, his mother and father had simply come to a near-wordless truce. From time to time, his father would encounter Benedict there in the library of the family’s manor home. How his thin lips would curl in disdain. Damnable shame his parents had not managed to sire another son. Perhaps that lad would have proven a more fitting heir to the man among men his father had pretended to be.

  Glancing about the place, he noted the gleaming woodwork and shelves that had been freshly dusted. Roderick did a fine job overseeing the household staff, ensuring the care and upkeep of the townhouse in Benedict’s absence. Truth be told, he had considered taking up residence in some fine hotel or another on those occasions when he had reason to be in London. But the house had been Roderick’s home for more than two decades. His conscience would not allow him to displace the elderly man. Since the death of his wife, a rosy-cheeked imp of a woman who’d served as Benedict’s housekeeper, Roderick had viewed Benedict as the closest thing to family he possessed.

  On Benedict’s part, the feeling had been mutual. Roderick had seemed a surrogate father, a man whose own children had died in an outbreak of fever a year before Benedict had taken his first breath. While Benedict’s father had whiled away the hours in gambling hells, convinced he was one turn of the cards away from restoring the fortune he’d lost, Roderick had provided a listening ear and common-sense advice for a lad torn between his passions and his family’s expectations. Now, Benedict would see to it that Roderick could call the townhouse his home as long as the old gentleman saw fit.

  Moving to a Chippendale wing chair that had seen better days, he sat down and stretched out his long legs. The elegant furnishings and expensive rugs beneath his feet seemed altogether foreign after the long months he’d spent in the desert. Still, there was something to be said for the place. Pity he wouldn’t be able to indulge himself with a creature comfort or two for more than another night. He had to return to Egypt. The legendary riches in the tomb Stockwell had spent years trying to locate would not lay undisturbed for long. Though the young daughter of an obscure ruler had made no mark on history, the princess’s burial place was reputed to house a fortune in relics. Benedict was not the only one on the hunt for the long-hidden crypt. But damned if he wouldn’t be the one to get there first.

  Once he had Stockwell’s map, he would find the treasure. And in the process, he’d unmask the bastard who’d ordered those men killed. He would see the cur responsible for the professor’s death brought to justice. Whether at the end of a rope or with a well-placed bullet, he didn’t care. He would see Stockwell avenged, if it was the last thing he did.

  The last thing he did. The words played in his thoughts like a warning.

  Devil take it, he was allowing the professor’s fear and his own exhaustion to get the better of him. He was smart—smart enough to avoid Stockwell’s fate and protect Alexandra from the malicious threat. Somehow, he had to convince her to come with him. He could protect her. He was sure of that. Together, they
would be a formidable team. Alexandra’s keen knowledge of hieroglyphics and her ability to decipher the most baffling symbols would prove invaluable to his quest.

  Still, he had to convince her to hand over the map before they departed London. Without it, he had little chance of uncovering the treasure before Gavin Stanwyck and his team located the priceless cache. Alexandra might well have the document and not even realize what she possessed. Enticing her to help him find the map would be a challenge, but the prospect was not daunting.

  If he played his cards right, it might even prove enjoyable. Kissing her had been indulgence he’d denied himself for far too long.

  Damn it, he could not allow his instincts to get the better of him again. He’d done no harm in kissing her, but it could go no further. He’d no intention of seducing her to win her trust. She deserved better than that. God knew he’d hurt her before. He didn’t want to wound her again. With any luck, she’d keep her head about her, and he would rein in the traitorous hunger that had faded but had never been truly extinguished.

  The impulsive kiss had offered insight into her feelings. Deep inside, she still harbored desire for him. She’d responded to the caress without shyness. Without reservation. With the delicious passion that had drawn him in all those years before and made it so damned hard to walk away from her the first time.

  She’d welcomed his touch.

  Until her good sense had taken hold and she’d remembered he was a cad.

  Thank God she had better sense than he did.

  “Good God, you look as if you retired to the gutter last night.” Roderick’s gruff voice was a welcome diversion from his thoughts.

  The butler’s appraisal was not surprising. Benedict had slept in his clothes the night before. Now, he needed a bath and a meal before he set out again to convince Alexandra to join him in his quest.

  He gave a shrug in reply. “I found him—the bounder I pursued from Egypt.”

  “Did you now?” Roderick cocked a bushy brow. “I trust you took care of the problem.”

  “In a manner of speaking. The bloke is in custody.”