As the operative loitered by a lamppost, keeping Benedict in his sights, a willow-thin matron dressed in a crisp, dark dress and white apron came to the door. So, the Quinns’ housekeeper had now taken up residence in Alex’s home. Mrs. Thomas, if memory served.
The housekeeper’s forehead furrowed. Her eyes narrowed as she took him in with a quick sweep of her gaze, the frost in her expression betraying she remembered him, perhaps too well.
“You are Lord Marlsbrook now,” she said simply. “Am I correct?”
“That is what I’ve been told,” he said drily.
She gave a curt nod. “Miss Quinn is expecting you. Please, come in.”
She ushered him to the parlor. As Alexandra entered the room, rays of sunlight streamed through the window and danced over her dark brown hair. Traces of copper and red gleamed beneath the warm rays. A flash of very recent memory invaded his thoughts. His mind went back to when he’d kissed her. Tasted the sweetness of her mouth. Drank in the supple heat of her body.
It had only been mere hours since he’d held her. Yet, he ached with an unbidden hunger. He wanted to touch her again, to take her in his arms, and drive away the doubts in her eyes.
Hellfire and damnation, he was a fool.
When had he become so weak?
He knew better than to allow desire to cloud his judgment. He must keep his focus at all costs.
If he didn’t, she might well be the one to pay the price. The very thought took a dull knife to what was left of his heart.
“Shall I bring you both some tea?” Mrs. Thomas asked.
“No, thank you,” Alexandra said. She came directly to the place where he stood at the edge of the carpet, watching as the housekeeper moved out of earshot.
“Benedict, I have decided against going to Cairo at this time.”
“You might have sent that word with the messenger,” he said. “I doubt you summoned me here to tell me that.”
Her slender shoulders lifted and fell. Her expression was bland, purposefully so. “I have news I would not be so bold as to convey through a courier.”
“Do you intend to enlighten me?”
“Of course.” Her eyes flashed as she motioned him to an overstuffed blue chair.
Slowly, he shook his head. “I’ve no desire to sit here as if we are two old friends having a chat.”
“Very well.” She gave another little shrug. “I will be direct. Colton has informed me there is good reason to believe the person who is responsible for Professor Stockwell’s death is not in Egypt, but in England.”
Her eyes betrayed no trace of deception. How much had Matthew Colton and his operatives learned of the supposedly cursed expedition?
“Why would he say that?”
“You already know the answer to that question. Colton’s operatives are top-notch. They know about the deaths. And there’s more… There has been another death…one you may not be aware of.” Her expression betrayed the undercurrent of fear she seemed to be trying to hide. “In London.”
“By hellfire, I should not have let Rooney evade me. I might have stopped him from killing again.”
Her mouth pulled tight, and she appeared to pull in a breath. “Unfortunately, the evidence points to someone else. Rooney cannot be the killer.”
Her words plowed into him, a blow he had not been able to guard against. “Colton is sure of this?”
“His conclusions are preliminary. But Rooney was not in the country when Sir Clayton Finch was murdered.”
Sir Clayton. Dead. The revelation delivered another vicious blow. Finch had been a dedicated explorer, an eminent scholar with a brave heart and unquestioned integrity. Why would anyone want the man dead?
“Another so-called accident?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“It was made to appear so.”
He stalked away from her, unable to face her while he gathered his storming thoughts. “Colton is wrong. It has to be a coincidence. Nothing more.”
“Colton had good cause for arriving at the conclusion. Sir Clayton drowned…in his own bath, evidently without suffering a fall.”
Her words slammed into him. He turned back to her, seeing the concern and fear that had darkened her irises to a smoky amber.
“Good God.”
“Professor Stockwell is the common thread in all of these deaths,” she said, pain shading her tones. “Your suspicions were correct.”
“I must return to Egypt. Come with me, Alexandra. Stockwell possessed volumes of notes. He’d extensively studied the Pharaoh’s Sun. With the amulet and the map we will—”
“There is no curse. Tell me you have not succumbed to frightening lore.”
“You know me better than that,” he said. “The menace we are facing is not of a supernatural nature. But that will be of little comfort when we encounter the threat. I’ve no intention of biding my time, patiently waiting to be attacked by some unknown menace. I must determine what the cur is after.”
She cocked her head, studying him with those luminous brown eyes. “You believe the answer can only be found in Egypt?”
“Where else?”
“A return to Cairo at this time would be pointless.” She came to him, her steps slow and measured. Reaching out, she cupped her palm against his jaw. “Benedict, the evil has followed you to the city. We must acknowledge that fact. We must band together to confront it from a position of strength. While we are in London, we will have the backing of the Colton Agency.”
The evil has followed you.
Regret welled within his gut. Bugger it, she was right. Coming here…seeking out the map…had been a mistake. His intention to involve her with his scheme had been a miscalculation of the worst sort. By hellfire, he wanted to uncover the treasure Stockwell had located. If he had found the lost tomb, its riches would shine beyond his wildest dreams. With the funds the treasure would bring, he would never again be reduced to poaching artifacts to add to the collection of some gout-ridden old bounder with more money than sense.
But the cost of recovering the treasure had suddenly become too damned high. He could not risk Alexandra’s life. He should not have involved her. While he tracked down Rooney, he should have done everything in his power to remove her from the danger’s reach, even if that meant seeing her on a steamer bound across the Atlantic.
Once again, he’d been a fool. He could not allow Alexandra to pay the price for his error in judgment.
Reaching up, he kneaded his aching neck, as if that would ease the tension coiled deep within him.
“I want you to leave England,” he said finally.
Her mouth pulled tight. “That would not be advisable. I have made my reasoning clear. We have a far better chance of unmasking the scoundrel right here. In London.”
“Hunting a killer is not your responsibility. I want you far from here.”
“You want me to leave?” She eyed him as if he’d grown a tail. “I must admit, this is most unexpected. You charge back into my life with the audacity to tell me what you want. You now claim to have concern for me. How very touching.”
“Can you doubt that I care about you? I raced from one continent to another to head off the man who could have killed you.” The words escaped him before he had the good sense to rein them in.
She stood silent, seeming to ponder his words. Her eyes widened slightly, the only show of emotion. No unpleasant scenes for Alexandra Quinn. That would have been beneath her stiff-upper-lip school of dignity. She’d always been able to contain her feelings—other than when he’d managed to tap into the passion that rippled just beneath her cool surface.
She toyed with the lace at her sleeves. “Whether or not you care for me is not pertinent to this situation.”
“I cannot be certain that I will be able to keep you out of harm’s way, and Colton cannot guarantee your safety.”
“He is confident his agents will provide superior protection.”
“I do not share your faith in the man. It wou
ld be wise for you to go somewhere far from this place…far from the danger. Across the ocean.” He reached for her, taking her hand in his. “If you agree, I will arrange your passage.”
Her feathered brows shot up. “Last night, you were adamant that I should join you in your pursuits. And now, you’d see me travel to America?”
“Is it so incredible that I should have a change of heart?”
“You came here seeking a map to a treasure. Am I to believe you’d simply let your quest fall to the wayside?” Her mouth curled at the corners, not quite a smile. “Is it possible you have come to believe I will interfere with your pursuit of the riches?”
“You, of all people, should know I have no intention of abandoning the hunt for the map. I won’t simply walk away. I know what Stockwell told me. But that does not change one simple fact—he should not have involved you.”
“He did not intend to,” she said softly.
“Stockwell asked me to protect you. And I will to see to it that you are out of the killer’s reach.”
Meeting his gaze, she firmed her jaw. “As I see it, that horrible man was on my trail before I even knew you were back in London. You did not make me a target. You have no responsibility to protect me.”
God, how he loved the way her eyes flashed with challenge. The rich hue could draw a man in. Damned shame he could not indulge his hunger. Caring about her had already proven a complication he could ill afford.
“And if I do not see it that way?” He stripped the emotion from his voice.
“Have you forgotten I am an independent woman? You have no say over what I do or do not do.”
“You are in danger, Alexandra. You cannot deny that. Not after what happened last night.”
“Running from London will not keep either of us alive.”
His hand moved to his jaw, kneading the tense muscles. “You cannot be sure of that.”
She pinned him with her gaze. “I never thought you a coward.”
“Damn it, Alex, this has nothing to do with cowardice.”
“We must head off this menace.” She brushed back a curl that dangled over her cheek. “Working together, we can discover what links us. We will extinguish the threat.”
Her determination intrigued him. “What do you have in mind?”
“I will continue to analyze the photograph for clues. Rooney’s criminal associates may also have knowledge of Sir Clayton’s death. Colton’s operatives will comb the usual places where vermin congregate in search of some clue to the scoundrel behind the man’s accident.”
Perhaps she was right. In London, he knew the lay of the land. He had connections that would gain him information on the deaths.
“I suspect the perpetrator is familiar with the market for antiquities—a collector or a rival explorer.”
Spirit lit Alex’s beautiful eyes. “I propose we conduct our own investigation. Colton will offer the resources of his agency.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A collector would possess wealth. They’d likely wish to flaunt their acquisitions in Society.”
“An explorer might well boast of his accomplishments in the field,” Benedict added.
“Precisely, Lord Marlsbrook. As I see it, it’s high time you began singing your own praises in the ballrooms and salons of London.” Alex’s confident smile lit her amber eyes. “A man like Rooney did not come after us on his own accord. Someone secured his vile services—someone who pays enough to make a man risk his neck on the gallows. We need to make a foray into Society—I propose we undertake a bit of a ruse, a small deception, just enough to throw off suspicion that we are up to anything besides hobnobbing with Society darlings and crowing about your latest discovery.”
Chapter Ten
As she sipped tea from a delicate porcelain cup, Alex watched Benedict beneath the veil of her lashes. Did he notice the slight trembling of her hands, the way her speech clipped out a bit faster than usual? His expression betrayed no awareness of her agitated nerves. If anything, he appeared relaxed, almost at ease. The old rhythms between them had come into play, rekindling a sense of camaraderie while easing them toward a somewhat easy familiarity. Not so surprising, really. After all, they’d been friends for years before passion had entered their relationship. When they were so very young, their mutual interests had led to easy conversation and a bond that had seemed nearly unbreakable. She’d accepted Benedict, even when his own parents incessantly found fault with his scholarly ways and unflagging interest in Egypt, and he, in turn, had found her unconventional pursuits and small quirks appealing.
Benedict had been a gangly, long-legged youth with scarcely enough meat on his bones. At three years her senior, her brother’s best friend had begun to fill out before he went off to the university. By the time he returned home for the Christmas holiday during the winter of his second year, he’d grown into his long limbs and broad shoulders. Good heavens, he’d been so very handsome. And so very serious, with those mossy hazel eyes and a mouth she’d long dreamed of kissing.
Still, their relationship had remained chaste. The dearest of friends, really.
Until their lips had first touched, a tentative, sweet contact she’d initiated on a dare.
She’d been seventeen that winter. Suddenly, she’d been unable to look at Benedict quite the same. In her heart, she could no longer view him as a mere friend. She’d fallen for him with all the unbridled passion of youth. Impetuous. Unrestrained by doubt. Propelled by intense longing unlike any she’d ever known.
Later, he’d whispered words of love. Seated by a fire in the hearth of her family home, he’d spoken of a betrothal. Soon, he’d murmured. When his years at the university were done. When he was in a position to properly provide for a wife.
And like a fool, she’d believed him.
He’d returned that spring. Before long, he’d whisked her away to a secluded glen and loved her with tenderness. With wonderment. With adoration. The smell of rain and wildflowers had perfumed the air as they’d lain together.
How she’d adored him.
She’d never doubted him.
She’d loved him.
The bittersweet memory shattered, bringing her back to reality. She was older now. Wiser. And, thanks to Benedict, far less inclined to believe empty promises. Three simple words had led to her heartbreak. I love you.
Now, sitting in her study at Benedict’s side, it was difficult to fathom they’d had no real contact in nearly a decade.
Pouring through reference tomes, they searched for some symbol that might reveal the meaning behind the cryptic message. Benedict leaned closer, studying an icon Alex had noted also appeared on the amulet. How much did he know about the pendant?
The faint blend of bergamot and Benedict’s own healthy male essence swept over her senses. A lock of hair tumbled over his forehead, its sandy brown hues interwoven with shades of red and gold. She longed to reach out to him and sweep those unruly strands into place, but she curled her fingers against her palm and pushed aside the impulse. The fashionable elite would judge him in need of a barber’s touch, but in Alex’s eyes, the way his hair slightly brushed his collar was all too appealing.
He’d removed his jacket. Clad in shirtsleeves he’d rolled to the elbow and a waistcoat, a visitor might have found his attire scandalous, but Alex shrugged at the thought. If Mrs. Thomas felt his presence inappropriate, she did not express the thought. Rather, the housekeeper had dropped her icy reserve, seeming to dismiss the frosty attitude she’d cultivated over the years since Benedict had first left London for Cairo.
Chestnut brown hair sprinkled over his forearms emphasized the muscular sinews. His skin bore a bronzed tone, the result of hours beneath the desert sun. Taking his spectacles from a pocket in his vest, he examined the text. The wire-rimmed lenses only added to his attractiveness.
Shifting her attention back to the massive tome that lay open before her, she endeavored to focus on the task at hand. Despite her resolve, he
r gaze drifted back to Benedict. Her attention swept over the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles bunching beneath his white linen shirt.
Ah, her heart was a traitor. Didn’t she know better by now?
She dismissed the thought. She was a woman now. Not a girl. She could protect herself against any threat, even her heart’s treacherous yearnings.
Tracing a fingertip over a glyph in the text, she carefully examined the intricacies of the design. If only she’d come upon the symbols left behind in the murdered man’s final message.
Reaching for the photograph, she brought it closer. The image was clear enough, but the meaning of the symbols wrought in the dying man’s blood seemed a puzzle she could not solve.
“Benedict, these glyphs might represent numbers,” she said. “The Roman numerals for five and one thousand.”
“It’s possible,” he agreed. “But in conjunction with the other drawings, they make no sense.”
“The code was likely intended to identify his killer. Ah, what he was trying to tell us?”
Benedict’s brow creased. “Hamid had to know his time on earth was ebbing. At that point, he would have been desperate to communicate.”
“Quite so,” she agreed.
Mrs. Thomas rapped lightly upon the door. As she entered, her features were pulled taut with concern. “Mr. and Mrs. Colton are here.”
Oh, dear. She had not expected Jennie and Matthew. Why had they come? Had there been another murder?
Her pulse accelerating, she came to her feet as she steadied her voice. “Please, send them in.”
“Certainly, Miss Quinn.”
Jennie swept into the study. Colton filled the doorway, casting Benedict a look that clearly showed his disapproval.
For his part, Benedict fashioned a bland expression and met the other man’s glare. “I presume you’ve come bearing news.”
Jennie came to her, peering down at the massive volume that sat open on Alex’s desk. Worry lines creased her forehead, and she pulled in a low breath and released it with a little sigh. “I am sorry if we have interrupted your work. But this…this could not wait.”
When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord_Her Majesty's Most Secret Service Page 9
