“One life for another.” Steeling himself, he read the words aloud. “Marlsbrook will take Miss Quinn’s place. If not, her blood will flow before the stroke of midnight.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The stench of the docks permeated the walls of the damp, dingy warehouse that now served as Alex’s prison. Tethered by her wrists and ankles to a sturdy wooden chair, she worked at the knots securing her bonds. She’d no intention of waiting patiently for an audience with her captor. There was nothing to negotiate. Even if she provided him with the map, Nelson would not let her leave this place. He hadn’t even tried to disguise his features. Only a man who did not intend for his witness to live would be so cavalier.
A twinge of fear coursed along her spine at the very thought of it. Why in Hades had the coward brought her here, of all places?
She tugged at the knot, easing it looser. Nelson had displayed no skill at his criminal enterprise. He’d been crudely inefficient. At least that worked to her advantage. If only she could free herself and escape this dank place.
He’d accompanied her in the carriage that had transported them to this decrepit facility on the London waterfront. A scrawny youth had commanded the coach reins. If he’d suspected the truth of the situation and realized the crime taking place beneath his nose, he’d shown no concern for her. He only cared about the coins that graced his palm for services rendered.
Nelson’s voice reached her ears. He was close by, and from the tone of his words, he was in a stir. Another man responded to Nelson’s agitated statements, low and muffled, as if he’d deliberately distorted the sounds with a cloth of some sort. Evidently, his partner was not as careless with his identity as Nelson had been.
“If she doesn’t have the map, it’s all for nothing,” Nelson said.
“The bitch lied to you.” The second man ground out between his teeth. “She has it.”
“I don’t like this. Not one bloody bit,” Nelson said. “Damned if I’m going to hang—”
“You will do whatever I tell you. Or the gallows will be the least of your worries.” The other man’s calm, quiet tone added to his menace.
“What are we going to do if he doesn’t bring it?”
“He’ll bring it.” The unknown man laughed, low and raw, like nails scraping against a slate. “He won’t let the bitch die… He’s a bleedin’ fool over her.”
Alex’s heart sank. God above, they were talking about Benedict. The horrible truth washed over her, triggering a sickening chill peppering her skin. They’d set out to lure him to this awful place.
She wasn’t the quarry.
She was the bait.
God, please don’t let Benedict become ensnared in their brutal scheme.
Her pulse roaring in her ears, she pulled at the bindings, desperate now. She had to free herself. If she could work her way out of this, she could warn him away.
The knot resisted her efforts. She tugged again. Harder. The tethers eased around her wrists, only to resist her attempt to shed them. Another tug, and the knot seemed to go tighter.
Blast it, why wouldn’t the bloody rope give way, just enough for her to wriggle free?
Heavy footsteps announced the men approaching. She stilled. It would do no good for them to see her struggling against the restraints.
The door swung open. Nelson walked in, alone.
His breath reeked of liquor. Did this task try his conscience?
“You’d better pray he brings us that map,” he said, keeping his distance.
“He?” She feigned confusion. “I don’t understand why you’d believe someone else has that map.”
Nelson scowled. “You know damned well I was referring to Marlsbrook. If you don’t have the bloody thing, you’d best hope he does.”
Shoring up her frayed composure with a low breath, Alex pressed on. Unpleasant as this cowardly sot was, she had to find out what he knew. That information could prove vital once she managed to get out of the restraints. “Precisely where do you believe we obtained this imaginary treasure map?”
“Stockwell gave it to you. Of course, you know that.” Nelson scowled. “And if he didn’t—if by some chance you’re telling the truth—Marlsbrook has it. Stockwell would have entrusted it to one of you.”
“And why would he do that?” Alex persisted. “I was his research assistant. I was no one to him.”
“Now, Miss Quinn, why would you underestimate your importance in such a manner?” the second man asked as he approached the open door. Standing outside the chamber, just beyond the entry, shadows concealed his face.
Dear God. I know that voice.
Suddenly, it all made sense.
Professor Stockwell’s son.
“Modesty is a virtue, but in this case, it poses an insult to my intelligence,” he continued, contempt infusing every syllable as he crossed the threshold. “Really, Alexandra, do you take me for a fool?”
“My heavens, it’s you.” Shock propelled the words from her lips.
She’d never realized how very similar the brothers’ voices were. She’d expected Raymond Stockwell to enter in that theatrical way of his. Instead, the professor’s studious son closed the distance between them with relaxed strides.
Ugly amusement pulled at Harold Stockwell’s mouth. “Ah, the grief-stricken offspring, so overcome with pain he plays the drunken fool for the public. I do believe I’m a more accomplished actor than that brother of mine.”
“Actor?” she gasped. “Last night—that was a performance?”
His smile widened. “I take it I was rather convincing. Perhaps I’ll pursue the theater after this business is over and done. What do you say, Nelson?”
“You could not possibly be a bigger arse on the stage than your brother,” Nelson said blandly.
“Faint praise, indeed.” Stockwell frowned as he surveyed her condition. “I say, Nelson, you are a clumsy fool. You might have secured Miss Quinn in considerably more comfort.”
“I’m not running a blasted hotel here,” Nelson grumbled.
Stockwell gave a sharp shake of his head. “I do regret that I cannot afford you more hospitable treatment. Unfortunately, circumstances are not in your favor. But you have my assurance you will not be here for long.”
“What the devil do you think to accomplish with this stunt?” she demanded. “I understand your grief at the loss of your father, but this is not a solution. Benedict had nothing to do with his death.”
Stockwell’s brows drew together in confusion. Understanding filled his eyes. “Well, I must admit, this is rather unexpected. As I understand it, you mean to assure me that Marlsbrook had no role in my father’s death… You believe I have been driven mad with grief and seek to avenge the old man.”
The icy derision in his tone unleashed a wave of fear. Gathering her courage, she swallowed hard against it. “Benedict was not even in the country when your father died.”
Stockwell’s grotesque sounds of amusement were amplified against the walls of the cavernous room. He turned to Nelson. “Bloody hell, that’s rich. This brilliant young woman expects to convince me that her lover is innocent of my father’s death. How very ironic.”
Nelson laughed in turn. “Not so clever, is she?”
Stockwell drew a finger along the curve of her cheek. “The truth of the matter is, you’re greatly mistaken, Miss Quinn. Despite what you believe, Marlsbrook played a significant role in my father’s death.”
“That cannot be,” she said, choking back her terror. “Your father was killed after Benedict had departed for England.”
Stockwell smiled, his eyes gleaming with malice. “So very impatient. You have not allowed me to finish my statement. Listen, Miss Quinn—you also played a role in my esteemed patriarch’s demise.”
Fear gripped her, and she tugged against her bonds. “What in blazes are you talking about?”
A cold mask fell over Stockwell’s features. “I felt no sadness at my father’s death. By the time he left this ear
th, I’d grown to hate the man. I despised the way he squandered the family fortune on his bloody artifacts. Have you any notion of the enormous sums he wasted on his blasted expeditions, while taking nothing in the form of profit? At the rate he was going, the entire estate would’ve been drained—and for what?”
A horrible dread crept over her. Stockwell’s words were a confession. But she could not bear to accept that. There had to be another explanation. There had to be some truth she wasn’t quite seeing.
“I…I don’t understand.”
“I do not mind offering an explanation. You deserve to understand why this is happening,” he said, pinning her with his gaze. “A few months ago, I learned of my father’s discovery of the Pharaoh’s Sun. After recovering the artifact, he implied he was close to a major discovery, a royal tomb that had escaped the notice of grave robbers—a spectacular treasure. Even if one claimed only a fraction of the artifacts, the gold and jewels would bring a fortune. A man would live in luxury for the rest of his days. My father knew I was tiring of the West African explorations. Determined to finally claim my share of his legacy, I expressed my desire to join him in the quest. But he would not even consider my plan.”
“He never found that tomb,” she said. “Your father was killed before he could even set out on a search.”
“He had no intention of bringing me into the venture. Once again, he’d pushed me aside. Marlsbrook was always his favorite, the student he would have preferred as his son.”
“Surely, you can’t believe that,” she said, attempting to calm his agitation. “Your father was not a cruel man.”
“Not cruel. But weak. Easily swayed. In his eyes, I fell short. I would always be compared to Marlsbrook. And to you.”
“Sadly, you are mistaken. Professor Stockwell spoke so fondly of you.”
“Fondness does not compensate for a lack of respect.” He gritted the words between his teeth. “It does not repay the debts of an estate. Finally, I’d endured enough of his indifference. I decided to take action. You see, Marlsbrook usurped my role in my father’s life. I should have been the one to accompany him on those expeditions throughout the years Marlsbrook and I spent at the university. I should’ve been the one my father entrusted with his research. Instead, I was regarded as somehow inferior.”
“That is simply not true. Your father held you in the highest regard. You are his son. It goes without saying he was proud of the man you’d become.”
“You’re wrong. For years, I was the one who’d curried his favor. But that all changed. Without warning, my place in my father’s life was overtaken by that unscrupulous scoundrel, Marlsbrook.”
“No one took your place,” she protested. “Your father cared very deeply for you.”
“You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you? Does it ease your conscience to believe you played no part in the divide that separated us?”
“I cannot speak to whatever difficulties existed in your relationship with the professor, but Benedict and I had nothing to do with it.”
“Liar,” he said, his harshness like a verbal slap. “You know the truth. But you won’t admit it. You’d rather pretend I’m a fool. Not that it matters. It’s too late. For Marlsbrook. And for you.”
…
“Marlsbrook, I cannot allow you to do this. The jackals have made their intentions clear. There must be another way.”
As Matthew Colton holstered his Webley revolver, preparing for the violent confrontation he knew would soon come, Benedict considered the man’s objection. Logically, he could not disagree with the seasoned investigator. God only knew what Alexandra’s captors intended. They had no way of knowing how the situation would unfold. Colton’s people had discerned that the plotters were few in number. Field agents had uncovered no talk of the scheme in the usual places—the pubs, gambling hells, and streets where one might expect talk of a criminal’s enterprise to slip from an inebriated conspirator’s mouth. But that was of small comfort. Someone had Alexandra at their mercy, someone who’d put a despicable bounty on Benedict’s head—Alexandra’s life for his.
God above, how much hatred must the devil harbor?
He’d searched his memory since Professor Stockwell had first revealed his fears of a curse. Even then, Benedict had known the danger lay not in some legendary evil, but in the very real doings of a person who still walked this earth, hatred driving a murderous scheme. Who might have such a grudge against him?
The answer to that question was a long list, indeed. But who in blazes would have reason to hate Alex? She conducted herself with the utmost integrity, a resourceful, intelligent woman who displayed kindness at every turn. She’d never harmed a damned soul. Why would someone single out Alex—of all people—as a victim of their wrath?
Did the scoundrel intend to punish him? Did he know of the relationship Benedict had shared with her? Or had her ties to the professor brought her into the ruthless schemer’s sights? Had Professor Stockwell’s high regard made Alex a target?
“I do not see that I have a choice,” he said, stripping his voice of feeling as he loaded his pistol. “I have committed my fair share of sins in this world, but I am not a coward. I will not stand by and allow Alexandra to pay the price for whatever this vile dog believes I have done to wrong him.”
“Have you considered who might be behind this plot?” Jennie Colton asked, surprising him. Did his face so clearly display his musings? “The common link between the murders is Professor Stockwell. Who would have the most to gain from his death?”
His thoughts flickered to the night before. In his mind’s eye, he pictured Alex. And their host, with his dour, cynical tone. Raymond Stockwell had not displayed the slightest hint of grief over his recently deceased sire.
“Would his sons profit from their father’s death?” Benedict inquired.
“We’ve looked into that,” Colton said. “Of course, the elder son is the heir, though our sources indicated that Stockwell also provided an inheritance for his second son. Evidently, the funds came through their mother’s side of the family. Do you suspect Raymond Stockwell’s involvement?”
“I would not rule him out.”
“There is one thing…one thing that arouses my suspicions, but not regarding the younger brother,” Jennie Colton spoke up. “These crimes have demonstrated an element that does not appear to be motivated by pure greed. What reason might Raymond Stockwell have to murder his father’s associates? None of those men stood between him and an inheritance. Neither did you. Nor Alex. Rooney’s remarks referred to an effort to incriminate you. It’s all rather personal, as if someone possesses considerable hatred…of you. Have you interacted with the younger Stockwell in the past?”
“I’ve made his acquaintance on a few occasions. We have seldom entered into a conversation beyond the exchange of the normal pleasantries.”
Jennie let out a low breath, like a sigh. “We are grasping at straws. One brother has displayed no visible emotion at the death of his father—if anything, Raymond Stockwell has appeared entirely unmoved by the loss. On the other hand, the elder brother has put on a quite a show. What is your impression of his sincerity?”
“It’s difficult for me to judge. Harold Stockwell may have been genuinely torn by his grief,” Benedict said. “Or he may have wanted everyone to view a display of his sadness. I cannot be sure it was not playacting. I’d never known the man to be so carried away by emotion.”
Jennie’s eyes narrowed. “You are well acquainted?”
“Early on, while we were students at the university, there were times when we worked side by side under his father’s tutelage. After a time, Harold’s interests veered away from Egypt. We ceased our collaboration. But before then, Harold had often been a part of our endeavors.”
“Did you detect a rivalry…between the two of you?” Tense lines marked her slender oval face.
“I suppose it’s possible. We were both young. And fiercely competitive.”
Jennie Colton st
ared down at the pattern on the plush rug, lost in thought, as if seeking to retrieve a memory long buried. “As I recall, Alex spoke of the professor’s high regard for your abilities and your determination. As she saw it, you were the one he viewed as most like himself.” She paused, lifting her gaze to lock with his. “In Professor Stockwell’s eyes, even his sons did not compare with you.”
Her words conjured a pain Benedict had never been able to bury. “We were very much alike, the professor and I. We had an appreciation for Egyptian culture his son did not appear to share. Eventually, Harold’s interests shifted to western Africa. Are you suggesting I might have had something to do with that?”
“Not directly,” she said. “Every man on that list was someone Professor Stockwell held in high regard. Esteemed colleagues. Old friends. A guide who’d once saved his life. This may not be a matter of pure avarice. The person who orchestrated those deaths may have wanted to bring him pain.”
“That possibility has occurred to me,” Benedict said.
Jennie twisted her hands together, suddenly a bit nervous. “Was there ever a rivalry between the two of you for Alex’s affections?”
Her question caught him by surprise. A flood of memories cascaded through his thoughts. He’d loved Alex so desperately in those early days. They’d been young and excited by their mutual passion for Egypt. And most of all, by their own discovery of one another.
His connection with Alex had been electric from the first. He’d first met her while visiting his best friend, Jeremy Quinn, and his family on holiday. She’d been a long-limbed colt of a girl with eyes that were impossibly large and an impish smile. Over time, their friendship had become more, a young, tentative exploration of love. But the summer after she’d turned eighteen, she’d ventured to Egypt with her family. Under the desert sun, he’d seen her through fresh eyes, a beautiful girl who’d grown into a quick-witted, desirable woman. It wasn’t long before their love had grown into a mutual passion years apart had not extinguished.
When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord_Her Majesty's Most Secret Service Page 21
