When a Lady Dares (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service)

by Tara Kingston

  She’d present a deliberately prim demeanor for her encounter with the professor, while employing the few feminine wiles she possessed as a lure. With any luck, she’d lead Stanwyck to reveal some hint of his true motives.

  “You’ve no cause for nerves. Stanwyck is an upstanding fellow. A gentleman, from what I’ve gathered,” Trask went on, his tone so fatherly, she might actually have believed it genuine, if not for the avaricious gleam in his eyes.

  Sophie turned, pinning him with her gaze. “And if he were not?”

  A thin smile stretched Trask’s mouth. “If he were not a gentleman, you’d learn to pretend he was. If you wanted to ensure you still have a place at the table during our sittings, that is.”

  Bastard. The word played on Sophie’s tongue, battling her restraint. Ah, how she’d enjoy seeing Trask receive his well-earned comeuppance.

  She flounced away, skirts rustling against the polished wood floor. It wouldn’t do to appear too complacent. Trask expected her to present a smile to his clients, but he’d come to expect some degree of honest emotion in their interactions.

  “The bloke can well afford a reunion or two from beyond with his father,” Trask said, as if that would placate her. “Given his inheritance, some blunt from his coffers will not be missed.”

  “So, I’m to entice him to empty his pockets? Is that my role in this dark farce?”

  Trask shook his head. “Your part, my dear, is to make the man believe that every sovereign he lays out is a small price to pay for the value of your insights.”

  She cocked a brow. “And if he desires more than guidance in contacting his dearly departed sire?”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Sophie. I expect you to entice him with the promise of your metaphysical talents. Not your body, tempting as that might be. Keep him at arm’s length. Keep him wanting more… He’ll be all the more willing to pay for the prospect that his desires might be fulfilled.”

  Ever pragmatic, that one. Perhaps it should reassure her that Trask did not expect her to play the trollop, but she knew cold, hard greed played more into the charlatan’s rationale than any shred of morality.

  “Ah, that’s a relief,” she said flippantly, ducking into the cramped room she used as dressing quarters.

  Plopping onto a wobbly stool, she positioned herself so the most stable of the makeshift seat’s legs solidly hit the floor. She spied the small clock on the water-ring-marred table. Less than five minutes before Stanwyck was due to arrive.

  Perhaps the professor would reconsider this folly. Surely, he did not believe she could conjure his father’s presence, regardless of the deceased’s fondness for the establishment or women in red. Could this be a game to him, a mere diversion? Had he become bored with the life of a wealthy heir in the city after spending much of the last decade in Egypt? Hobnobbing with the rather debatable cream of London society no doubt paled against such an adventure.

  Agitation and anticipation churned in her mind. Stanwyck’s father had aggressively courted the favor of highbrow members of Parliament. With those well-honed connections, Stanwyck might well serve as a source of information. If his motives for seeking out Trask went beyond an unlikely belief in the ability to communicate with the dead, he could possess valuable intelligence that would shed light on the men who’d left this world under circumstances that could best be described as suspicious. He could prove an unwitting ally in her quest.

  If only she could be sure he would not pull the cloak off her identity and compromise her investigation.

  Trask was right. She needed to keep Stanwyck at arm’s length. If only to prevent her heart from racing like a train at risk of careening off the tracks. She’d been careless the night before. She’d allowed her body’s elemental response to get the better of her, to weaken her guard. Stanwyck was a distraction she couldn’t afford.

  The main door creaked, a jarring squawk of a sound. Good heavens, did Trask ever apply oil to the hinges?

  Stanwyck had arrived. Precisely at the appointed time.

  Smoothing her skirts with her hands, she stood and drank in a calming draught of air. Another breath, and her pulse steadied. With any luck, her face would not color when she saw him. After all, she was not a schoolgirl encountering a cheeky beau after a first kiss.

  Parting the curtain that separated the tiny room from the salon, she set her features in a serene smile. Trask could bloody well wonder what motivated her expression, while Stanwyck—well, she suspected he’d interpret the tilt of her lips with a far different meaning than the resolve that motivated her.

  Engaged in some banal conversation with Trask, Stanwyck stood with his back to her. The immaculate cut of his tweed jacket accented the breadth of his shoulders, while his immaculately tailored trousers emphasized lean, powerful legs.

  She stepped soundlessly into the chamber. “Good evening, Mr. Stanwyck.”

  He turned. His response seemed deliberately casual. Only the slight narrowing of his eyes seemed unscripted, beyond his conscious control. His perceptive gaze fixed on her mouth. Her pulse sped, and she clung to her tenuous control as if it were a lifeline.

  Quietly bold, that one. He studied her, penetrating the shell she’d attempted to erect. If he’d stripped her gown from her body in that moment, she might have felt less exposed.

  “Good evening, Miss Devereaux.” The flicker of movement at his mouth betrayed a hint of emotion. “I trust you’ve prepared for an invigorating evening.”

  A waistcoat in a vibrant shade of indigo deepened the blue of his irises. Only his hair betrayed any semblance of disorder. Silky, burnished chestnut strands grazed his forehead, rebellious as his grin when he’d faced down the brute McNaughton. As if driven by some primitive instinct she couldn’t hope to understand, her fingers curled and uncurled, longing to touch that contrary wave of hair.

  “Of course.” She kept her tone cool, so very civilized. A miracle that, when her skin heated so, beneath his attention.

  “I thought we might begin with an excursion to my father’s final resting place.”

  How very logical he sounded, his tone free of emotion. She could not say that about his gaze. An enticingly wicked glint lit those blue eyes of his.

  Still, a whisper of doubt echoed in her thoughts. She’d no desire to traipse through a cemetery, much less after dark. A little shiver chased over her skin, but she dismissed the instinctive warnings. She had a job to do. Apprehension had no place in her inquiries.

  “Very well,” she said, mustering a crisp tone. “I’ve never endeavored to make contact in such a setting, but the graveyard might well prove a viable locale.”

  The gleam in his eyes intensified. He slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid I have not made myself clear. I do not intend a visitation of my father’s tomb. Not tonight, at least. I’m much more interested in Father’s true final resting place—the bed where he last laid his head.”

  Oh, this man was too arrogant for his own good. Final resting place, indeed. Did he truly believe she’d accompany him to a bedchamber—after dark, no less? Perhaps she’d tell him what’s what and request that the Agency assign another agent…perhaps a male agent, built like the stone wall of a garrison, to surveil the arrogant buck.

  She regarded him with a deliberately wide-eyed expression. “You wish me to visit his—your—home? Tonight?”

  A frown pulled at his mouth. He folded his arms and stared down at her, regarding her as if she’d suggested they sail around the world in a balloon. “Really, Miss Devereaux, do I seem the kind of cad who’d chance a scandal?”

  How very ironic. Stanwyck seemed to relish playing the role of wolf. Before staking his claim to his father’s enterprises, he’d been less than discreet in his dalliances. As a second son, he’d made no secret of his affinity for widows, especially those whose dearly departed husbands had left behind so much blunt they’d no need for a marriage-minded heir. And then, of course, there was the opera singer who’d loved him madly, until a wealthier paramour ha
d swept her away to his country estate. Did Stanwyck truly believe she was unaware of his prolific reputation, or was he merely testing her?

  Trask shot Sophie a meaning-filled glance. Blast the man and his greed. If he had his way, she’d blindly follow Stanwyck’s dictates. The cheat would not hesitate to throw an innocent to the wolves.

  Bloody good thing she was not an innocent. Not a true innocent, at least. She’d enough experience of the ways of men to sense Gavin Stanwyck did not desire an easy conquest. It wouldn’t do to play the placid one with him, not given the combustion of their earlier interactions. No, the man savored a challenge.

  She’d certainly lead him on a merry chase.

  Sophie fashioned a smile. Evidently anticipating sugary words to drip from her mouth, Trask nodded his approval. Too bad the unscrupulous bloke would be disappointed.

  “I am afraid your reputation precedes you, sir.”

  She paused, taking in the flash of Stanwyck’s gaze. At his side, Trask had turned red as a fresh picked apple.

  To her surprise, Stanwyck smiled. Not a full smile, mind you. But a hint of amusement flickered over his features. Ah, yes, he would pick up the gauntlet she’d laid down.

  “Does it now?” His voice was cool, even as the expression in his eyes warmed.

  She gave a crisp nod. “You do relish flaunting propriety.”

  “Ah, I can only assume you’ve read the papers. The press—especially that rag, the Herald—portrays every transgression as debauchery better suited to some Roman emperor.” His protest was as insincere as Sophie’s placid expression.

  Sophie set her features in a bland mask. Rag. How peculiar that he’d cite the Herald as the bane of his bachelor-scoundrel’s existence. Perhaps he was baiting her. Could he have discovered her true identity?

  “Do tell, Mr. Stanwyck. I’ve little knowledge of what’s in the papers. I’d simply heard talk about town.” She paused for effect. “Quite a bit of talk, in fact. It seems you’re a very busy man.”

  He cocked his head ever so slightly as he watched her, as if trying to puzzle her out. “All highly exaggerated, truth be told. If I engaged in a fraction of what’s been credited to me, I’d lack the energy to stand here before you. I won’t deny I’ve indulged my tastes, to a point. As my father’s spare, I had little reason to toe the line. That was my brother’s role.”

  Was that pain darkening Stanwyck’s eyes at the mention of his father’s heir? Cameron Stanwyck had died a hero’s death in the Queen’s service. Evidently, Gavin had been more affected by the loss of his sibling than his glibly spoken words let on.

  She debated pursuing the truth of his feelings, but quashed the impulse. She was here to investigate Trask and determine Stanwyck’s true business with the spiritualist, not to cause the man pain.

  “I am a gentleman at heart,” Stanwyck went on, his eyes flashing in contradiction. “I shall demonstrate that fact, if you will accompany me.”

  Trask gave a sharp nod, his gaze penetrating Sophie’s calm veneer. She’d best get on with this.

  “Very well, Mr. Stanwyck.” She met his direct gaze. “But you have not revealed where we will venture.”

  A grin tugged at his full mouth. Drat the luck, why did that gleam in his eyes beckon her so?

  “Honestly, Miss Devereaux, I am disappointed. I’d thought you would’ve deduced that by now,” he said. “Father relished three things in his life. The finest Scotch. His blasted enterprises. And the company of his mistress. I’ve made arrangements to attempt contact in the hotel where he died. We will access the room…and the very bed in which the old bounder drew his last breath.”

  …

  The Barrington Hotel had played host to kings and queens, to robber barons and renowned authors. American heiresses looking to marry into a title gravitated to the hotel’s grand ballroom with its gleaming marble and sparkling crystal chandeliers. And, of course, the lushly appointed rooms had provided a luxurious sanctuary for Edward Stanwyck and his mistress-of-the-moment while Gavin’s mother went on with her life, well aware of her husband’s actions but certainly beyond caring.

  Keeping a tight rein on his thoughts, Gavin escorted Sophie through the lobby. Peculiar, how stepping foot into the Barrington caused invisible fingers to clench around his gut. Rather foolish, really. He was a man now, not some naive lad whose heart constricted with pain every time his mother let down her guard and displayed the hurt she’d valiantly tried to hide. His father’s infidelities had been no secret. If anything, the old man had flaunted his conquests, as if his companions were blasted trophies attesting to his prowess as a male of the species. Even now, the memory gripped him and reopened the wounds inflicted so very long ago.

  Bollocks, he was a fool. What did it matter now? He’d selected this place quite deliberately with the intention of inflicting cracks in Miss Sophie Devereaux’s carefully crafted veneer. In such an unconventional and likely disconcerting setting, she might shed her composure long enough to reveal the truth about her role in Trask’s crooked dealings.

  Damnable shame his plan had backfired. For her part, Sophie seemed utterly unfazed by the prospect of visiting the chamber where her client’s father had died, presumably while he enjoyed one final shag.

  The hotel’s manager met them before they’d made it to the middle of the lobby. He rubbed his hands together nervously, his head bobbing like some blasted oversized bird.

  “Good evening, Professor Stanwyck.” He cast Sophie a lingering glance, trailing from her hem to the feather on her hat. Her eyes narrowed in response, and for a moment, she looked as if she might rebuke him for his bold regard.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bailey.”

  “Please, follow me to my office. A spot of privacy is in order.”

  “Indeed. We wouldn’t want the other guests to be shocked now, would we?”

  The manager led them to a small, surprisingly cramped space and closed the door behind them. The taut set of his shoulders eased. “Will you be expecting additional guests?”

  “We are anticipating another arrival,” Sophie spoke up, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes.

  Mr. Bailey’s attention once again flickered to Sophie. “Might I have the party’s name so that I might alert the staff?”

  “Of course,” Gavin said. “That would be none other than Edward Stanwyck.”

  The manager’s brow furrowed. “You are expecting a relative…a brother or cousin?”

  Gavin shook his head. “I am referring to my father.”

  Mr. Bailey’s pinched features went tighter still. “I must say, this business is highly irregular. I trust you will be discreet. The other guests—”

  “The other guests know full well the man my father was. God only knows his proclivities set tongues wagging from here to the Continent. Having said that, I can assure you that if the old lout does choose to make his appearance, he won’t waste his time bursting through the walls to cry, ‘Boo!’” Gavin flashed a cultivated smile. “He’ll be far too entranced by Miss Devereaux to create a stir.”

  A tint somewhat paler than a strawberry’s hue crept over Sophie’s rounded cheeks, even as her mouth thinned. She looked as if she longed to utter a scathing retort, or, better still, bludgeon him with whatever it was she carried in the black velvet reticule tethered to her wrist, but she only met his eyes as her lips relaxed into a coy smile.

  Mr. Bailey nodded. “Very well. If you are certain you wish to pursue this…I am trusting you to keep it…quiet. It would not do for word to get out.”

  “Of course. It might cast a pall on the reputation of this establishment, if it were known that the specters of randy old goats lurked about the place.”

  “I am counting on your discretion, sir.” Mr. Bailey lowered his voice. The man was nothing if not persistent.

  “You have my word as a gentleman.”

  The manager’s brows shot up, then sagged, as if he’d consciously forced them back into place. Of course he detected the irony in Gavin’s choice of
words. To his credit, the man held his tongue, but his skepticism showed in his eyes.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Sophie’s lips pursed, and her eyes narrowed, coolly self-assured. “Given that you are a gentleman, Professor, I trust you have arranged for a chaperone. I do have my reputation to consider.”

  Reputation. Bloody ironic, that, coming from a woman who’d thrown her lot in with a man like Trask. Sophie had far worse threats to consider than the whispers of housemaids and jaded Londoners.

  Gavin met her words with a smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t think of compromising your good name. Mr. Bailey, I trust you have taken care of the matter.”

  “I’ve called upon my secretary to accompany you.”

  “Very good.”

  “Sir, I would be remiss if I did not express my reservations. This hotel is not a venue for—”

  Two soft raps upon the door cut into his statement.

  “Ah, that must be Miss Cornwell.” The manager opened the door, sweeping it shut behind the dour-faced matron who crossed the threshold. From her starched white blouse to the prim hat perched on her upswept salt-and-pepper hair, the woman appeared the model of propriety.

  “Thank you for joining us,” Gavin said.

  “I am pleased to be of service,” the chaperone responded, even as her drawn features made no secret of her distaste for the task.

  Mr. Bailey cleared his throat in dramatic fashion. “You are quite certain you wish to proceed with this…unconventional endeavor?”

  “Considering what I’ve paid for the use of this room, what I do within the confines of the well-appointed space is not your concern.”

  “If you insist.” The manager frowned, glancing again at Sophie, as if to communicate some unspoken warning. “I will show you to the room.”

  “I do not require an escort. I could navigate this hotel in my sleep.” Gavin extended his hand. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to provide the key.”

  “Very well.” With a grudging nod, Mr. Bailey fumbled in his jacket and produced a key. “The owner will not abide scandal. Please keep that in mind.”