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

by Tara Kingston

  Sophie scanned the article, taking in the pertinent details. Jennie was right. The circumstances of Carlton’s supposedly accidental demise seemed improbable at best.

  “Carlton fell from the Blackfriars Bridge shortly after sunset. Yet no one saw him go over. How very odd. That area would’ve been teeming with people right about then.”

  “I agree. It doesn’t make sense.” Jennie gently took the paper from Sophie’s hands. “The official report speculated that the man was in his cups and toppled over the rail. He’d last been seen at a gentleman’s club. The barkeeper indicated Carlton had appeared sober and rational upon entering the establishment, but had become exceedingly intoxicated. Oddly enough, Carlton was known to keep his head about him. He was not one to allow himself to become foxed.”

  “Perhaps the liquor had a strong effect upon him,” Sophie said. As Jennie had always emphasized, the most direct explanation was generally the most valid solution to a quandary.

  “That could be the case. But…the timeline is troubling.”

  “How so?”

  “Based on the barkeep’s account, Carlton’s state of impairment worsened quickly, far more rapidly than one would reasonably expect.”

  “You believe he was drugged?”

  “It is a strong possibility. Matthew concurs with my assessment. We suspect that Carlton ingested a substance either before or during his time at his club. Once he’d become thoroughly impaired, he may have had help slipping over the edge.”

  Sophie digested the facts. “He was murdered.”

  “So it would seem.” Jennie set the cup on the table. “Unfortunately, without concrete evidence, we cannot be certain the man’s supposed drowning was not an unfortunate mishap. But the fact remains, yet another death has occurred bearing a connection to Neil Trask’s occult salon, to his blasted sittings. Matthew and I are concerned that you are in danger.”

  “That’s most unlikely,” Sophie said quickly, even as an image of the hoodlum’s beady stare flashed through her mind.

  “Matthew is considering another avenue of inquiry regarding this case. He…and Campbell…believe the current strategy may carry too great a risk.”

  Sophie pulled in a breath. Jennie, of all people, should understand her desire to pursue this case to its conclusion. Jennie had faced down danger in the course of her investigations. She’d mastered her fear and soldiered on. Sophie could do no less.

  “The risk is no greater than I would face in any investigation. I’ve established myself with Trask. I’ve earned his trust. His clients are none the wiser as to my true purposes. This should be my decision.”

  To Sophie’s surprise, a smile tugged at the corners of Jennie’s mouth. “I suspected you’d hold fast. At this time, I see no reason to change the course of this mission.” A sisterly regard Sophie had come to cherish filled Jennie’s eyes. “But you must assure me that you will exercise caution.”

  “Of course. I’ve no desire to find myself in another fix.”

  “Indeed. And do try to avoid distractions.” Jennie took another small sip of tea, seeming to collect her thoughts. “I’ll see what I can gather regarding Professor Stanwyck. It is puzzling that a man of reason would seek out Trask’s decidedly irrational services.”

  Sophie took another nibble from the scone. What precisely did Jennie know of the events the night before? Mac Campbell’s spies might well have witnessed Stanwyck’s impulsive kiss. Or perhaps not. Jennie was not one to mince words, nor to censor her queries. If she questioned Sophie’s relationship with Stanwyck, whatever she thought that bond might be, she’d likely voice her concerns.

  In any case, there was nothing more to the kiss than another means for Stanwyck to demonstrate that his arrogance was unsurpassed in London—quite possibly, in all of the empire. There was nothing more to it than that. The man certainly would not pose a distraction. She knew full well how to keep her head about her, even if she hadn’t figured out how to banish the infuriating rogue from her dreams.

  “My thoughts, precisely,” she said. “Uncovering a bit of Stanwyck’s background should prove informative. His true motives are a mystery, though I’m positive his claim that he’s hunting for some long-lost treasure is poppycock.”

  Jennie’s brow furrowed, and again, she looked away. “He’s known to be exceedingly clever. If you suspect he’s on to your ruse…”

  “There’s no need for concern. Stanwyck will not pose a problem.”

  Sophie took another sip from the porcelain cup. If only she believed her own words.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Considering what she’d endured the night before, Sophie looked more rested than Gavin would’ve anticipated. Indeed, she was even more beautiful in the light of day than she’d been beneath the café’s array of gaslights. She’d selected a tasteful green ensemble for their meeting. Ebony braid on the jacket drew his eye to her waist. He’d bet he could nearly span her middle with his hands, even without the hated corset. His groin hitched at the thought. A small black hat perched atop her honey-gold curls. Only the high-necked blouse with ruffles that brushed her jawline hinted that she attempted to conceal bruises she’d suffered at Jack’s hands. But she held her chin at an angle that put to rest any notion that the incident had left her cowed by fear.

  Trask met Gavin as he entered the studio. “Miss Devereaux informed me of your courageous intervention last night when she was set upon by ruffians. I am in your debt.”

  “There was nothing remarkable about my actions. Any self-respecting gentleman would’ve done the same. It was fortunate I happened along when I did. If I’d known Miss Devereaux would be without an escort, I would’ve insisted that my driver see her home.” He cocked his head, studying the charlatan’s reaction to his words. “I believed you would see her to her residence. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  A muscle in Trask’s jaw tensed. “I generally make a practice of providing safe transport for Miss Devereaux. I regret—”

  A mild scoffing escaped Sophie’s lips. “Perhaps you have both forgotten that I am an adult, not a girl in need of a chaperone. While your concern is appreciated, I suffered no lasting harm.”

  “Be that as it may, I will ensure you are safely to your residence in the future.” The ice in Trask’s gaze clashed with the concern in his tone. “I will not risk your well-being.”

  Bloody ironic. Trask had eagerly dispatched Sophie on a ridiculous but lucrative quest with a near-stranger, to a hotel of all places. Well-being, indeed.

  “Thank you.” She turned to Gavin, regarding him with a slight wariness her smile did not hide. “What have you planned for our agenda this afternoon, Professor Stanwyck?”

  Professor Stanwyck. The moniker struck his ears with a discordant note, vastly out of tune, given the taste of passion they’d shared. What would it be like to hear his name on her lips, uttered in that throaty, slightly sweet voice of hers?

  “I have given this a great deal of thought. It is possible that my father, in a display of his rather unique brand of wit, arranged to have the treasure buried with him. Hidden in his coffin, perhaps. I believe a visit to his final resting place might be in order.”

  A spark of incredulity flared in Sophie’s eyes. Truth be told, it had seemed a wonder even to himself that he could utter the proposition without laughter.

  “To the cemetery?” she asked coolly.

  “Yes. What better place to commune with the old man?” He paused for effect. “Unless your gadabout spirit Esme has an aversion to graveyards. As I understand it, you never know with spirits.”

  Trask slanted Sophie what he no doubt believed to be a subtle glance. Did the blighter truly believe Gavin would not notice his razor-sharp expression, or had he calculated the move for effect?

  “I understand Esme has been a bit, shall we say, difficult,” Trask said. “Perhaps a sitting with Louis would prove productive. His spirit last walked this earth during the Terror. He possesses a wealth of knowledge.”

  �
�The Terror, you say.” Gavin pretended to mull the choice. “A Frenchman who lost his head in the Revolution or a saucy female…that’s not much of a contest, is it now? Father would have nothing in common with a Parisian aristocrat. He earned his fortune with his own sweat and blood and disdained the elite. The old goat would be drawn to a saucy minx like Esme. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Devereaux?”

  She met his words with a bland expression. “I’m confident Esme will be far more helpful today, if only in appreciation of your chivalrous display. Besides, a tour of the graveyard may feel like a reunion of sorts for her cheeky soul.”

  …

  Stanwyck’s driver deftly maneuvered the sleek carriage through streets bustling with coaches, work wagons, and pedestrians. Sophie peered from the window, taking in the sight of buildings and people and conveyances cloaked in a somber gray haze. The miasma hovered over the city, a thick blanket of fog, factory smoke, and coal dust. A wretched smell wafted from the gutters, permeating the windows.

  Turning away from the relentless gloom, she smoothed her skirts, fanning them out around her. Seated on the opposite bench, Stanwyck’s gaze followed her small movements. Did he suspect she’d manipulated the voluminous fabric to create a barrier between them? How very arrogant—and how very typical of the man.

  Pity she’d allowed herself to be drawn to him the night before. She’d been caught up in the powerful feelings the near-abduction had stirred. In his arms, she’d known full well what she was doing. She couldn’t deny that. Not that she would even attempt to do so. It wasn’t as if she was ashamed of her response. It had seemed so natural at that moment in time, an innate response to his masculine confidence and power.

  She’d craved that potent contact, wanted his touch and his kiss. But the hunger had been a transient sensation, a fleeting emotion. Sitting here, in the light of day, he was merely a man—a man she knew better than to trust.

  Folding his arms, he stretched out his long legs. “You’ve been quiet,” he observed. “Are you well?”

  “Well enough, all things considered.” She kept her voice as emotionless as his.

  He tilted his head to study her face. “No ill effects?”

  “Nothing to be of concern. How very kind of you to ask.” Her words sounded false even to her own ears. If only she did not feel as if he was studying her.

  “Your resilience is commendable.”

  “What choice is there, really?” Peculiar, how surprising the honesty of her reply seemed to her ears.

  The wheels on the coach rattled fiercely as Avery drew the carriage to a halt. Stanwyck escorted Sophie from the conveyance.

  The driver cast a wary eye to the darkening clouds. “A storm is brewing. When these bones of mine start to ache, you can bet your last h’penny rain is on the way.”

  “Do stay close, Avery. We won’t be long, but I don’t want to chance Miss Devereaux being drenched.”

  “I’ll be waitin’.” The older man cast the graveyard a wary glance. “Doesn’t matter how old a fellow gets, the sight of all those tombstones brings a chill.”

  “Come now,” Stanwyck said. “Surely you do not harbor a fear of ghosts.”

  “I can’t say as I do. But I’ve no hankering to go traipsin’ about their graves.”

  “Shall I give my father your regards?” Humor flashed over Stanwyck’s features.

  “Aye, of course. He always treated this ol’ man well.”

  “He held you in high regard,” Stanwyck said. “He trusted you. A rare thing, indeed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Was that sadness in Avery’s gruff voice?

  Stanwyck’s fingers curved around Sophie’s forearm, and he led her toward a massive grave marker that seemed more of a monument. A biting wind whipped through her wool cloak, unleashing a sudden shiver. If she were a more skittish woman, she might’ve found the combination of the charcoal sky and towering tombstones an ominous sight. To the contrary, the weather seemed to mirror her mood. All she needed was a crackle of thunder to mimic the tension-filled pounding in her left temple.

  Well out of Avery’s earshot, Stanwyck turned to her.

  “Sophie, precisely what is it that you do for Trask?”

  What was the man about? Had he set his mind to proving her—and Trask—a fraud? It wouldn’t do to appear too complacent. Best to show some spirit, even if any gesture she’d make might appear contrived.

  “My, what an odd question. You have seen what I do, as you put it.”

  “Why does a man like Trask need your services? After all, he’s crafted a reputation as a superior medium.”

  Steadying her breaths, she faced him with a direct gaze. “My talents come into play in certain circumstances, times when my expertise is better suited to the patron.”

  “In your interactions with Trask’s clientele, have you seen anything…heard anything…that might make someone fear you’d betray them?”

  “Betray them? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” With any luck, he wouldn’t detect the tiny hitch in her tone.

  “Of course you do, Sophie.”

  “Miss Devereaux,” she said crisply.

  “I do believe we’ve both crossed the point where speaking each other’s given name is improper. After last night—”

  “Last night meant nothing.”

  “You’re not so skilled a liar as you’d like to think. But that’s of no consequence. Not now, at least.”

  She gave her head a shake, as if that would clear it. “You are indeed a confounding man. If you have brought me here hoping to kindle a passion between us, I can assure you that none exists.”

  His mouth thinned, and he regarded her with eyes darkened to the color of a storm-tossed sea. “If I were intent on seduction, I’ll be damned if I’d escort you through a maze of headstones. A plush bed would far better serve that purpose.”

  She folded her arms at the waist, as if doing so would shield her from his penetrating gaze.

  “In that case, why have you brought us here, to this dismal place? I am not so foolish as to believe you are seeking contact with your sire. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

  “If my father is hovering about somewhere, he can jolly well wait. It’s not as though he has appointments to keep.” Gavin raked a hand through his hair. “You must tell me the truth. What in blazes happened last night—before I came upon the scene?”

  “As I’ve already told you, the vermin demanded that I come with him… His employer wished to arrange a sitting.”

  “And you believed him?”

  She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her mouth. Blast it, what did Stanwyck suspect?

  “I am told that my reputation in London is growing. Perhaps the man’s employer is an eccentric, convinced that I have received some communication from beyond, a matter of great urgency.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  She stared down at her leather-clad toes, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t know what to tell you to believe. I do not have the answers you want.”

  “At least that much has the ring of truth.”

  “Perhaps they intended to rob me. There’s no way to know, really. It’s pointless to speculate on the motives of ruffians.” She pulled in a slow, calming draught of air. “As I told you last night, this is not your concern.”

  “And if I’ve decided it is?” he pressed.

  In the distance, threatening clouds loomed over the Thames. Thunder rumbled. Perhaps the weather would grant a reprieve from Stanwyck’s questions.

  “I would tell you that you are wasting your time. I am not a maiden who needs to be rescued. I’ve fared quite well on my own, despite your belief to the contrary.”

  “Sophie, those hoodlums were not interested in your ability to converse with spirits, nor were they after the contents of your purse.”

  The steely conviction in his voice jarred her. She took a step back. Not in retreat, but in an attempt to steady herself. What had Stanwyck learned about her—abo
ut the role she was playing? About her mission?

  Her pulse throbbed in her ears. Pulling in a breath, she counted silently, then released it. Perhaps she could turn this situation to her advantage and garner crucial intelligence in the process. If Stanwyck did have information on the men who’d attacked her, she might lead him to reveal his sources.

  “Assuming you are correct, I deserve an explanation—why do you believe some foul purpose motivated what happened last night?”

  “Those bastards were sent after you. You can’t deny that. I intend to find out why.”

  Her breaths felt shallow and erratic. She’d prepared for many scenarios. She’d been trained to throw an interrogator off course. But the earnest conviction in Stanwyck’s words could not be easily dismissed. Concern blazed in his eyes—for her, not himself. Could she trust him?

  Or was this a deception he’d set into play for his own unknown purposes?

  She could not reveal the truth to him. The risk was too great.

  She stripped her voice of emotion. “What do you know about those men?”

  “I have reason to believe they are killers. What do you know of Trask’s prior assistant, a woman named Valentina?”

  Killers. Valentina. The words pounded in her ears. God above, what had he learned about the Russian medium?

  Her mouth went dry, and, for a heartbeat, perhaps two, her knees went weak. But she had to stay in character. And she needed to get away from him. This might all be a ruse to cover his true motives for seeking out Trask.

  “My, how very dramatic.” She didn’t try to hide the slight quiver in her voice. Given the circumstances, it would seem quite natural that he’d shaken her. “I see no point in continuing these preposterous sessions. I do not understand why you are trying to frighten me, and frankly, I do not care to try. I will inform Mr. Trask that I will no longer participate in this bloody odd game you’re playing.”

  A lightning bolt sizzled in the sky. “This is not a game, Sophie.”