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

by Tara Kingston

  “If you desire further sittings, Trask will conduct them.” Showing him her back, she strode toward the waiting carriage.

  His long strides made short work of the distance she’d put between them. “I don’t give a damn about your blasted sittings. Do you think me such a fool that I might swallow any of that rubbish you spout about spirit guides and séances?”

  She spun on her heel, facing him. “Then why? Why do you come to Trask’s studio? Why have you subjected me to this ridiculous quest, when you do not believe any of it?”

  “None of that matters. Not now. You may be in danger.”

  “There is no one who has a reason to harm me.” Even as she uttered the words, a pang of uncertainty twinged in her stomach. She had no way of knowing if her cover identity remained secure, no way to be certain she had not created an enemy through her inquiries.

  “I have reason to believe your predecessor was murdered…by the same man who attempted to abduct you last night.”

  “Tell me how…how do you know this?”

  He rubbed his jaw as if it ached, then took her hands in his. “A colleague encountered a man last night who openly boasted of the woman’s murder. The cur’s description fits the man who attacked you.”

  “But you did not hear his words?”

  “No.”

  She hiked a brow, deliberately skeptical. “A man crowed about being a murderer? A man who may or may not be the bloke who put his filthy hands on me last night…and because of that, you believe I am in a killer’s sights?”

  Once again, he dragged his fingers through his hair. So, his confidence was not unshakable. He’d shed his arrogant veneer.

  “Sophie, I cannot prove that you are in danger. But the evidence is strong.”

  A chill crept along her spine, setting the fine hairs at her nape on end. She pulled in a slow breath and released it. It wouldn’t do to betray her instinctive response to the ring of truth in his warning.

  “I believed you to be a logical man. Even your skepticism made sense when viewed through that lens. But this—it’s all too much.”

  “Your life may depend on getting out of Trask’s reach. You must leave London.”

  “Leave the city? Have you gone mad?”

  “You must extricate yourself from his dealings. I don’t know why you’ve got yourself involved in his shady affairs, but a trail of deaths leads to the bastard.” He took a step closer. For a moment, Sophie thought he’d take her in his arms, but he stilled. “I will help you, if you will allow me that privilege.”

  She allowed herself a few heartbeats to digest his words. So, her suspicions had been correct. A search for long-lost treasure had nothing to do with his reasons for seeking out Trask. And now, he’d offered to help her escape Trask…to escape London.

  My, it was all rather convenient, wasn’t it? He wanted her out of the city. But why? Did he truly fear she was in the path of some sinister menace? Or did he harbor dark reasons of his own for wanting her away from Trask’s enterprise?

  “I have no need of your assistance.” Gently, she wriggled out of his light hold. “Our business here is done.”

  “Sophie, I can protect you.”

  Another bolt of lightning rent the sky, as if to accent his words. The storm was close now. She had to get out of this infernal graveyard.

  She had to get away from him.

  Sophie cocked her head, studying him. The concern in his eyes seemed genuine. But in truth, that meant nothing. He’d lied to her since their first meeting.

  “And what, precisely, would be the cost of your protection? I am not so naive as to believe that anything in this life comes without a price.”

  His brow furrowed. Indignation flashed in his eyes. “You think I would extort sexual favors in exchange for my protection?”

  “Would that be so unusual?” She hoped he couldn’t detect the tiny quiver in her voice.

  He hardened his gaze, his jaw taut, as if she had slapped him. “I have no ulterior motive. It is indeed a low blow that you would imply that my character is so entirely lacking. I am willing to provide transportation to the Continent and arrange living quarters during your stay. My only concern is keeping you safe.”

  “Why?” She pulled in a ragged breath. “What is it to you?”

  “I’ve come to…” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “I’ve come to care for you, Sophie… I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

  Ah, if only she could believe his words, though in truth, his intentions did not signify. Not one whit. She had her duty. She had a mission, and she would complete it, regardless of his warnings and his supposedly heartfelt concern.

  “I have lived without a man’s protection since the age of eighteen. I do not need you, of all people, to defend me.” She took a step back, then another. “I will see myself home.”

  “Of all people.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Very well, then. I cannot force you to accept my protection. But even a rogue such as myself would not leave a lady to her own devices in a dismal place like this.” He signaled for his driver. “Avery will see you home.”

  Lightning cut through the charcoal sky. Thunder rippled through the air. “And what of you? Do you intend to stay here in the blasted storm?”

  He turned toward the mausoleum. “Perhaps I shall pay my father a visit after all.”

  “Come into the coach. I have no aversion to sharing the space,” she called after him.

  Gavin shot a glance over his shoulder. “Pity I cannot say the same.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sophie prided herself on her ability to face down any obstacle she encountered, to overcome any challenge. Wasn’t that what she’d been doing since that summer day when her parents had embarked on a journey from which they’d never returned? She had survived the scandal of the incident that had left her a virtual untouchable in London society, and she’d walked away from her position as a governess after the newly minted stepfather of her charges made it clear he expected that she allow him under her skirts as a condition of employment. She’d taken some comfort in the memory of the weasel’s face as she’d driven her boot into his shin and her knee into an even more vulnerable spot on his anatomy, but the experience had been devastating. Without references or money, she’d endured a necessary retreat to her uncle’s home, only to be dubbed a disappointment by her unforgiving aunt, yet again.

  A chance encounter with a daring female reporter had changed her life. While on a shopping expedition with her cousin, Sophie had stumbled upon a harrowing scene. An aged flower peddler stood alone in the shadows of an alley, cornered by a massive brute wielding a stout length of pipe. Armed with only her parasol, Sophie had come to the old woman’s aid. Much to her cousin’s horror, Sophie had crept up behind the man and delivered a sound blow to the back of his skull. Her actions and her cousin’s screams had provided a distraction, allowing the peddler to escape before constables had arrived on the scene.

  Days later, Sophie had received a carefully worded communique from the secretary to MacAllister Campbell, the Herald’s editor. In reality, the peddler had been a woman only three years her senior—journalist Jennie Quinn. Impressed by Sophie’s spirit and courage, Jennie had extended the opportunity to become her assistant, one of the trusted inner circle who knew reporter J.Q. Knight’s daring exposés were the result of Jennie’s danger-fraught investigations.

  As a Colton Agency operative, Sophie had found herself in a fix or two. She’d faced criminals and all manner of thugs. But she’d never experienced the nerve-racking sense that she was prey. Even after the pale man’s attacks had left her shaken, she’d convinced herself that she could take on the unknown threat.

  Until now.

  Gavin’s warning had let loose a dread that permeated to the bone. If only she could dismiss his words as a ploy, as some manipulation that would play into his scheme. But her instincts cried out that he had not intended to deceive her. The threat was all too real.

&nbs
p; Stanwyck’s driver offered to transport her home, but she insisted he take her to Trask. Despite her fear, she could not walk away. No matter the circumstances, she had to salvage this mission. If the unfortunate souls who’d died following Trask’s gatherings had indeed been murdered, their killer was still on the loose. She must find the evidence that would bring the murderer to justice before he could strike again.

  She glanced at the timepiece pinned to her bodice. Nearly five o’clock. Trask had scheduled a gathering for that night. Given his usual habit of taking his evening meal at the café around the corner, he’d likely not be in the studio for at least a half hour. Not an abundant amount of time, but enough to search the man’s desk for new intelligence that might be of use.

  The door was locked, but she dared not assume Trask had left the premises. She peered through the unfrosted oval of the window, confirming the space was nearly dark and seemingly unoccupied. Not a foolproof method of determining if Trask waited inside the studio, but she’d have to take that chance.

  Patting her upswept hair, she slid a hair comb from her loosely pinned curls. A few quick manipulations of the three silver teeth, and the elegant accessory transformed into a master key.

  The tool made short work of opening the lock. She slipped inside and secured the door behind her. Pulling in a steadying breath, she surveyed each room for any sign of Trask.

  Satisfied she was alone, she stepped into his office.

  Trask was a fraud, but no one could accuse him of slovenliness. His office could have served as a model of efficiency and order. The trait might well be a virtue, but it increased the odds he would notice if a document went missing.

  His mahogany file cabinet occupied a shadowed corner of the room. Pity she did not have more time to explore the contents of his files. Logic dictated his client notes were the first priority. She’d observed him storing those documents in the second drawer from the top. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she slid the device into the lock. A soft click and she tugged open the drawer. She removed one binder after another and thumbed through the documents. In the dim light, her eyes rebelled against the strain of deciphering Trask’s cramped, light script. She paused to give them a rub and kept going.

  Trask had taken meticulous notes, documenting every sitting, every participant. Was this exacting attention to detail another reflection of his precise manner, or did he intend to use this information to his advantage? Could the information he’d gathered through the séances—revelations which were at times excruciatingly personal, perhaps even incriminating—provide fodder for blackmail?

  She scanned the pages, searching for dates that would correspond to Eversleigh’s and Fenshaw’s attendance. Lady Valentina. Penned in Trask’s precise hand, the name caught her eye. The woman had served as the medium at several sittings attended by the men. What was the connection between their deaths and Valentina’s disappearance?

  Three pages bore both Valentina’s name and the dates of séances. Sophie studied each entry. Unlike Trask’s other notations, he’d included little specific detail. At times, the notes were cryptic—abbreviations she did not recognize, symbols and numbers in what seemed a code. How very peculiar.

  Folding the papers into a neat square, she tucked them within a pocket hidden along the seam of her petticoat. Brushing the fabric back in place, she glanced again at her timepiece. Ever a creature of habit, Trask would return within the quarter hour. She had to move quickly and take her exit before he caught her blithely perusing his documents.

  There’d be no time to explore the contents of the other files. Perhaps she’d sneak in that night after Trask had retired to his town house and gain access to the remaining documents.

  Taking great care to leave everything as she’d found it, Sophie replaced the binder in the cabinet and moved to his desk. She glanced over a neat stack of correspondence. Finding nothing of interest, Sophie shifted her attention to the top drawer.

  A few shimmies of the master key in the lock, and the drawer opened. The space was empty, save for a pair of letters, each envelope addressed in the same bold hand.

  She lifted one of the missives from the drawer and read its unsigned message.

  You have been careless. A nonbeliever is in your midst.

  Sophie’s pulse raced. Had she been discovered? Had the men been sent to silence her?

  Taking the second envelope in her hands, she removed its contents.

  She stared down at the newspaper clipping. Her hands trembled.

  Gavin Stanwyck’s sullen face glared back at her. Younger by a few years or so in the picture, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a pleasant-faced man with an infectious grin.

  Stanwyck heir returns triumphant from Cairo expedition.

  She shifted from the image to the letter.

  A nonbeliever…

  A bitter taste filled her mouth. Stanwyck had believed she was in danger, had wanted to protect her. All the while, he had no inkling he’d put himself in a villain’s crosshairs.

  With trembling hands, she placed each letter back in its envelope, folded them, and hid the incriminating correspondence within the folds of her petticoat. She drew in a calming draught of air, then another. She had to pull herself together. This show of nerves simply would not do.

  With a twist of the tool, she relocked the drawer. From the front of the studio, a scratch against metal, a key inserted into a contrary lock, announced Trask’s return. Soundlessly closing the door behind her, she ducked into her small dressing area, lit a lamp, and smoothed her jacket to ensure no telltale creases drew attention.

  Trask’s heavy footsteps marked his path to the closet-sized room. Standing in the doorway, he glanced from her face to the hairbrush in her hand. Was it her imagination, or was the man agitated, ill at ease? “I didn’t expect you so soon. You were caught in the storm?”

  “I avoided the worst of it.”

  “Where is Stanwyck? I assumed he’d return with you.”

  “I do not know where the man is.”

  He strolled to the window, tension marking his every stride. Turning away from her, he stared into the street. Behind her, the clock’s pendulum marked the moments. Swish. Swish. Swish.

  “Am I to believe that you’ve alienated an exceedingly lucrative patron?” Anger simmered in his outwardly cool tones. “I warned you, Sophie.”

  Thank heavens he wasn’t looking at her. What was the man about? The person who’d sent those letters saw Stanwyck as a threat. Perhaps, even, a complication to be eliminated. Why would Trask seek to keep the professor snooping about his business? Why didn’t he seek to drive the man away?

  Unless—unless Stanwyck had something he needed. Evidence, perhaps. Surely Trask would not chance the retribution implied in those missives simply to add more tin to his purse?

  She could not betray her suspicions. Forcing herself to look the man directly in the eye, she conjured one of the boldest lies she’d yet to utter.

  “I will do what I can to keep Stanwyck’s money flowing into your coffers.”

  Looming over her, Trask seemed somehow larger. Intimidating. Threatening.

  “Make sure you do, Sophie. I am losing patience. If you fail me, I promise you will not like the consequences.”

  Hiring a hack to take her from Trask’s studio, Sophie instructed the driver to head directly to the Boar’s Head and climbed into the coach. The rain had eased to a gentle shower, the thunder far in the distance. She leaned back against the bench, drew the curtain, and closed her eyes. How long could she lead Trask on? Whatever his shortcomings, he was not a fool. Her charade would be short-lived at best. What would she do when he caught on to her lie? He’d issued a clear threat. She’d remain vigilant in his presence, on guard for any sign she might need to take defensive action.

  Her thoughts wandered to Stanwyck. She pictured him as he’d looked at her, standing beneath the threatening clouds in the cemetery. He had not flinched when she’d questioned his integrity, yet, his eyes h
ad betrayed the depth of the wound her words had inflicted. She’d known full well her doubting words would cut him. Despite his protests that he was indeed a scoundrel, he’d bared his heart to her in those moments. And now, picturing the flicker of pain in his gaze, a pang of regret rippled through her core.

  She hadn’t anticipated any of this. When she’d embarked on this mission, she could not have foreseen the impact Gavin Stanwyck would have upon her investigation—upon her. What was it about the man that made her furious one moment and long to be in his arms the next?

  One hand went to the seam of her skirt, skimming the outline of the documents concealed within her clothing. Gavin had crossed someone quite dangerous. Whoever had sent those letters viewed him as a threat. But why would the cur who’d sent Trask the threatening messages include a years-old clipping of Stanwyck when a larger, much clearer likeness had graced the Herald’s front page only a few months prior?

  What was the meaning behind that grainy image? Who was the other man in the picture, his grin posing a vivid contrast to Gavin’s scowl? Was that earnest soul somehow tied to this web of deceit?

  If only she’d been able to deduce why Gavin had sought out Trask. Had he gone after the phony psychic to debunk the man as a fraud? Or did he seek to uncover some more sinister aspect of the conniver’s dealings?

  Was Gavin Stanwyck working against her purposes?

  Or might their motives be aligned?

  Opening her eyes, she parted the curtain and took in the sights and sounds of the city. She’d never tire of the brisk chaos that was London. A fruit vendor pushed a half-full cart, letting loose with a bellow as a dirty-cheeked urchin grabbed an apple and scurried off with his purloined prize. If she’d walked the route, she might’ve parted with a coin to ease the merchant’s anger, but she’d exercise an abundance of caution in the coming days.

  A helmeted bobby stepped from a pub. She recognized his blunt, rather ordinary features—the patrolman who’d offered his escort after the first encounter with the pale hoodlum. He hesitated, as if waiting for someone.