She brushed herself down and tossed off the cord that had bound her wrists. “I am here because Mrs. Beaumont was my friend. I intend to catch her killer.”
Phillip gave her a hard look, as if weighing her words. He distrusted her. Not surprising, considering the circumstances.
She indicated the trunk. “I was going through her things to find something that might point to her killer.” She hoped the truth in her statement made it sound plausible. “Now, if I may be so bold, sir, why are you here?”
“Why not ask who I am?” He had spotted her mistake.
“I know who you are.” She defiantly tilted her head.
“I would remember if we had met.”
“I have seen you about town. From a distance. We do not travel in the same circles. However, few have not heard of Sir Phillip Jones, knighted this spring. The officer who saved England by recovering missing naval plans.”
“Ah, yes, the reward,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. “A most inconvenient occurrence.”
The softening of his features suggested he had dropped his guard, if only minutely. Rose perversely felt angry instead of relieved, and fury against this man blossomed.
Phillip Jones, nay, Sir Phillip Jones had lied to her since the first day they met and was still doing it. What man would not be thrilled to be rewarded for excelling at what he loved to do, and by the Prince Regent himself? Never mind what damage his work brought to innocent bystanders. “Are you not proud of the honor, sir?”
His brows narrowed.
Her resentment had slipped out. How unfortunate.
“It has proved to be an inconvenience,” he said in a mild tone, “since now everyone seems to know who I am and is interested in what I do. As you appear to be, Turner. The unwanted attention is becoming . . . problematic.”
“You have my sympathy,” she said, not meaning a bit of it. If his job as an intelligence officer for the kingdom was affected, that was well and good. Then, perhaps, no other young lady need have her heart broken while being wooed for information.
“You interest me, Turner.” Phillip tucked his slim dagger into his right sleeve. “You come here unarmed but for a chamber pot”—that infuriatingly condescending smile flashed in her direction—“to the rooms of a murdered woman, purportedly to find evidence. Yet, these two rooms appear untouched but for the articles you were packing. Either you are an innocent, or a most foolish thief.”
When she did not admit to nor deny his arrogant assumptions, another self-satisfied smirk appeared.
Rose wished she had made herself tall and strong enough to banish that hateful smile with a well-aimed fist.
His gaze slid to her right hand.
She loosened her clenched fingers and ignored his quiet chuckle. She itched for a chance to dent his over-inflamed confidence. Foolish thief, indeed! “I could be the murderer.”
“Are you?” His right hand had tensed.
“No!” What was she thinking to even put that dangerous suggestion into his head?
He gave her a studied look, and then his eyes shifted, taking in the bedroom.
Did he believe her? His relaxed fingers suggested that he did. Why? And then Rose’s heartbeat thundered as a possible answer surfaced. “Do you know who killed Helen?”
Ignoring her question, he gestured for her to precede him to the parlor.
“Before you abscond with this lot”—he waved at both rooms—“I hope you will not deny me a search?”
She retrieved her lantern before entering the other room, all the while her mind worked feverishly at this new startling turn of events. Did Phillip have a suspect in mind? “There is nothing in this front room. I searched earlier.”
“But did you check in the right places?” His lopsided grin made her heart skip.
He toyed with her now, like a cat swatting at a spider. He was sure of himself and the lack of danger she posed. Because, somehow, he knew she was not the killer? She certainly hoped so. The thought of having Phillip as her enemy was terrifying. Rose recalled what had happened to Eve when she stepped into his sights.
He began checking behind framed scenes from the continent. When done with that, he tapped on the floorboards.
“What are you doing?” she asked, curious.
“There could be hidden compartments.”
“Oh. I had not thought of that.”
“You are new to this game, Turner. You should reconsider before going further. The chase will be dangerous.”
“Why should you care if I put myself in danger?” The resentful question slipped out.
His attention shifted as he dug into the sofa seat.
“Just as I thought,” she muttered and set her lantern on the desk. He had never cared for anyone, just his goals.
“I do care,” he said in a soft voice.
She looked over, surprised. If only he had shown such concern before. Trusted her enough to confide his suspicions about Eve. Instead, he had used Rose to solve his case and then left.
“You do not strike me as a person who trusts easily, sir, never mind bothering about a stranger’s safety.” Else he would have called out when he came in, instead of assuming her guilt and attacking her. Phillip had not changed at all. Rose returned to her search, but her heart shuddered with a familiar ache for what could have been.
Chapter Two
TURNER’S CARELESSLY thrown words about his lack of trust penetrated Phillip’s calm. It was like peeling back an old scab to find it still bled. Except this time, the charge was unfair.
“So I should trust you, Turner?” Phillip asked. “We have just met, under the most suspicious circumstances, and in a murdered woman’s home.”
Turner shrugged and returned his attention to the desk.
Phillip was at his side in an instant to spin him around.
The lad gasped, his eyes widening. What had been muddy brown orbs suddenly grew startling streaks of sea green. Within two blinks, the boy’s eyes were back to plain brown.
Phillip checked again, but Turner’s eyes remained unchanged. A trick of the light? He let go of the lad. “I care that you do not find yourself in the same position as your recently departed friend. And if I did not trust you to some degree, you would not still be here, untied, assisting me.”
“Are my actions not of help?”
“That is yet to be determined.” Phillip backed away. Something about Turner unsettled him, making him rake his memories for a shared past. A turn of his head perhaps, or the way he phrased his responses.
Who was this Ben Turner? The clean chin suggested he was younger than he pretended. Despite his educated accent, he was dressed in decades-old discards and dusty boots that put him squarely in the lower orders. Probably worked as a clerk. Whatever his circumstance, he should be home, with his family, not searching the rooms of a dead woman. Did he have a family?
As if uneasy with Phillip’s scrutiny, Turner shifted.
His posture screamed guilt. But what was he guilty of? Turner suddenly reminded Phillip of Rufus, his cousin, when he and Rufus had been boys. They had been as close as brothers once, until the snuffbox incident. Phillip’s uncle, Rufus’s father, had accused his son of stealing his snuffbox, and Rufus had looked as guilty as Turner did now. Except that Rufus had been innocent of that crime. Phillip had been the culprit. He had stolen that confounded snuffbox as a jest, never guessing his uncle would furiously accuse his son.
Before Phillip could take the blame, Rufus had placed a hand on Phillip’s shoulder and confessed to the crime. Phillip had immediately spoken up, insisting he had stolen the snuffbox, but his uncle refused to believe him. He had even praised Phillip for trying to defend Rufus. And then took his son to the barn for a harsh whipping.
Even now, Phillip still cringed at the memory, remembering his aunt
tending to his cousin’s bloody back later that morning. To this day, Rufus’s screams from that barn still echoed in Phillip’s dreams.
That injustice had imprinted on Phillip like a brand, one he had never forgotten or had forgiven himself for. Sometimes, he suspected that he had become an intelligence officer to atone for that one mistake. It was his way of ensuring that truly guilty parties paid for their crimes, not the innocents. Memory of the snuffbox incident now made him question his suspicion about Turner. Could he be misjudging the lad? As his uncle had once misjudged Rufus?
After all, Phillip was fairly certain Turner was not responsible for Mrs. Beaumont’s murder. All the evidence thus far pointed in an entirely different direction, and gender.
“I merely meant, sir,” Turner said, “that no doubt you are used to trusting to your advantage.”
Feeling defensive, Phillip crossed his arms. “I ask myself why my actions seem so important to you, Turner?”
The question seemed to hit a mark. The boy stepped back two paces. Three.
Phillip’s hunter instincts reared.
“We are here to search for clues,” Turner said. “I suggest we get on with that, else we shall be here all night.”
As a deflection, it was worthy. Phillip had come to these rooms to find a clue that would exonerate Rose of a crime he could not believe she was capable of committing, even though he had witnessed her running from that warehouse, bloody knife in hand.
Somewhere in here could be evidence of the person Mrs. Beaumont was supposed to meet at Wapping. Phillip might not be the only one she had invited. And why had she chosen Wapping as the meeting place? Why not here in her rooms or at an innocuous hotel or public house? His instincts said the answers to his questions lay somewhere in these chambers.
He must not allow Turner to distract him from his goal. He returned to his search, but disturbing questions kept intruding. Was he truly incapable of trusting another, as Rose once accused him? And if he was unable to trust Rose, how was he to keep her from the hangman’s noose? The rustle of paper drew his gaze across the room. Turner had spotted a basket by the hearth filled with crumpled paper.
So, letting the lad help had not been such a bad idea, after all. Perhaps trust was like climbing a shaky ladder, best taken one cautious step at a time.
The boy dumped the contents onto the desktop and spread out a note. He then scrunched it as if to throw away.
Phillip was there in quick time to pluck the page from him.
Turner jumped.
This trust thing would come easier if the boy stopped reacting as if he had committed murder. Ignoring Turner, he read the note. From a Mrs. Kinsdale. He would call on her.
Turner dropped another scrap in the basket.
Phillip sighed. A dabbler in the game was worse than an incompetent. When the boy went to throw away a third sheet, Phillip grabbed it. The note proved surprisingly difficult to pry out of Turner’s slender fingers. Once he did, Phillip reeled at the salutation. Dear Lady Roselyn.
Mrs. Beaumont pleaded with Rose to meet her by a warehouse on a street called Wapping New Stairs. The murder scene. On the night Mrs. Beaumont died.
“Do you know the lady?” Turner asked.
“She is of no concern to you.” He barked the words like a dog warning a trespasser who approached too close. He slipped both notes into his pocket with a trembling hand.
“May I not keep anything we find?” Turner asked.
“This is not a matter of jest, Turner. A woman has been murdered, and her killer is loose in the city. This crime was not random. You have no doubt wondered why Mrs. Beaumont was at that deserted warehouse late at night. Did she possess information that rendered her dangerous enough to be killed? These are the questions I must pursue.”
He looked around the room with loathing. He had come here to find clues to Rose’s innocence and accomplished the opposite. “I suggest you do as you said and send her things to her family. Then forget about Mrs. Helen Beaumont, or what happened to her, could happen to you.”
He was sick of this infernal place. He bid Turner goodnight. He was out the door before the boy responded.
“I intend to seek out Helen’s murderer.”
Phillip’s steps skidded to a halt. The boy was going to get himself killed. Just as Helen Beaumont had done, because Phillip had delayed going to meet her. How could he have known the woman was serious? After the tenth request from a stranger to help recover stolen pendants and missing pets, was it any wonder he had hesitated over meeting the Beaumont female? At least he had gone. Too late, as it turned out. But that mistake meant he could not walk away from Turner.
He returned to find the lad slumped in a chair behind the desk, looking despondent. “That would be unwise.”
Turner scrambled to his feet, knocking his chair over in his rush. “She was my friend, sir. I will not rest until I know who killed her and bring the villain to justice. Surely, you of all people, should admire such a noble purpose?”
So full of sarcasm. “You are a foolish boy!”
“You do not know me, Sir Phillip Jones.”
Phillip shut the door and approached until he towered over Turner.
The lad’s breath gushed out as he said, “You are not the only one who seeks justice this night, sir.”
Plucky. Idiotic, but plucky. Just like Rufus. The fight left Phillip. “I suppose I am not.” As he gave into his better instincts, his tense shoulders dropped. “Well, young Turner, I admire your determination, but this is a dangerous venture. If you insist on chasing this murderer, best if you do it under my guidance.”
“You would help me?” Turner’s voice squeaked. He cleared his throat, and said in a deeper tone. “You would help me, sir?”
Phillip suppressed a smile. “That depends. Will you do exactly as I say?”
The lad hesitated.
Say no.
Turner held out his hand. “I agree.”
“You are a brave lad.” Phillip clasped the boy’s hand and shook it. Energy raced up his arm, raising his neck hairs. He blinked in surprise and frowned at their clasped hands. “You seem oddly familiar,” he said in a strangled voice. And not just as a reminder of Rufus. He gripped Turner’s hand harder, overwhelmed by an odd sense of connection to the lad. The last time he had felt so regretful at leaving someone had been the day he saluted Rose’s hand in farewell. “Are you certain we have not met before?”
Turner pulled free and held his arm behind his back. Had he felt that profound sense of connection too? “You would remember if we had, sir.”
“Yes, I have an excellent memory.” Phillip looked at his empty hand still extended, and felt an inexplicable sense of loss. He dropped his arm to his side and flicked his fingers. They still tingled. “I hope we do not both regret this decision, Turner.”
“You can trust me, sir. I would never let you down.”
The emphasis on the “I” lashed out. Phillip raised his eyebrow in surprise. It was as if Turner had a grudge against him. But why? “So,” Turner said, “will you tell me now what you plan to do with that last note you slipped into your pocket?”
“I intend to question Lady Roselyn.”
“You know her?”
“I did once.” He did not want to talk about Rose. Not yet. Not until he saw her again, spoke with her, and ascertained her innocence.
“Is she a suspect then, or a friend?”
“Both.” Turner was full of uncomfortable questions. But if Rose was guilty, he had better get used to this line of inquiry.
“How may I contact you to discover your progress, sir?”
“Meet me at the Boar and Cross on Heron Street on the morrow at four sharp. Be punctual. I abhor tardiness.”
“I will be there and apprise you of what else I find here.”
&nbs
p; THE NEXT DAY, sunny skies matched Phillip’s excitement at his upcoming errand. Anxious to see Rose again, he negotiated the West End’s sluggish afternoon traffic at a faster clip than was wise. He finally pulled his curricle to a halt before her four-story brick townhouse.
About to face the woman who had broken his heart, he felt his anticipation falter. He gripped the leads too tight and the horses neighed, shuffling to the side. With a sigh at his cow-handedness, he gave the reins to his tiger. While the servant whispered soothingly to the restless horses, Phillip leaped onto the pavement, sprinted up Rose’s front steps and knocked.
Since his return to London, he had avoided visiting her until he knew the lay of the land. Being sent away with his tail between his legs for a second time did not appeal. He had wanted to first find out her state of mind so he could appropriately tailor his approach.
His contrary mother had refused to answer any of his questions about a woman she considered unworthy of her son’s attention. So he had visited his clubs to find out who Rose had been involved with during his three-year absence.
He had learned that Rose rarely socialized after he left London, appearing to grow despondent. It was no wonder. She had adored her sister and would have been grieving her death. After her grandmother died, Rose had apparently shunned all callers. That news was troubling, but to Phillip’s mind, it was far better to hear the love of his life was a recluse than happily married with a brood of three.
After what seemed an age with no response to his knock, he debated the wisdom of scaling the back garden wall to gain entrance through a rear door, when the front door opened and a young maid peered out. “Yes, sir?”
Phillip offered his card. “I am here to see Lady Roselyn Ravenstock.”
The maid hesitated. At least Rose had a maid, so that rumor that she had dismissed all her servants could not be true. “Is there a problem?”
“No, sir. I will inquire if the mistress is at home.” She invited him inside.
While he waited, she hurried toward the drawing room. The heavy curtains pulled across the front windows, in combination with unlit candles, shrouded the wide entryway in darkness. He pushed aside a nearby curtain and dust motes floated in the air. A trickle of light pierced the grimy windows to reveal bare walls and cobwebs draping the chandelier.
A Devilish Slumber Page 3
