London Calling

by Sorcha Mowbray

  “I have had the distinct notion that I was followed around town today.” Griff rubbed his eyes. “It must be that I stayed up too late. I am sure I am imagining things.”

  “Staying up late will do that to you, old man.” Dell nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, on the upside, I did see the most beautiful woman as a result of my paranoia.” Griff grinned. “Wouldn’t mind tossing up her skirts if I knew who she was.”

  “Have you ever met a woman whose skirts you wouldn’t mind tossing up?” His friend looked shocked at the notion.

  “Of course I have. The Gorgon Twins for two, and the cog peddler down on Church Street.” Griff raised an eyebrow at his friend who was now bent over laughing. He’d kept his lack of sexual interest since dismissing his last mistress to himself, certain that things would right themselves in time. The harridan had left a bad taste in his mouth. Imagine, a woman of her temperament trying to trap him into marriage? It was ludicrous! Fortunately for him, his mistress had proven to be akin to his onetime fiancée, who upon learning of his predilection for tinkering had departed the field of battle almost immediately.

  “Gad! Nobody would want to dance with the Gorgon Twins let alone bed them, and the cog peddler might not be half bad if she bathed once a month or so.” Dell winked at Griff.

  The waiter returned with Griff’s snifter of brandy and the latest edition of the news. Holding the glass, Griff swirled the amber liquid and sniffed, letting it lightly singe his nostrils. “You never said how the masked ball went.”

  “Excellent, as always. I ran into a sweet little dove who later became very accommodating. Her husband was less so when he came looking for her in the dark paths of Covent Gardens.” Dell flashed a toothy grin.

  “Still dallying with the married ladies.” Griff shook his head, befuddled by his friend’s behavior.

  “They always seem to find me.” He winked and picked his paper back up.

  The pair fell silent as Dell perused his paper and Griff mulled over the very attractive brunette. How could he find her? It seemed reasonable that only a very few women would own a phaeton. Perhaps he could ask around his friends.

  The pleasant silence was broken with a curse from Dell. “Bloody cog suckers! Another riot yesterday in the East End.”

  Dell picked up his brandy and slugged the last swallow as Griff cringed inside. “Oh. What about?” He worked to keep his voice neutral.

  “The legislation restricting Tinkers from creating stuff willy-nilly. The piece that failed last night in the midnight vote. Without those regulations accidents like that crash will continue to wipe out our population.”

  “Better regulations would be useful.” Griff agreed without agreeing. He knew Dell had Steam Control Party (SCP) leanings and as a result often gauged his words carefully.

  “Better regulations? It’s middle of the road politicians like you, Griff, that allow Tinkers to maim and kill innocent people every day with their crazed inventions.” Dell’s voice hardened to a sharp edge.

  Increasingly frustrated with his friend’s politics, Griff gritted his teeth. “I daresay regulating safety standards would better serve our working class than replacing steam with an expensive solution such as electricity. Half our population would be toppled into darkness.”

  Dell grunted. “Electricity is safer than steam and it is certainly cleaner. All around it is the superior power source.”

  Nonplussed, Griff repressed his instinctive rebuttal, afraid of saying too much against the SCP. His friend’s rabid anger was something of a surprise. Was Dell being radicalized? It posed a particular dilemma for Griff, as his friend. What would Dell do if he discovered Griff’s secret? If he knew Griff tinkered in a lab, and was responsible for some of the newest steam technology advances? Previously, he’d worried about simply losing a friend, now he had to consider potentially far more serious repercussions.

  3

  Some days Jo’s job left much to be desired. Sure, she had flexible work hours, privacy, great pay, and a level of job security that most people would kill for. But somedays, being an assassin didn’t live up to all the hullabaloo.

  Today was certainly turning out to be one of those days.

  Her quarry had proved elusive for the latter half of the day, so she had resorted to tracking him to his home after losing him on St. James Street. One might think a killer would find the victim’s home convenient. But Jo knew better than to fall into that trap. Killing a mark in their home humanized them. It took them from being the enemy she had been sent to eliminate to being a person. Someone who had family and people who depended on him or her. Someone who enjoyed a good book, or galloped about with children on their backs.

  A victim.

  All around her the scent of jasmine wafted on the air. The scent teased her with bits and pieces of memories of her mother. Nothing whole, just the impression of a smile, the tinkle of her laughter, and of course, the comforting smell of the jasmine perfume her mother always wore.

  Still shrouded in the shadows of the garden, Jo drew a deep breath and stilled her wandering thoughts. Her assignment had been simple, kill Lord John Griffin, the Earl of Melton. He was an enemy of the Crown and needed to be eliminated. For Queen and Country.

  The problem was, despite following her normal routine, he had somehow become human. He was a man who attended a midnight session of Parliament, visited his mother, had lunch with a friend at his club, and had ultimately settled in his library with a book and what she imagined was a very fine scotch.

  With a shake of her head, she studied the man through the window, trying to sort out what it was that seemed to prick her conscience. Was it the warm homey setting of the room? Perhaps it was his thick dark hair? Or his stormy gray eyes? Frustrated, she pushed the distracting ideas away and focused on her target. The enemy.

  Easing deeper into the darkness, she reached up and pulled herself over the balustrade. On the terrace, she crept forward using the drapes as cover. Each step brought her closer until she loomed over the now dozing man. Her Khukuri knife slid silently from its sheath, perfectly balanced in the palm of her hand to become an extension of her arm. The room seemed to settle into clear lines and sharp colors as she reached around the man to slit his throat and end the threat he posed. Doubt assailed her once more, causing her to hesitate.

  But then her target no longer slept.

  A strong, masculine hand gripped her wrist and stopped her progress toward his exposed jugular. He squeezed, his fingers tightening around her limb as though he could snap it like a dry twig. But Jo was made of stern stuff. A product of her childhood full of long days spent training, toughening her up, making her faster, stronger, able to endure more pain than any girl should need to suffer through. Of course, none of it hurt as bad as the lance to her heart the night her parents were killed. That was a pain she had never recovered from.

  With a grunt she jerked against her target’s hold, but despite appearances, he was no soft peer of the realm. This was a man who worked with his hands. A man who had known labor and had the strength to prove it. Not many of those in her experience. More often than not, she found the pompous peacocks of the Ton were packed into girdles and other aids to help them wear the leanly cut waistcoats and trousers their rank demanded.

  Then she was flipping through the air over her target’s shoulder only to slam down on a spindly-legged coffee table that shattered, letting her crash to the floor. Her lungs scrabbled for air even as she rolled over and came up in a crouch to guard against a new attack. She glanced around looking for her lost weapon when the man interrupted her search.

  “Who the bloody hell are you?” The very large, very angry male growled as he stalked toward her.

  Silence was golden, and also necessary as she tried to recover her breath. But she had no time to lose, with all the noise someone would have heard and would likely be coming soon. She needed to kill him and get it done or flee and try again later. She feinted right and moved left, hoping to catch him o
ff guard. He did not fall for her tactic, instead he spun to face her and lunged.

  She whipped out of his way, but he cut off her best avenue of escape.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, his eyes cold and gray in the dim light.

  With a grunt she palmed another blade and shifted left only to sweep right when he followed. Slashing her knife down in a deadly arc, she aimed for the vulnerable spot between neck and shoulder. But he blocked her thrust and wrapped his meaty fist around her forearm, jerking her forward into his body. Her breasts pressed against the muscled wall of his chest and her breath hitched. The very masculine scent of sandalwood and engine oil teased her nostrils. Beneath her touch he hardened—everywhere—and then he inhaled sharply as though his mind figured out what his body instinctively understood. Spotting the moment of distraction, she jerked her knee straight up, but managed only to strike his thigh.

  “Damn you,” she snarled as anger surged through her frustration. This man was no normal mark. He was trained in hand-to-hand combat, something that was inconveniently left out of his dossier. Thwarted, she pushed off him and turned to break away. Instead, he reached out and grabbed the trailing end of her rope of hair. He reeled her in like a fish on a hook. As he pulled her back to his chest, Jo knew she was in trouble.

  “Who are you?” His question was really more of a demand, but again she held her tongue.

  Knife still in hand, she jammed it back into his thigh with a quick, shallow thrust. His grip on her hair loosened as he reached instinctively for his injured leg. With a growl, she broke free and dived toward the balcony to escape. But once more she found herself prostrate with the exception that this time, damn near fourteen stones of man landed on top. Despite the blade protruding from his thigh, he rolled her over and managed to pin her hands to the floor while he straddled her hips.

  “It’s you!” His eyes grew wide with surprise. “The lady in the phaeton.”

  She refused to answer him. Surely, he was guessing. But his revelations gave her pause.

  “The one in the navy dress,” he continued, relentlessly.

  Damn and blast. He did see me! She wanted to howl in frustration. She had been certain that as busy as St. James was, he would not remark a woman out for a drive. Who the steaming hell was John Griffin, the Earl of Melton?

  “Why are you trying to kill me? Did the SCP send you?” He squeezed her wrists tighter as he grew more agitated.

  Odd, why would he think she worked for that sad lot of fools?

  “This is clearly about the vote last night. Or possibly something more long term. Who sent you to kill me?”

  She wouldn’t say, really couldn’t—and she normally liked it that way. If she didn’t know she couldn’t reveal anything, but this time something about the whole set up made her sixth sense itch and that was a warning sign she never failed to heed. “I don’t know.”

  Surprise had the man’s eyes flashing wide as incredulity had his mouth hanging agape. “You’ve come to kill a man and you have no idea who sent you?”

  She eyed him warily and then stared at her wrists where his hands had her locked in place.

  “Oh no. I’m not letting you go until I have some answers,” he all but snarled.

  Interestingly, she found his animalistic response exciting, along with his ability to go toe-to-toe with her. She wondered where he had learned to fight close in with such effectiveness.

  “Do you even know why I am supposed to die?” A bleak weariness etched his words, and caused a pang to grow in her chest right where her heart had once beat.

  Steaming hell, he was getting to her. Had become a damn victim instead of her target. “You’re an enemy of the Crown.” She pushed the truth she told herself past clenched teeth.

  “Damnation.” He relaxed his grip a bit, but then tensed again. “If I let you up will you try to kill me again?”

  Jo considered the situation and knew she wasn’t capable of killing him. Not now. Not only had he ceased to be a target, but now she found herself attracted to the blasted man. How could she consider killing him? She sighed, “I won’t kill you.”

  He hesitated, staring at her with his liquid silver eyes that mesmerized. “Very well.” And then he leaned back, releasing her wrists. But he seemed to wait a moment longer than necessary to crawl off her hips. “And you truly don’t know who hired you?”

  “I work for the government.” She sat up and rubbed her forehead. “But the packet I got with all your information wasn’t delivered by my usual contact.”

  “Well, this just gets better and better.” He got to his feet and offered her a hand up.

  “Thanks, but I can get to my feet just fine on my own.” And then she followed through, climbing to her full height which left her still nearly half a foot shorter than him.

  “May I offer you a drink?” He walked over to the decanter of scotch.

  Jo nodded. “I’d say a stiff drink is in order under the circumstances.”

  “Indeed.” He poured her a finger of scotch and then freshened up his own forgotten drink. “I daresay I can’t remember ever having had a drink with the person sent to kill me. Then again, I don’t believe I’ve ever had an assassin before.” He lifted his glass in salute and then tipped the contents back. Jo stood there holding her own drink aloft as she watched the muscles of his throat work in a sensual undulation that had her thinking of the man undulating in a very different manner with significantly less clothing involved.

  Griff caught the sexy killer in his study staring at him as though she had a rather radical change of heart. He moved to pour another glass for himself, a distraction and some much needed fortification, when his thigh twanged and commenced throbbing as though a knife were lodged in it. He glanced down at his leg and saw the blade sticking out, double damn. In the heat of the moment he’d clearly ignored the wound, but now there was no denying it. He stumbled and the vixen lurched toward him, only this time she slipped under his arm to brace him.

  “Sorry about that.” She glanced at the wound.

  “Well, if that’s the least of my injuries for the night I shall count myself lucky. After all if you had succeeded I wouldn’t be standing, let alone discussing the matter.”

  Then she helped him over to the chair he’d originally been sitting in. “Is there someone I can call for you?”

  “On my desk, you can hit the button on the box. Ask Higgins to come with my emergency kit.” He’d prefer to call the doctor, but under the circumstances he assumed she would bolt if he tried and frankly, the fewer people who knew he had been injured the better.

  She followed his directions and after speaking with his butler, turned to face him. “That is quite an ingenious voice amplifier you have there.”

  “Despite what some of my fellow Lords think, I see the value in expanding steam technology.” He watched her for a moment. “What with all the commotion tonight, I failed to get your name.”

  The woman laughed. A full belly laugh. “I didn’t offer it to you. Tell me, where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “The royal Hussars, though I am surprised you are not aware of this.” He eyed her warily, still unsure if he trusted their truce.

  Higgins bustled in with the black medical bag. “My lord—” he pulled up short when he spotted their guest. “I retrieved the items you requested.”

  In that moment, Griff took in the mysterious woman’s appearance as Higgins must be seeing it. She wore black leather trousers designed to hug every curve of her thighs and derriere, a black shirt, and knee-high black boots with buckles all along the side. The ensemble was completed by a black leather harness strapped across her chest holding a myriad of knives. “Yes, well, she dropped by rather unexpectedly. And while she was visiting I had a bit of an accident and dropped my letter opener. It seems to have landed in the meat of my leg, but I believe a few stitches will be required if you could sew me up as you normally do when I injure myself.”

  Higgins looked at the woman with a haught
y suspicion that rolled off him in waves. And while Griff appreciated his butler’s loyalty, he did not need further complications before he got a few more answers out of his guest. “If you would?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Higgins set to work.

  A quarter of an hour later, Griff’s leg was bandaged and his trousers ruined beyond repair as the material of one leg hung in tatters around his wounded thigh.

  With Higgins’ departure, Griff turned his focus on the woman who was meant to kill him. “I do hope you won’t mind answering a few more questions for me.”

  Her dark brown eyes narrowed in speculation. “Perhaps. I suppose it depends on what you ask.”

  “Fair enough.” He shrugged and took a swallow of amber liquor. “You mentioned that your usual contact was not the drop off person. May I ask who your usual contact is?”

  “No.” She leaned back in her chair, legs akimbo as her arms crossed over her chest.

  “I see. What about the person who did make the drop bothered you?”

  She seemed to stop and consider his question. “They were cog-grinders. Real low-level types. My usual contact is much higher placed and more informed. Frankly, I was surprised these two could find the drop off.”

  Griff stood, the need to move like an itch that had to be scratched. He took a step and winced with the pain. The next step was less painful as was the next, until his body adjusted. “Was the dossier on me typical of what you receive?”

  The woman’s answer was instant. “No. Far less detail and precision than normal. I was annoyed initially, but then I also typically have more time to assess and make the kill.”

  He hesitated at her casual mention of killing someone, particularly him. “Could someone have co-opted your services outside of the normal channels?”

  “No, I wouldn’t think so.” She sighed. “Someone in the usual chain must be involved. The signal for the meet came as expected, except the man who made contact was more sinister. Typically the messenger is unaware of the true purpose. If nobody in the normal chain is involved, then the process is compromised. I am compromised.”