He, by comparison, was austere and debonair. He was dressed immaculately in a black waistcoat, coat, and trousers, with a white neck cloth and shirt. He was unfairly handsome this morning, as always.
“The song, Mademoiselle Beaumont?” he asked.
Ah, so she had once more reverted to Mademoiselle Beaumont. The formality was as telling as it was troubling. She must have vexed him a great deal.
“The odorous cloud in particular,” she elaborated, and then felt the tips of her ears burn as a mad flush overcame her. “I find children like to sing songs, and the more inane the better. Forgive me. I know Lady Verity is the daughter of a duke. I should not have presumed to lead her in such frivolity.”
He swallowed, drawing her gaze to the prominence of his Adam’s apple, the strength of his corded neck. The wide angle of his jaw, kissed with the shadow of whiskers. He had not shaved this morning in his press to leave the house, it would seem.
For a brief, fanciful moment, she wondered what those whiskers would feel like beneath her seeking fingers. Rasping against her cheek, her throat. Her breasts.
He moved toward her slowly, almost as if he were drawn against his will. “You sing with children a great deal, do you, Mademoiselle?”
“There is an orphanage in New York City I visit from time to time,” she said, thinking of the children she had oft visited there, missing them. “Many of them were of an age with your daughter. They all liked to sing with me.”
“I cannot imagine a single soul who would not like to sing with you,” he said, stroking his jaw with his long, elegant fingers, watching her in an almost predatory manner. “You do have a way of enthralling everyone you meet. Keeping everyone beneath your spell. How do you do it?”
He was nearer now, and she could have asked the same question of him. For he had held her in his thrall from the evening they had first met at Mr. Saville’s fête. And there it was again, the scent of sandalwood seeping into her senses. Surrounding her. Making her yearn for him in ways she ought not.
“How do you do it, Mademoiselle?” he persisted, his voice low and dark. Not cold any longer, but not warm either. “You did not answer me.”
She fought the urge to retreat, to put more distance between them, for there seemed something undeniably dangerous about him now. But she held her ground, remaining by the piano where she had stood upon his entrance.
“I was not aware I held such powers, Your Grace,” she said. “I am just an ordinary woman, after all.”
“There is nothing ordinary about you, Johanna Beaumont.” He reached out, touching a curl that had escaped the chignon she had twisted her unruly hair into that morning. “Not one single, blessed thing.”
She forced herself to smile, affecting Rose’s airs. Rose’s aura. “I am gratified you think so.”
“I do not think so.” He continued to toy with that lone curl, not touching her anywhere else. But his gaze had dropped, lingering upon her lips. “I know so. There are secrets in your eyes, you know. Shadows.”
What a fanciful thing to say. Strange, too.
She thought of the trunk awaiting her in her hotel. Of Drummond. And then she banished both equally unwanted thoughts.
“We all have secrets and shadows, do we not?” she asked, trying and failing to keep the breathlessness from her voice.
What this man did to her—the power he held over her—was frightening. She had gone from laughing with a child, singing an inane song, to longing for him with a rush of desperation that was as troubling as it was undeniable.
“Something tells me you have more than most, Johanna,” he said.
And then he touched her. One idle stroke of his forefinger down her jaw.
She felt that touch in her core. She had to bite her lip to keep from crying out, from asking for more.
“Why are you so concerned about the secrets I bear, Felix?” She mimicked him in the retreat from formality, using his given name once again.
“Do you know what caused the fire at my home last night?” he asked instead of answering her question.
His shift in subject took her by surprise. “No, I cannot imagine. What was it?”
“A bomb,” he said succinctly. “Two bombs, to be precise. One of them did not detonate, thank God, or the fire and damage would have been far worse.”
A bomb.
Good, sweet God.
All the heat that had been burning inside her was doused by that one word. Indeed, she felt as if all the warmth had been stolen from her entire being. Icy tendrils of dread wrapped themselves around her heart.
Surely it could not be… But as she told herself those words, she knew them to be a lie. Her brother was capable of anything, including ordering someone to lay bombs outside a residence. Perhaps he had done so in an effort to frighten her. To show her he was watching and his power extended across the sea.
She knew what she had to do.
Even if it meant her career as an actress would come careening to a halt, she had to seek out the police now. To give them all the evidence she had against her brother. She could not afford to wait lest anyone else get hurt. If something had happened to Verity, she would have never been able to forgive herself.
She took a deep breath before making her revelation complete. “My name is not Johanna Beaumont. It is Johanna McKenna.”
Chapter Eight
McKenna.
Johanna McKenna.
Not Rose Beaumont. Not even Johanna Beaumont. But Johanna McKenna.
The French accent was gone, and in its place was only the faint trace of a lilting Irish brogue. She stood before him, stripped of every artifice. Herself for the first time since he had first met her.
Felix stared down at the woman who had been driving him mad from the moment he had first seen her, his mind staggering about like a drunkard as he attempted to make sense of what she had just told him.
Good Christ. Surely she was not that bastard’s wife?
“Please.” She reached out to him, gripping his forearm, her pallor stark as her expression. “I need your help, Felix. It is a matter of life and death. For me, for others. Will you help me?”
Life and death.
She wanted his help?
How rich. He ought to haul her to the nearest prison for being married to such a swine. For pretending to be someone she was not. Anger replaced the confusion, roaring through him like an inferno.
“I cannot promise you anything, madam,” he bit out. “What could you possibly need from me?”
Her grip on him went tighter. “I need your help finding the proper authorities to speak to about my brother. He is a dangerous man. I have great reason to fear him, to fear that he will harm either myself or others… Indeed, I believe he may have been responsible for the bombs laid at your residence last night.”
One word sank into him. Brother.
Brother.
Drummond McKenna was her brother? Could it be true? His mind grappled with this new revelation. Did he dare trust her? Dare believe she was telling him the truth? He did not know. Everything inside him was a swirling sea of confusion and turmoil, of emotions. Rage, despair, relief, agony.
“Your brother,” he forced out. “What manner of man is he, to be laying bombs?”
“He is a Fenian,” she whispered, releasing him at last to press a hand over her mouth. Undisguised upset glimmered in her brilliant eyes. “Please, Felix. You must help me. I have evidence against him at my hotel. A great deal of it. I have been planning to turn it over to the police before I leave for Paris, but I am too afraid of what he will do. I cannot wait.”
She had evidence against Drummond McKenna? That seemed too good to be true. Coupled with her sudden revelations, it made his suspicions of her increase tenfold. It was possible she was lying now. That her confession was but one more act in a series of so many. For a seasoned actress such as her, it would be an easy performance.
This could all be one elaborate ruse created in the event he grew suspicious of her.<
br />
But that gave him pause. She had not known of his suspicions. He thought once more of the shock on her countenance, how pale she had grown, and he did not think it had been counterfeit. It had seemed real. Just as real as Johanna Beaumont—nay, McKenna seemed.
His mind quickly worked through the details, the possibilities. If Johanna was indeed Drummond McKenna’s sister, that would certainly explain the closeness of their relationship in New York City. She had claimed she was afraid of him, which could also explain a great deal.
One thing was clear: he could not yet be sure if he could trust her, but he needed to investigate her claims. He needed more time. More evidence.
He took Johanna’s arm in a gentle but firm hold and led her to a settee. “Come and have a seat, my dear. You will need to tell me everything if I am to help you. And you must begin at the beginning.”
She nodded, her sorrow almost palpable. A sob fled her lips. “Oh, Felix. I am so very sorry for drawing you and Verity into such danger. If I had possessed an inkling that Drummond might do such a thing, I would have warned you. I would have stayed as far away from you as possible.”
God, he wanted to believe her. Wanted it so badly he could taste it. Wanted to believe the tenderness she had shown his daughter was real. That she was as terrified of her bastard of a brother as she claimed. That she possessed evidence against him that would lead to the capture of more Fenians here in London.
And more than anything, he wanted to believe everything that had passed between them was honest and true. But he must not think of that now. There was far too much at stake.
“Do not worry, Johanna,” he urged as he helped her to sit and then forced himself to sit opposite her, giving them some necessary distance. “I will do everything in my power to help you.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath, then dashed at the tears on her cheeks. “Thank you, Felix.”
He knew a searing shame at her gratitude, for it was spoken with such sincerity. And if she was being truthful with him right now and he was deceiving her, surely he would go to hell for such a sin. Still, to protect his daughter and the other innocents of London from further danger, he would do what he must.
Anything.
“You must tell me what you know,” he urged Johanna.
She cast him a tremulous smile. “My father was a violent man, ruled by his need for drink. Often, when he was so consumed by the bottle, he…beat me. As I got older, he ordered my brother to do it, and he did. He…seemed to take pleasure in hurting me. When I was fifteen, I ran away and joined an acting company. I changed my name to Rose Beaumont in the hopes they would never find me. But over the years, my reputation built. Suddenly, I was sought after, my pictures being passed about on handbills and cartes de visite and in the papers. A year ago, my brother found me.”
His gut clenched at the broken revelations. Either she was putting on the best act of her life, or every word she was relaying to him was true. “What did your brother do when he found you?”
“One day, I returned home from rehearsals to find him waiting for me,” Johanna continued, and the undisguised fear in her voice was like a dagger to his heart. “I had but one picture of Pearl, and he destroyed it. Ground it beneath his boot heel and then poured a vase full of water all over it. He told me if I did not help him as he wished, he would reveal my true name to the papers. Being an actress is all I have left, the only means I have of supporting myself. And though I have done well and am able to live in comfort, if the public were to turn against me, I would be left with nothing in short order.”
Felix realized his hands had balled into fists. “He destroyed the only picture you had of your daughter?”
She bit her lip, obviously trying to stave off another wave of tears. “Yes. I attempted to salvage it after he had gone, but the damage was severe. I—I still have it, because it is all I have left, aside from the tiny lock of her hair I kept.”
He would hunt down Drummond McKenna like the vile miscreant he was and hang him from the nearest gallows with his own two hands for that crime alone. He could not fathom the sort of man who would willfully ruin a mother’s only picture of her dead babe. And when that mother was his own flesh and blood, his sister…
“I am going to kill him for that,” he vowed before he could think better of the words.
“It is my fault for being so weak,” she whispered. “I should have fought back. I should have clawed at him, done anything I could to save it. Instead, I watched as he ruined it, and then I did everything he asked of me.”
“You were terrified of the man,” Felix said, and before he knew what he was about, he had gotten up from his seat. He could not remain where he was, watching her relive what had happened to her, watching her tremble, and not seek to offer her comfort.
He slid his arm around her, drawing her protectively into his side. The doubts he harbored about her were slowly falling away in the face of the truth she was willingly surrendering to him. Such an intricate tale could not be fiction.
“I should have been stronger,” Johanna insisted, leaning into him. “For the last year, I have been living in fear of him, doing as he asks. He has become, like our father before him was, obsessed with the notion of Irish Home Rule. My family is from County Cork, you see. We immigrated to New York when I was a child. Drummond, my brother, is running a vast network of Fenian sympathizers. They are in New York, and they are here, in England. He was responsible for the bombings here in the London Underground. I am certain of it.”
His blood went cold at her words. “Johanna, if you knew this to be true, why did you not do something to put an end to this?”
“It is what I am attempting to do now,” she said, her expression stricken. “Drummond never admitted his guilt to me, but he has been using me to pass information amongst his men in New York. He is convinced there are people watching him, English agents. Spies of some sort. He is trying to keep his ties as quiet as possible and using others to make it appear as though he is not involved. One of the reasons I came here to London was to escape him, and another reason was that I knew I would have the best chance of turning incriminating information in to the police here.”
If that were true, she was more daring and worthy of his admiration than he had previously thought.
“In what manner has he been using you, Johanna?” he asked next, recalling he must keep his emotions at bay.
He had to collect as much information as possible. To attempt to investigate everything she was saying, to remain rational and emotionless. Regardless of how much he longed to draw her into his arms in this moment and promise her he would always protect her.
She took another shuddering breath. “He gave me a locked trunk containing dynamite and correspondence.”
Dynamite?
Bloody hell. This was getting more convoluted—and dangerous—by the moment.
If she was found in possession of dynamite, she could be arrested. And now that he was reasonably certain of her innocence in the matter, and harboring these unwanted feelings toward her as he did, he could not allow that to happen. His instincts were telling him the woman before him was every bit as much of a victim of Drummond McKenna as hundreds of others who had been affected by his wrath.
He thought then of the correspondence she had mentioned, and recalled all too well the sight of her handing over a packet to the man in the Royal Aquarium.
“Do you still have the trunk?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, I do. It is in my hotel. I made copies of all the correspondence within it and when one of his men contacted me to arrange a meeting so he could receive it, I gave him the originals. I fear that is where I made a mistake. They must have realized I had broken the envelope seal. Perhaps they were watching me. I believe I am the reason bombs were laid at your home, Felix. I am so very sorry. Had I any inkling something like this would have happened, I would have gone to the police the moment I arrived in London. I never dreamt Drummond would attempt to cause harm to y
our daughter. I hope you believe me.”
He stared into her bright-blue eyes, still shimmering with tears, and he read all too clearly the anguish in their crystalline depths. He took her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I believe you, Johanna. I do not believe you have the capacity to harm others in the way you have described your brother does. And I do not blame you. There is no way you could have known what would happen. Why were you waiting to bring this information to the police?”
“It is selfish of me.” She closed her eyes. “I was desperate to give myself enough time to free myself, to be certain I could go somewhere he could not reach me. I wanted to finish my stay here at the Crown and Thorn, to deliver the trunk to the police, and then leave for Paris. Drummond promised me he would have me killed if I was either arrested or if I betrayed him. And after seeing what he has done, laying bombs at your home, I can see I was right to fear what he is capable of here.”
It made sense. She was a woman alone, and the need to protect herself, to get herself as far away from her brother as possible, seemed all too plausible. He had to make a decision.
He hesitated for only a beat before forging onward. “I will do everything in my power to help you, Johanna, but you must promise me one thing.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “What promise would you have me make?”
“Stay here with me,” he said, knowing the invitation was a risk and taking it anyway. “I will contact Scotland Yard on your behalf. They will go to your hotel, remove the trunk. I expect they will also want to interview you.”
Panic washed over her features. “Will they arrest me?”
Not if he had anything to say about it.
“I do not believe so,” he told her carefully. “There is always the possibility. You have willingly smuggled dynamite into this country at the behest of criminals. By law, you can be imprisoned, but I will do my best to protect you. You could be Queen’s Evidence against your brother and anyone you met here with ties to Fenians. That you are a woman, and that you have been living in fear of your brother and were coerced into undertaking these dangerous deeds, will benefit you.”
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