Chapter Two
The bell at the door chimed, its high-pitched peal further straining Evelyn’s already taut nerves. She nibbled her bottom lip. Oh, good heavens. Had the ladies of the wedding party tired of perusing the milliner’s wares? What had proven to be a bad day was taking a turn for the worse.
Catriona Ross, Lady Houghton, marched into the shop. Her glacial blue gaze swept from Evelyn to the men. The woman who’d appointed herself leader of the bridesmaids flashed a sugary smile that did not disguise the faint look of accusation in her eyes.
Evelyn plastered on a placid expression—the same mask she’d adopted since the rainy afternoon when she’d expected to take her vows but instead found herself immersed in scandal. Amazing, really, how quickly the vile slander her betrothed had used against her had spread throughout Britain. Over the years, the tales had grown even more scurrilous, embellished by vicious tongues who took great delight in the disgrace of an earl’s daughter. “Lady Evelyn, dear, thank goodness I saw you through the window. We had no idea where ye’d gone.”
Close on Lady Houghton’s heels, Sally Brennan brushed past in a flurry of voluminous skirts. The bride-to-be fixed her attention on the Scot, still holding Evelyn’s hand in his.
Protective as always, Sally appeared entirely unfazed by the Scot’s brawn. She hiked her chin and straightened her spine, making the most of her five and a quarter feet of height. “Evie, has this man been harassing you?”
“There’s nothing to worry about. I came upon an elderly man who may have been the victim of an assault. This gentleman offered his assistance,” Evelyn explained. “The old man may need help.”
“I dinnae know what ye saw, lass,” Graham spoke up. “But the man ye saw doesnae need a physician—yet. The cur managed to make his own way from this place. And that’s fortunate for him. I take issue with thieves pilfering my wares, and more so with a black-hearted excuse for a man leaving ye in terror.”
Lady Houghton ran a fingertip over the leather spine of a well-worn book as her gaze flickered to MacMasters, trailing over his tall, muscular body before darting back to Evelyn. A wry smile curved her mouth. “Who would have guessed ye’d have such an adventure? And in a stuffy little place like this.”
Laughter-filled chatter filtered through the bookseller’s window. The two remaining members of the wedding party straggled in. The more buxom of the pair clutched a ribbon-bedecked box by its twisted silk cords. Bonnie MacBride handed the parcel to Sally. “Ye left yer hat in the shop. I brought it for ye.”
To Bonnie’s left, Grace Winterborne balanced a stack of round boxes in her slender arms. A single reddish-blonde curl dangled over her forehead. With a sigh, she set her burden at Lady Houghton’s feet. “And I’ve brought yours. The shopkeeper said to tell you he’d added your purchase and Sally’s to your husband’s account.”
“Thank ye,” Lady Houghton said. “My darling husband indulges me. And my dearest friend.”
Sally’s mouth eased into a thin smile. “I did not expect such generosity. I shall reimburse you.”
Lady Houghton waved away her words. “Dinnae concern yerself with such a trifle.”
Trifle, indeed. Minutes earlier, a man had lain near death within the walls of this shop. Frustration heated Evelyn’s cheeks. She’d no time to talk of hats and indulgences. She had to do something, despite MacMasters’ assurance that she had no cause to concern herself over the fate of the injured man. She would not be dissuaded from notifying the authorities.
“I must locate a constable,” Evelyn said, moving to the door. “I will not rest until the matter of what occurred in this place is resolved.”
Lady Houghton’s eyes narrowed. “A constable? Whatever for? These gentlemen have provided a satisfactory explanation.” She slanted MacMasters an appreciative glance. “No doubt the cad fled before facing the prospect of encountering men of this ilk.”
Sally placed a gentle hand on Evelyn’s shoulder. “Lady Houghton is right. Perhaps you are a bit overwrought. You may have witnessed a thief’s escape. There’s likely no cause for concern.”
Blast it, even Sally regarded her as if she were being a goose. Evelyn met her concerned eyes. Close as sisters, Sally had always been a faithful friend, even when others had turned their backs on her.
Perhaps the others were right. Indeed, the simplest explanation was often the most rational.
If only her instincts did not heartily disagree.
“Come along, dear.” Lady Houghton’s tone had lost none of its steel-edged sweetness. She glanced at the timepiece pinned to her bodice. “We’ve a quarter hour to spare before our carriage returns. Shall we turn our thoughts to Lady Spencer’s ball? The affair is the talk of the Highlands. Who knows—perhaps ye’ll pull yer nose out of those dusty books and set yer cap for some dashing laird.” Again, her attention flickered to MacMasters. “After all, ye’re not in London now.”
Not in London. Of course. Perhaps here, word of Evelyn’s scandal had not spread in innuendo-laden whispers. Lady Houghton knew exactly how to inflict a stiletto-deep wound while disarming her prey with a false smile.
“I spotted a delightful sapphire blue confection in the shop,” Grace spoke up. Her deep brown eyes betrayed both her kind nature and her eagerness to douse the tension the thinly veiled cut had spawned. “It will complement your coloring. Let’s take a look.”
“It really was quite splendid,” Sally said, her tone ever so slightly too enthusiastic.
“That settles it.” Lady Houghton swept toward the door. Standing nearly toe-to-toe with Evelyn, her movements issued a challenge. “I will not spend another moment in this dreary place. Let’s find something to brighten that pretty face of yers, shall we?”
…
Gerard MacMasters silently cursed fate’s twisted sense of humor. Blast the rotten, befouled luck. Of all the places in the world where the honey-haired lass named Evelyn might’ve been, she’d stumbled upon a killer’s foul handiwork.
And now he stood in the bookseller’s dank little shop, surrounded by a gaggle of women and their bluidy hatboxes, trying to convince the English beauty that her perceptive blue eyes had deceived her. And all the while, the assassin he’d pursued from London to the Highlands was making good her escape.
His gaze settled on Evelyn’s rose-tinged mouth as he took in her proper, thoroughly English diction. Cultured. Educated. But likely not of London. How had she ended up in this dingy, cluttered place, witnessing an attempt at murder?
He slanted his partner a glance. The man pretending to be Graham was a competent agent, quick to improvise a role. Owen McShae slid into character with skillful ease, playing the part of the bookseller as readily as one might slip into a cloak. Damnable shame McShae’s attention to detail was not as well-developed. He doubted the woman had noticed the crimson speck on his shirtsleeve. If she had, she would have questioned the presence of blood. They would never have been able to convince her to doubt what her eyes had seen and her ears had heard.
The sooner he ushered the women from the shop, the better. Soon enough, one of the women would shift her attention from some nonsense about feathered hats to that telltale crimson drop. He’d see them safely away before the assassin transformed her appearance and returned to silence the Englishwoman who’d witnessed her escape.
A touch of color lent Lady Evelyn’s skin a slightly bronzed sheen, as though she spent time in the sun without benefit of a parasol. Her proper ensemble—flowing black skirt, ivory silk blouse, cameo at her throat—covered almost every inch of skin from her slender throat to the leather-clad toes peeking beneath her hem, but the curves beneath the yards of fabric were perfect. Rounded breasts, ripe and firm, made for temptation. A waist he could easily span with his hands. Hips that flared gently beneath the staid wool, perfect for cradling a man through a long night when they’d have scarce need for sleep.
Anger tinged with fear flared in her eyes. He’d seen something more there as well, an undisguised interest he could only describe as sensual. Earlier, before he’d stepped into the pub, she’d studied him without inhibition. A thirst for passion had danced in those dark irises. God knew, he’d been intrigued. It wasn’t every day that a beauty who dressed like a schoolmarm eyed him brazenly on a public street.
It had taken the full measure of his will, but he’d kept his focus on his quarry. The assassin had been spotted in the pub. There’d been no time to indulge his desire.
The woman named Lady Houghton cast him a sly smile. The willowy redhead was lovely enough. But the steel in her almond-shaped eyes left him cold.
“How very gallant of you to come to Lady Evelyn’s assistance.” As she sidled closer, her voice was like the purr of a cat seeking a spot of cream. Beseeching. And all in all, entirely self-indulgent. “It seems we’ve gained a protector. Would ye care to escort us on our expedition?”
“That’s entirely unnecessary.” Lady Evelyn’s full mouth thinned. “Our expedition, as you put it, will take us within a stone’s throw of this shop.”
The dark-haired woman who’d marched up to him, accusation in hand, pursed her lips. “Perhaps, if it isn’t too much of a bother, we might trouble you to stay close until we depart. Given what happened here, there’s no telling who might be lurking about.”
Bollocks. This was turning into a farce he could not have anticipated.
He recalculated his options—which had rapidly decreased from few to nearly non-existent. By now, the assassin had likely found a safe refuge. Rather than chasing after a veritable phantom, he might as well put his time to use gathering information on the women and their agenda. Given what the Englishwoman had witnessed, he’d need to ensure that agents were dispatched for her protection—female operatives, lethally skilled and prepared to spring into action should the assassin show herself. In the meantime, he’d watch over her. He didn’t need some arrogant young buck playing bodyguard to Evelyn or her companions.
“Aye, ’twould be my pleasure.” Amazing, how easily the lie flowed from his lips.
“You have my gratitude.” The brunette smiled, even as Evelyn cast daggers with her eyes. “I’m Sally Brennan. You may know of my fiancé, Sir Dougal McLeod.”
Gerard bit back a smile. The miserable luck of this day had just turned for the better.
“Sir Dougal McLeod, ye say? The devil’s ready to tie the knot?” He smiled, deliberately jovial. “I never thought the man would settle down. But then again, I couldnae predict he’d find such a lovely bride.”
Sally’s mouth formed a perfect O, then flattened into a line. “You are an acquaintance?”
“Ye might say he’s an old friend.”
She studied him, as if he’d become somehow familiar. What did the lass know of her betrothed’s past, of the service to the Crown that had earned Sir Dougal McLeod his knighthood? Most likely, McLeod had decided against regaling his fiancée with tales of the mad risks they’d taken in those wild, rough years.
In this city where every wall had ears, Gerard knew better than to mention their ties to the Queen’s service.
“Might I ask how you are acquainted?”
“Oxford. A lifetime ago, or so it seems. We found our way into more than one misadventure. Until recently, we’d fallen out of touch.”
A lifetime ago. There was ample truth in those words. They’d exchanged one life for another somewhere along the road. Had McLeod now chosen yet another path, a tranquil, domestic existence with this pert-nosed beauty whose green eyes seemed to see right through a man?
Warmth infused her smile. “I don’t believe I caught your name, Mr.—”
He hadn’t intended to offer it, but evasion would serve no purpose. She’d meet him again soon enough, and he found aliases to be damned inconvenient, just one more lie to remember. Only the rarest of occasions warranted the use of a name other than his own.
“MacMasters. Gerard MacMasters. At yer service.” He sketched a playful bow.
Recognition flared in her eyes. “Your name is so very familiar. I’m quite certain Dougal has spoken of you.”
“And that, Miss Brennan, is a shame,” he said with a laugh. “Now I cannae even pretend to be a gentleman.”
“Nonsense.” The brunette’s smile broadened. Something he couldn’t define flashed over her features—something that told him she knew more than she let on about his exploits. “I know precisely how you might prove your chivalry. If you would await our carriage and inform the driver of the need for caution, I’d be most appreciative.”
“That is not necessary. We are entirely capable of visiting a shop without benefit of an escort.” Lady Evelyn’s protest was calm, her voice low and steady, but she could not hide the way her fingernails dug into her velveteen bag. Was that anger? Or fear? A mix of both, he’d bet.
He cocked his head. His gaze lingered over her plump mouth. How would those lush, rosy lips taste against his? The urge to run his thumb over that slightly swollen flesh, to feel its satin texture, bucked against his iron-tight control. Madness.
He fashioned a deliberately casual smile. “I’ve naught better to do.”
The falsehood flowed smooth on his tongue. He itched to scour Inverness for the assassin before the she-devil’s trail went cold, but for now, he’d learn what he could about Lady Evelyn’s purpose in Scotland. Did she have any notion that she’d witnessed more than a simple robbery? She had come face-to-face with one of the most devious killers-for-hire operating in Her Majesty’s empire. Few had encountered Mrs. Smythe and lived to tell about it. What Evelyn might have seen—the smallest detail she might recall—could be the clue he needed to bring the elusive murderer to justice.
He’d see to replacing their driver with an operative before the women boarded a carriage and went on their way. He could count on Madame Fiona, a matron who’d borne the far less haughty name of Annie Duncan before she established herself as a connoisseur of Continental sophistication, to offer her assistance in the matter.
And then, he’d find out what the hell had happened to the bookseller.