Chapter Four
Expelling a low breath, Gerard allowed the tension in his chest to ease. Somehow, the ladies had managed to squeeze into the carriage despite their long, flowing skirts and multitude of parcels. Lord Houghton would likely down a pint or two upon receipt of the bill for his wife’s shopping excursion.
With a sharp crack of the reins, the driver set the team of horses into motion and the coach rumbled over the pavement, carrying the English lass away from the city.
Away from him.
Not that it mattered. He had a job to do—a duty that made a woman like her off-limits.
He’d see to Lady Evelyn’s safety.
He would not fail.
Not this time.
Bitter memories clawed at his soul. He hadn’t even been able to defend the woman he’d loved to the depths of his soul. He would have died to save his wife.
But he hadn’t been able to shield Abby from the danger that followed him.
He shook off the doubt. The memories could only make him weak.
He’d ensure Lady Evelyn was well protected from whatever threat might pursue her. He would eliminate the menace. The best way to keep the lass and her companions safe was to hunt down the assassin.
He watched the carriage as it ambled down the street. Lady Evelyn peered from the window. When she met his gaze, her lush mouth went taut. The lass didn’t trust him. That much was clear. Not that he could blame her. She was clever—too sure of herself to blithely accept their hastily concocted explanation for the injured man’s disappearance.
Damnable shame her skepticism was justified.
The coach disappeared around a corner. Knowing Fergus’s penchant for a breakneck pace, the conveyance and its passengers would arrive at Houghton Manor well before sunset. The cagey gent was the best evasive driver Gerard had ever known. If trouble arose, the old bloke would get the ladies out of the thick of it.
He couldn’t say the same for Lady Houghton’s driver. From what Gerard had observed, the young man was impulsive, with a fondness for ale and a comely barmaid that had played in their favor. After Madame Fiona’s assistant had summoned Fergus, he’d taken action to ensure his services would be needed. The potion the barmaid had slipped into Edson’s drink would do no lasting harm. He’d soon sleep it off, none the wiser. If the assassin took an interest in the carriage bearing the distinctive Houghton coat of arms, the young driver’s unplanned slumber might well save his life.
“Those ladies will never forgive ye for putting that old maniac in control of the reins,” Owen called from inside the shop.
“Maniac?” Gerard stepped inside. “Is everyone so theatrical these days?”
“The word fits. Those lasses will be fortunate if their teeth dinnae chatter loose by the time he gets them where they’re going.”
“Fergus knows what he’s doin’.” Gerard paused, his attention drawn to the shop’s door. The thick wooden panel appeared to have been freshly painted, with a shiny brass latch. Someone—perhaps Graham himself—had engraved the metal with a small, unobtrusive symbol. A pentagram. “Tell me, McShae…what do you know about the bookseller?”
“Tobias Graham’s an amiable fellow, not the type to make enemies. Keeps to himself for the most part, other than his nightly excursion to the pub.”
Gerard crouched lower, studying the symbol on the latch. Some regarded the pentagram as a protective emblem. Did the bookseller fear he’d become a target? Had he attempted to shield himself from evil?
“If Mrs. Smythe was responsible for this attack, the motive was not personal. The bastard who hired her wanted something…something Graham possessed.”
He spoke of dragons…dragon’s eyes.
Lady Evelyn’s words whispered through his thoughts. Had Graham somehow gotten his hands on the ancient treasure? Or had he stumbled upon the means of finding the much-coveted artifact? In either case, the man would’ve become a target. Had he known the danger he faced?
Gerard closed the door behind him and navigated his way through the maze of cluttered shelves to the spot where Evelyn had found the wounded man. Owen crouched behind the counter, inspecting the area.
Gerard’s attention flickered to the tiny bloodstain on Owen’s cuff.
“Graham is alive?”
Owen dragged a hand through his graying hair. “The old man is breathing. That’s the best I can say.”
“Did he speak to ye?”
Owen shook his head. “He was unconscious when I came upon him. I carried him into the workroom. He was too weak to be moved to a more suitable facility.”
Gerard clenched a fist, as if doing so could tame the anger simmering in his veins. “Who’s tending him?”
“Yer brother.”
“Good thinking.”
Indeed, Harrison was the most skilled physician in the region. His logical reasoning, patience, and brilliance at formulating a diagnosis proved far superior to Gerard’s own battle-honed medical skill.
“I’ll see what I can find out from Annie,” Owen said, rising to his full height. “She might’ve picked up some information we can use while the women were in her shop.”
“Aye. See what ye can find out.”
Gerard headed to the back room. Flashing a scowl, Harrison glanced up from the patient.
“Can ye save him?” Gerard did not mince words.
“That is what I am attempting to do. I’ve no time for discussion.”
“Have ye identified a cause for his condition?”
“Someone tried to kill him. I suspect poison. His only visible wound is a small puncture on his left wrist.”
“Aye. I’ll leave him in yer good hands.”
“After the patient is stabilized, a secure facility will be required for his recovery.”
Gerard moved to the door. “Consider it done. I will arrange for guards around the clock. Until Mrs. Smythe is captured or killed, I’ve no doubt she will return to finish her work.”
Returning to the crowded shop floor, Gerard roamed through the stacks and shelves, searching for something…anything…to shed reason on the mystery taunting him. Silence surrounded him, nearly a tangible thing, as the question pounded in his head. The assassin behind the attack was known to demand her fee in silver, paid in advance. Who was willing to trade a small fortune for the death of a man who seldom ventured beyond the walls of his small shop?
The rear door rattled, jarring him from his thoughts. Who was there? One hand gripped the pistol holstered beneath his jacket as he stepped from the workroom.
Owen thudded through the doorway. Each strike of his boots against the floorboards echoed through the tomblike quiet.
Gerard’s fingers eased their tense hold on his weapon. “I wasnae expecting ye back so soon. I figured ye’d find an excuse to get in Annie’s good graces.”
Owen locked the door behind him and hung his overcoat on a hook. “Bah. She expects me to call her by that ridiculous name she’s using. Madame Fiona.”
“She willnae make an exception for the likes of ye?”
Owen shook his head. “Says it wouldn’t be good for business if her customers knew she hailed from these parts. In any case, she wanted no part of my protection.”
“Aye, the woman can hold her own. There’s no arguing that. I once watched her take down an armed man with a weighted parasol and her own bony knees.”
“She’s a tough one, she is,” Owen agreed. “So, how is Graham faring? Is the man going to make it?”
“Harrison has stabilized his condition. He’ll soon be transported to a more suitable facility for further treatment.”
“Damn shame he wasnae conscious when I got to him. Did he say anything to the Englishwoman?”
“Aye. She said he spoke of a dragon…of its eyes.”
“Bluidy hell. He told her about the emeralds.” Owen let out a low breath. “The Dragon’s Eyes were lost more than a century ago. The jewels embedded in that statue are worth a king’s ransom.”
“One of our best agents tracked the artifact to the Highlands before he was murdered. If Graham somehow came upon the statue…or a map to its whereabouts, there’s no telling where the old man concealed it.”
Owen rubbed his neck. “What do you think the woman knows?”
“There’s no way of telling. Not yet. We need an experienced operative to shadow her. When the time is right, after the agent has gained her trust, Lady Evelyn will need to be questioned. I’ll see to the necessary arrangements.”
“What does yer brother believe happened to Graham? Some sort of a slender blade—a stiletto?”
Gerard shook his head. “Poison.”
Owen’s brows sagged in confusion. “I observed blood on the man’s clothing…ye saw the spot that rubbed onto my shirt when I carried him to the workroom.”
“There was blood on Graham’s clothing. But it was not his.”
“God above, MacMasters…he wounded his attacker?”
“We suspect as much. I recovered a weapon…a fountain pen.”
Owen leaned his elbow against a bookshelf. “He fought the wretch. That explains why she didn’t pursue the Englishwoman.”
“Mrs. Smythe is known for ensuring there are no loose ends. The injury must have forced her to abandon her task.”
“If this was Mrs. Smythe’s work—”
“If? I’ve no doubt that she-devil is behind this.” Gerard lost the battle to restrain his anger. The killer had left a trail of grief in her wake. “Her crimes are cold-blooded murder. Meticulously planned. She hides in plain sight, attracting no attention, leaving behind no clue that might lead to her capture.”
“She’s not finished. Ye know that. Mrs. Smythe willnae leave a witness alive.”
Evelyn’s face flashed in his thoughts. The Englishwoman was clever. She knew she’d witnessed something she’d have been better off not seeing. Fear had darkened her deep blue eyes. But her apprehension had not muted her compassion. He’d had a hell of a time convincing her to abandon her search for the injured man. If it were not for the others in her party, she might still be here, combing every corner of the shop.
Deceiving the lass had left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. But there’d been no choice. The sooner she departed the city, the better. Every second she lingered had made her more vulnerable.
An all-too-familiar tension welled in Gerard. How many would die at the assassin’s hands?
“Lady Evelyn…is Lady Evelyn Hunt,” Owen said. “Annie told me she opened an account when she bought a hat.”
“Lord Barrington’s daughter?”
“Aye. The Tarnished Bride herself. Annie said the scrawny redhead—Lady Houghton—told her more than she ever wanted to know about the scandal.”
Tarnished Bride. Bluidy absurd. Gerard pictured Evelyn as she’d gamely perched the peacock hat atop her abundant gold curls. The headpiece was a ridiculous conglomeration of frills and feathers, but even that monstrosity hadn’t diminished her beauty. He’d had to tear his gaze away from her sapphire blue eyes and that sweet, soft mouth. What he would give to bring a well-loved flush to her silky porcelain complexion.
Clenching a hand, he reined in his rampaging thoughts. “I dinnae give a damn about a scandal. The women are bound for the Houghton estate. Did Annie tell ye anything about the lass’s plans?”
“There’s to be a wedding there. Dougal McLeod has finally decided to settle down.”
“I’ve made the bride’s acquaintance. She was ready to box my ears.”
Owen’s brows lifted. “I beg yer pardon?”
“Dougal’s bride…the bonny lass thought I’d harassed Lady Evelyn. She wasnae shy about letting her displeasure be known.”
A smile ticked at Owen’s mouth. A rare thing, that. In the decade or so Gerard had known him, the older man’s demeanor had betrayed little of his thoughts and substantially less of his emotions. “Was she justified?”
“Not this time.” Unless the brunette possessed the ability to read Gerard’s distinctly ungentlemanly thoughts toward Lady Evelyn. If that was the case, he stood guilty as charged.
Owen’s bland mask fell back into place. He folded his arms and leaned against a shelf, seemingly oblivious to a thick tome poised to topple onto his skull. “As usual, Annie did a fine job of noting details she overheard while the women were in her shop. Lady Evelyn’s family has an estate in York, but she has taken up residence in London.”
“Some wealthy bloke put her up as his mistress?” Gerard stared down at fingers itching to clench. Why did it matter? The lass’s living arrangements made no difference to this incident.
“She maintains her own townhouse. In Mayfair.”
“Rather unusual,” he said.
“Evidently, with her father’s blessing,” Owen explained. “Ye might say the man’s had trouble reining her in.”
“I cannae say that surprises me.”
In his mind’s eye, Gerard could see the defiant tilt of Lady Evelyn’s chin, the confidence with which she’d disputed his attempt to explain away what she’d seen. Something in those flashing eyes of hers appealed to him, an intriguing glimmer of heat that tempted him to learn her secrets.
Damn shame he had no time for a challenge, no matter how seductive. He’d no need for a woman who’d stir more than his carnal interests. A welcoming smile, a warm bed, and flexible morals were far more to his liking.
He banished the mental picture to the back of his thoughts. Focus. He had to find whatever it was that had drawn the assassin to Graham’s doorstep. What had made the bookseller a target?
“Whatever the killer was after, it’s still here,” he said. “Graham would not have meekly surrendered his prize.”
He spotted a stack of books, tumbled haphazardly onto the floor near the counter. Another pile had been toppled from a shelf behind the counter. Amid the clutter, the signs were there—someone had been tearing through the collection, searching. But for what?
God only knew the bookseller’s assailant would not have had an easy time locating whatever object she sought. Graham’s acquisitions took up nearly every inch of the place. One might find a needle in a haystack without as much of a headache.
Weaving his way through the maze of volumes, Gerard marched through the shop. Novels and histories and geography treatises filled the cramped space. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to attract more than a passing interest.
Focusing his attention on the area where Lady Evelyn had come upon the bookseller, Gerard knelt to examine a pile of books on the floor. Peculiar volumes, given Graham’s usually staid wares. Séances. Conjuring spirits. Runes. The arcane arts.
He grabbed a lamp and crouched lower. A mouse darted by his feet toward a small crevice along the floorboards, displacing dust in its mad dash.
“What do ye see down there?” Owen asked as he came to the counter.
“There’s something there…in the corner.” Directing the lamplight to the crack, Gerard leaned closer. A snip of white paper lay atop a dusty cobweb. Had the shopkeeper ever touched a broom to the areas out of the customers’ sight?
He lifted the scrap nearer to the light. A bit of vellum, no larger than the pad of his thumb, and a blob of brown wax.
Alarm blared in his brain. He jerked upright and marched to the window. Sunlight illuminated the intricate pattern pressed into the seal. Not an initial or a crest. But a symbol. Swirls and lines intermingled. The hair at his nape rose as if touched with an electric charge.
He’d seen this emblem before—the twisted initials of an unscrupulous jackal who’d made a fortune in smuggling before turning his attention to rare antiquities. Ruthless and methodical, Carlton Black had not hesitated to eliminate any obstacle that stood between him and the treasures he coveted—by any means necessary. The bastard had cut down Gerard’s partner in cold blood. Silas Fletcher had been a good man, an experienced and level-headed agent. But he’d been no match for Black’s remorseless treachery.
Christ, this could not be. He gave his head a rough shake. Surely he’d misinterpreted the symbol. Black could not have corresponded with the bookseller. Gerard had seen the cur brought to justice and hanged at the Old Bailey.
Doubt gripped him. Its invisible tentacles reached within him, burrowing deeper with each inhalation.
Taunting him with a disturbing possibility.
He knew that complex pattern, a design as twisted as the man who’d created it. He knew damned well what it could mean.
Had Carlton Black somehow escaped the hangman?
…
“You let her get away. Again.”
Seated behind a massive oak desk, the director of the Antiquities Guild peered over his spectacles and furrowed his brow at Gerard. Lacing his fingers together, Simon MacMasters affected the look of a reasonable, cool-tempered man, rather than the hot-headed MacMasters he’d been since birth. Distinguished by his rational brilliance, Simon had been the logical choice to follow in their father’s footsteps to lead the agents tasked with protecting Scotland’s ancient treasures. For centuries, the operatives of the Guild had protected antiquities from unscrupulous curs who would use the rare objects for their own purposes. Simon’s knowledge of Highland history and the legends surrounding the rare objects was second to none.
Damned shame the responsibility for safeguarding the precious artifacts had made him an insufferable bore.
“A situation arose—we have a witness,” Gerard said. “She may be able to identify the assassin. I need to ensure she’s protected.”
“I have been briefed.” Simon’s words bore none of his natural brogue. During their time at school in England, he’d learned to strip the burr from his speech. To Gerard’s ears, the even notes of his brother’s voice sounded hollow, somehow foreign. “Tell me this—how in blazes did the Earl of Barrington’s daughter find herself in an assassin’s path?”
The look in his brother’s eyes chafed like a too-tight collar. Gerard settled into a chair. Leaning back, he stretched out his long legs with a casualness he did not feel.
“I didnae interrogate the woman. I presume she went after a bluidy book.”
Simon tapped the nib of his pen against the desk blotter. “You’ve ascertained her purpose in the Highlands?”
“Sir Dougal McLeod plans to marry. Lady Evelyn is a member of the wedding party.”
“You’re positive of her identity?”
“I had no way to confirm it. The lass was a bit preoccupied, what with encountering an assassin and a man left for dead. There wasnae time to discuss her family tree.”
“Verifying her identity should have been a priority.” Simon’s mouth flattened in disapproval. “McShae tells me she’s a beauty. Why am I not surprised?”
Damn his brother. Since when had Simon presumed he’d let the wrong head do the thinking? “The lass is a beauty, but that doesnae have a damned thing to do with this situation. If ye’d tear yerself away from this crypt ye call an office, ye might also find yerself face-to-face with a bonny lass.”
Simon shrugged. “We can’t all be in the field, rescuing the damsel in distress. Someone has to mind the store, so to speak.”
“Lady Evelyn is no damsel in distress.”
“That might be about to change. Assuming Mrs. Smythe is behind the attack on the bookseller, we have no way of identifying her. No one has seen her face. We don’t know the color of her hair or her age. Blast it, we can’t even be sure she truly is a woman. For all we know, the killer could be a man in disguise. The one thing I am certain of is this—she does not leave witnesses alive. Why did she spare Lady Evelyn?”
“We believe there were special circumstances. It appears she’d been wounded.”
“If that is the case, you can be certain she will seek to complete her task, including silencing the witness. Lady Evelyn is in grave danger.”
“I am well aware of that fact. Which is why I am here. I need protection for the lass. Now.”
“What a coincidence—I was preparing to summon you,” Simon said, always so damned civilized. “We need you to keep her alive.”
“Me?” Gerard surged to his feet. “Have ye lost yer mind? This mission requires a female agent.”
“You’re wrong, Gerard. You’ve already made contact with Lady Evelyn. You’ve established something of a rapport. You are the logical choice.”
“Bollocks. I’m tracking down Mrs. Smythe and the bastards who hired her. Considering she may have been wounded, she might still be in the city.”
“There’s a strong chance she’ll pursue the witness. She won’t leave that thread hanging.”
“I am not a bodyguard. Assign a female agent.”
“And where do you propose I find a female agent? Miss Armitage is on a case in Glasgow and Miss Hepburn is in the field near Loch Ness.”
“What about Flora Burns?”
“Evidently, you haven’t heard the news. Miss Burns was undercover on the West End, investigating an actress we suspect has branched out into antiquities theft. She was attempting a high-kick during a dance routine and tumbled off the stage.”
Blast the luck. Miss Burns was one of the best they had. “Good God.”
“She suffered a broken ankle and won’t be sufficiently healed for weeks.”
“There’s no one else?”
“Even if I were to recall an agent from her current mission, time is of the essence. Every moment Lady Evelyn goes without a protector, her safety is at risk. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Of course not.”
Simon came to his feet, eye-to-eye with Gerard. “I expected you’d say that. You know the assassin’s preferred methods, how she operates. You’re the best agent we’ve got.”
“Best agent? Bah. Ye know what ye can do with yer flattery.”
Simon’s mouth slid into a smirk. “I might’ve overplayed my hand. Not that it matters. Even if Connor was in the country, he wouldn’t suit the task—not with a wife and a babe on the way.”
The mention of their newlywed brother and his bride pinched his heart. Connor’s wife was a beautiful woman, both inside and out, full of life and courage. His younger brother was a lucky man. Every morning when Connor awoke, he had the love of a good woman to give him strength. And every night, he had the love of his life in his bed, in his arms.
Not that such a life would ever suit Gerard. He’d loved once. And lost.
The woman he’d vowed to cherish until the end of his days had taken her last breath in his arms. Abby had been young and beautiful. So full of life.
Until a murderer’s pistol cut her down.
The thought of it dug into Gerard’s heart like a dull dagger. He would never—could never—survive such misery again. God only knew he’d endured enough pain for one lifetime.
But none of that mattered. Not now. They had to find someone—anyone but him—to protect Lady Evelyn.
“What about Harrison?” Gerard tossed out their brother’s name. The stuffy physician would be a far better fit to keep an eye on the tempting Englishwoman. “To my knowledge, he’s not involved in a mission at this time.”
Simon rocked back on his heels. “I must hand it to you—that’s a brilliant suggestion. Harrison excels at discreet surveillance. He can keep an eye on the grounds while you watch over Lady Evelyn.”
“That wasn’t what I meant and ye know it.”
“What you meant doesn’t signify. I need you on this case. Harrison’s approach to a situation such as this is more measured, but your strengths in certain areas outweigh his abilities. Together, you’ll make a hell of a team.”
“Ye mean I fight dirty and he doesn’t.”
“Clever, brother. You’ve figured out my logic.”
“Logic? Ye cast aside all trace of reason when ye suggest I trail after that lass.”
“You’re wrong. With you acting as her bodyguard—without her knowledge, of course— I am confident Lady Evelyn will be well protected.”
“Precisely how am I to shadow the lass at a blasted wedding?”
“The groom spent years in the Queen’s service—teamed with you, no less,” Simon said. “Securing an invitation to the estate will not pose a problem.”
“My connection with McLeod is all the more reason for me to focus on luring the assassin away from Lady Evelyn. I may be able to prevent Mrs. Smythe from reaching the estate. McLeod willnae wish to risk his bride’s safety.”
Simon seemed to ponder his words. His forehead furrowed into three ridges. “It goes without saying that the welfare of the women will be of paramount concern. McLeod knows the danger better than most. He’ll be capable of assisting with a defense if the assassin presents a threat. But he is in no position to provide security for Lady Evelyn.”
“Another agent would be fully capable of protecting her.”
“Out of the question. You’ve established a connection with the woman. She may be more willing to open up to you regarding what she observed in Graham’s shop.” Simon crossed the room to a sideboard by the heavily draped window. “I’ve dispatched a messenger to the Houghton estate. The laird owes me a debt…or two. He will see to it that you and Harrison are welcomed as guests.”
Damn the luck. He’d be stuck at some bumpkin’s country estate, surrounded by a gaggle of would-be bridesmaids, all because an Englishwoman happened into a shop at precisely the wrong moment. By hellfire, he’d no desire to abandon the lass to danger. But he was not the man for the job.
Gerard scowled. “Ye’re determined I follow the lass.”
“You are essential to the mission.” Taking a fine-cut crystal tumbler in hand, Simon poured two fingers of Scotch. “Especially given the woman knows about the Dragon’s Eyes.”
“In his delirium, Graham spoke of the emeralds, but the words meant nothing to her.”
“Unfortunately, there are others who will not give a fiddler’s damn about Lady Evelyn’s interpretation of the bookseller’s ramblings. Whoever sent Mrs. Smythe after Graham will not tolerate the possibility of another rival in their hunt for the jewels.”
“Indeed.” Gerard retrieved the scrap of vellum from his waistcoat pocket. “I found this in Graham’s shop. I suspect Carlton Black may have hired the assassin.”
“Black?” Holding the wax seal to the light, Simon studied the cryptic emblem. “How is this possible? Could the bastard be alive?”
“He may have staged his death. How better to avoid the executioner than to convince him ye’re already in yer grave?”
“This appears to be authentic. Black has either slunk out of the hole in which he was hiding, or someone wanted Graham to believe the collector is still alive.”
“Why would someone masquerade as Black?”
“Fear can be a powerful weapon. Carlton Black established himself as a man only a fool would cross.” Simon placed the seal on his desk. “I’ll secure this as evidence and see what else we can find. This development makes it all the more imperative that you protect Lady Evelyn.”
Gerard scowled. “She’s wandered into a vipers’ nest. I do not deny the lass needs protection. But I’m not the man to provide it.”
“I understand your reluctance. After what happened to Abby…”
Blast his brother, high-and-mighty prig that he was, gouging the scar off a wound that could never entirely heal. How dare Simon say he understood?
The man had never loved a woman—not like Gerard had loved Abby. Simon had never endured a loss that damn near split his heart in two. For months after Abby had been killed, he’d marveled and cursed in the same breath that the stubborn organ still pounded a pulse after suffering such a brutal wound.
No, Simon had no idea.
Gerard could never be so cruel as to wish that grief upon anyone. Not even his sanctimonious brother.
“This doesnae have a damned thing to do with Abby’s death. Ye know that as well as I do. I’m not suited to playing chaperone to a lady,” Gerard protested.
“Under different circumstances, you would not be my first choice for the assignment. But given the urgency of the situation, there’s no other viable option. And there’s another factor you haven’t considered—you allowed yourself to be seen with her. That was a poor tactical decision on your part. Whoever sent the she-devil after Graham might believe Lady Evelyn is somehow allied with you. We must also determine if Graham told her anything of consequence to our investigation. It’s not likely we’ll get that information from him.”
“The man’s got grit. He’ll pull through.”
“If anyone could survive an encounter with Mrs. Smythe, Graham would be the one. He’s tough. But there are no guarantees.” Simon’s expression went grim. “He would have known he was near death. In his moment of desperation, he may have entrusted Lady Evelyn with some clue to where he’s hidden the jewels.”
“Not bluidy likely.”
“She may trust you. We’re counting on you to find out what she knows. Any clue could have an impact on the investigation.” Simon stared down at the empty glass. “You won’t let Mrs. Smythe escape justice. Not this time.”
Gerard considered his words, mulled the implication of his past failure. “Why should this mission be any different?”
Simon regarded him with somber eyes. “You have someone to protect. You will keep the lass safe. And in the process, you will draw out that she-devil. Mrs. Smythe will seek to clean up the mess she’s made. I feel it in my bones.”
Hellfire, he’d been well and truly boxed in. Simon was a master at chess, and at the moment, he’d decided Gerard was precisely the pawn he needed to execute his gambit.
In truth, this might well be for the best. God only knew he couldn’t rest knowing Lady Evelyn was vulnerable to a killer. Harrison was a capable agent. But he’d honed his skills of deduction, not defense. His brother would do whatever it took to keep the woman safe. But would he sacrifice himself in the process?
No, it was better this way. Gerard knew what he was up against. He’d learned the killer’s treacherous ways. If anyone could trap the heartless murderer, it was him.
He’d protect Lady Evelyn. But how do you mount a defense against a cold-blooded chameleon without allegiance to any country, to any organization? It was like pursuing a wraith.
“So that’s how it is.” Gerard snatched up a tumbler and helped himself to a pour. “So be it.”
“I’m pleased you see it that way.”
Gerard gave a nod. “Ye’ll see to the necessary arrangements.”
“Of course.” Simon’s voice dropped low, each word measured and controlled. “Do keep your head about you. Protect the Englishwoman, but be smart about it. I don’t need you playing the hero. I bloody damned well don’t want to tell our mother she’s lost another son.”
Gerard started for the door. Pausing, he flashed Simon a half-hearted scowl. “There ye go—telling me to keep my head. Ye’ve no need to worry over me. I know better than to be any lass’s hero.”