Chapter Eleven
I will find an assistant who is up to the task.
The door to the studio closed behind Sophie with a quiet click of the latch, and she stepped into a street blurred by a thick blanket of fog. Trask’s threat played in her head. She’d known all along that the man possessed the scruples of a sewer rat. She was well aware his greed knew no bounds. But somehow, the words spewing from his usually smooth-talking mouth had taken her by surprise. She had not expected such anger from the bastard. At least she’d managed to maintain her composure, resisting the urge to punctuate her departure with a resounding slam of the door. Uncovering the evidence that would put the fraud out of business and behind prison bars would prove far more gratifying.
Tugging her cloak tighter around her, she navigated the dimly illuminated street. Gaslight cut through the heavy mist, but the scene before her seemed distorted and shadowed. A peculiar silence surrounded her, interrupted only by the chiming of the clock tower. Regret rippled through her. Despite his surly tone, Trask had intended to transport her to her flat. But once again, she’d insisted on seeing herself home. On this damp, cold night, perhaps she might’ve been better off accepting his offer, even if it meant allowing her pride to sting just a bit.
She brushed away the thought. Good heavens, she’d never been such a whey-faced ninny. It wasn’t as if she had miles to cover, and her aunt had often advocated exposure to a mist now and then as the secret behind a flawless complexion. A little fresh air and moisture would be of benefit, even when the gloom was as heavy as the smoke from Uncle George’s cheroot.
Of course, Aunt Mildred would be appalled if she ever discovered that Sophie’s exposure to the English mist came at an hour when any respectable woman was expected to be holed away behind a sturdy door. She’d be utterly shocked to learn of Sophie’s missions with the Colton Agency. Her aunt and uncle had expressed their misgivings about the time she spent writing about society balls, rather than attending them on some suitable prospect’s arm. Even after the infamous incident at her debut, they’d harbored hope she’d find a respectable match and settle down. In time, they’d reconciled themselves to the fact that Sophie was unlikely to prefer hearth and home to her adventures, but they would never approve of the risks she’d taken on as an operative for Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service.
This case might well be the one that proved Sophie had what it took to be an undercover agent. She had the instincts and the skills. She’d been trained by an expert at covert inquiries. Jennie Quinn Colton’s daring and strategic skill had garnered renown as a journalist, and now, as a director of the elite investigative service, she employed that keen talent in matters of grave interest to the Crown. During her time as the Herald’s star reporter, she’d taken Sophie on as an assistant. Now, she’d offered Sophie the chance to put her instincts as an investigator to the test and stake a claim to her own vital role in the agency.
Yes, this mission was Sophie’s chance to establish herself as more than an apprentice. As such, she had to exercise self-discipline. She could not afford any distractions. She must be ruthless in her approach to this assignment. There was no place in her life for a man, no matter how rakish his smile or how chiseled his body must undoubtedly be beneath his immaculately tailored clothes. He’d certainly felt powerfully built when she’d leaned in to the kiss he’d stolen. Gavin Stanwyck could provide a link to vital evidence in the case. But she could not afford to cloud her investigation with thoughts of any man, much less him.
Making her way through the gloom with swift steps, she’d covered nearly half the distance to her residence when she spotted the Raven’s Roost tavern. Known for its bawdy, half-dressed performers, well-filled steins, and brawls that seemed a nightly occurrence, the pub drew a raucous crowd. A few steps farther, and her nape prickled. Was that a man lurking in the alley beside the pub?
Alert for danger, she slowed her pace. The sight of a drunk lingering beside the place should not have startled her. But she rubbed her arms as if that would chase away the gooseflesh that had suddenly peppered her skin.
The shadowed figure moved closer, his gait sure and steady, unlike what she’d expect from a bloke who’d over-imbibed.
Her gut clenched. One hand went to the reticule tethered to her wrist. She gripped the fountain pen with its hidden blade. If the rotter dared present a threat, she’d be prepared to use the weapon.
Another man stepped into her path. A chill of recognition washed over her. The towering, pale blond thug who’d accosted her the night before blocked the pavement.
“Come along peaceful-like and I won’t have to hurt you.”
She kept a firm grip on the knife and forced steel into her tone. “What do you want?”
“Listen to me, and no harm will come to ye.” His words might’ve proven more convincing if he hadn’t leered at her with those empty eyes of his.
He took a step toward her, then another. Sophie’s mind raced, seeking refuge. If she could make it inside the tavern, she might be able to conceal herself in the boisterous crowd.
“How did you know I would be here?”
He shrugged. “Ye don’t need t’be worrying about that.”
“Have you been following me?”
Another shrug. “My employer is not a patient man. There is a carriage waitin’. Ye need to get in it.”
“Absolutely not.” She concealed the implement in her folded hand. Catching the bastard by surprise would work in her favor.
Without warning, he lunged. Long, wiry arms caught her in a strong hold. His fingers dug into her shoulders. A nauseating odor—stale liquor and the stench of long-decayed teeth—assaulted her senses. Revulsion shuddered through her. She wrenched against his control, struggling to free herself.
“Unhand me, sir.” Her thumb grazed the nib of the pen. She’d give him a chance to release her. If not, she’d await the right moment, and he would suffer the consequences.
His ugly laugh rang in her ears. He dragged her closer to his long, wiry body. Determined not to shrink in the face of this gutter dweller, Sophie straightened her spine. “I have no intention of going anywhere with you. Let me go. Now.”
“He expects me t’bring ye back to him. Tonight. If ye behave, ye’ll be none the worse for yer troubles.” One hand clamped over her chin. “But if ye fight me, yer pretty face might not be so fetchin’ by sunrise.”
His threat struck like a blow. She’d no doubt the cur meant every word. Of course, the coward thought he was dealing with a helpless female. How very typical.
With a single flick of her thumbnail against the pen, she would release the weapon’s sharpened steel blade.
Still, she’d need to ply her advantage. The man lacked brawn, but his muscles were lean and wiry. Since she could not defeat him in a contest of strength, surprise would work to her benefit. If she pretended to go along with him, he might well ease his hold. Then, she’d put the knife to use.
“Who is your employer?” she questioned, betraying no emotion. “I will not be able to conduct a reading under duress.”
“What ye do once he’s got ye makes no difference t’me.” One hand darted from her shoulder to manacle her wrist. Thank heavens the bloody fool hadn’t seen fit to tether the hand holding the weapon.
She’d give the ruffian one last chance before putting the knife to use. Before she plunged the razor sharp blade into his thigh, she’d give his instep a good taste of her boot heel. “Release me before you’ve cause for regret.”
“Ye’re the one who’s goin’ t’be sorry. Come with me now, peaceful-like, or I promise—”
“Promises so soon? Haven’t the two of you just met?” A man’s voice cut through the night, smooth as fine brandy, confident and commanding.
And all too familiar.
Awareness jolted through her. She did not need to see the speaker to know who stood behind her.
The pale thug’s mouth stretched into a grotesque travesty of a grin. “Well, well, what’ve we got ’ere. Who the ’ell do ye think ye are?”
Stanwyck stepped into her line of sight. Blast it, what was the infernal man doing here? She had the situation well in hand. She certainly had no need of an exceedingly arrogant Sir Lancelot charging to the rescue. Did he think to overpower the man with his wry wit?
Drat the luck. Any display of her skill at self-defense would shatter her disguise. She could not take that chance. For the moment, at least, she’d play the damsel in distress.
Regarding the pale man as if a wharf rat had gained the ability to speak, Stanwyck cocked his head, observing him almost casually. “I was about to ask you the same question. I stopped at my club for a drink and decided to venture back to conclude a spot of unfinished business with the lady you are presently holding. Imagine my surprise when I came upon the two of you. Quite fortuitous, I would say.”
“Fortu—” The thug shook his pale head.
“Lucky,” Stanwyck said drolly. “I’d sensed the lady was drawn to intellectual types. Hence, the attraction between the two of you.”
The pale man dragged Sophie against him. She clutched the knife. If the situation went against Stanwyck, she might need to put the weapon to use. She could not allow the criminal to kill a man who came to her defense, even a man as infuriating as Gavin Stanwyck.
Fighting her captor’s relentless, stench-ridden hold, she cast dagger-filled eyes at Stanwyck. “This is scarcely the time for humor.”
Stanwyck cocked a brow. “You suggest a more direct approach?”
Her eyes widened. Did he believe he could charm the rotter who held her prisoner in his grasp? Had Stanwyck enjoyed enough liquor in the short time since they’d parted company to deplete his logic entirely?
“I’ll take that for a ‘yes,’” he said, not waiting for her to answer. He slanted the hulk a glance. “Is that your interpretation?”
“Bugger off.” The man seemed to look past Stanwyck. “Reggie, for Chrissake, get this son of a bitch outta ’ere.”
Stanwyck rubbed his jaw, seeming to process the implication of the bastard’s words. He swiveled, facing the squat, dour-faced man from the alley. His gaze darted to the gun in the brute’s right hand. A smile flickered on Stanwyck’s mouth. “Ah, you must be Reggie.”
The stout ruffian pressed the gun to his ribs. “That’s what I like about gentlemen, Jack. So bleedin’ clever, the whole damned lot of ’em.”
“Actually, most of my associates would likely soil themselves if confronted with a weapon.” Droll amusement colored Stanwyck’s tone. His attention dropped to the revolver prodding his middle. “Unfortunately for you, I am not one of them.”
With a grunt, he whipped around. His elbow plowed into Reggie’s jowls.
“Oomph!” The thug stumbled backward, sputtering curses. He raised his weapon.
Stanwyck’s fist slammed into the hoodlum’s nose.
A howl tore from Reggie’s throat.
Another blow—Stanwyck’s left fist this time—caught the man under the chin.
Reggie clutched his head. A low moan escaped him.
Stanwyck tore the gun from the thug’s slack fingers. He turned to Sophie, his interest fixed on the pale-haired man holding her. “Release the woman.”
The gangly thug pressed his forearm against her throat. His muscles went taut, increasing the pressure until her breaths came in tiny, struggling pants. Angling the pen toward his forearm, she held her thumb against the latch. A bit more tension on her airway, and he’d leave her no choice but to deploy the blade.
“Sod off, ye bloody bastard. I’ll snap ’er pretty neck in two.”
Stanwyck didn’t waver. His eyes narrowed. “So, Jack…that was your name, wasn’t it…what’s it to be?”
“Bugger off.”
Stanwyck primed the revolver to fire. His voice lowered to a gravel-edged rasp. “Release her and save yourself, or I will pull this trigger and send you directly to hell.”
…
Gavin kept his focus locked on Jack. What in blazes had Sophie gotten herself into? Why would two ruffians be dispatched to abduct one woman—much less a woman who barely came to his chin even when she steeled her spine with her full measure of indignation? Who would want her captured so badly that he…or she…sent a backup in case the first bastard failed?
His finger twitched against the trigger. One move—one sign the rotter would follow through on his threat to hurt her—and he would give his instincts free rein to pump a bullet between the coward’s weaselly eyes.
As if the nasty bugger had read his thoughts, he squirmed. His narrowed eyes focused on the finger Gavin tapped against the trigger. The weasel’s hold around Sophie’s slender neck loosened, and she gasped a hungry breath.
“Let her go.” Gavin focused on Sophie’s face. “Now.” She held her chin defiantly high, the slight tremor of her full bottom lip her only sign of fear. Was she truly endowed with foolhardy courage? Or did she have more faith in him than he deserved?
A movement to his right caught his eye. A carriage, an elegant black brougham, curtains drawn, slowly emerged from the fog. Had the conveyance been lying in wait, prepared to carry Sophie into the darkness? The coach came toward them. The driver cracked the whip, his face concealed by a turned-up collar and low-slung fisherman’s cap, and the carriage sped past over the cobbles.
The oaf’s mouth hung agape as he stared after the vehicle with a look of panicked abandonment.
Bloody hell. No street criminal depended on such a luxurious conveyance. Unless said thug was in the employ of a person of means. Significant means, if the elaborate crest emblazoned on the brougham were any indication. Somewhere, he’d seen the symbol before. Could it be that a peer of the realm had sent this ruffian after Sophie?
“Stanwyck.” She squeaked out his name. Her eyes widened in silent warning.
He jerked around, spotting Reggie, blackjack in hand. Bugger it. He threw himself to the side, avoiding a blow to his skull. The cudgel crashed into his shoulder. Pain tore through him. Staggering, he forced himself to stay upright.
His peripheral vision caught sight of Reggie swinging the weapon in a vicious arc. The bludgeon slammed down again.
This time, Gavin dodged the blow. He wheeled about. Steadying himself, he rammed the barrel of the gun into his assailant’s belly. The gutter rat froze.
Gavin met his cold gaze. With his free hand, he wrenched the blackjack from the man’s dirt-caked fingers.
“Reggie, this creates a bit of a quandary. Do I shoot you?” He slanted a glance at the man who held Sophie. “Or him? Jack, as I recall.”
The hoodlum frantically shook his head. “No need to trouble yerself with me.” Reggie took off running, his stubby legs covering ground at a frantic pace.
Gavin turned his attention back to the towering hoodlum. “So, Jack, that leaves you. Shall we find out exactly how many bullets remain in these chambers?”
Fear flickered over Jack’s coarse features.
“Let her go and you’ll walk away.” Gavin affected a bored tone.
“How do I know ye’ll do what ye say?”
He shrugged. “You don’t. But you and I both know what is going to happen if you hurt her. Release her now, while you still can.”
To his amazement, the corners of Sophie’s mouth lifted. Christ, was she smiling? Had lack of air driven her bloody daft?
Was it his imagination, or did that chin of hers lift even higher?
Brave girl. I’ll get you out of this quagmire.
With one smooth movement, she slammed an elbow into the thug’s gut, taking them both by surprise. Her other elbow plunged into the man’s belly in a near-perfect rhythm. A grunt tore from his throat, and his arms went slack.
She bolted away, taking shelter behind Gavin. For reasons he wouldn’t allow himself to fathom, her choice of sanctuary pleased him beyond all reason.
His hostage gone, panic flooded Jack’s face. Clutching his belly, he stared down the barrel of the revolver. “Ye don’t have to do that, guv’nor. Ye don’t—”
“Get the hell out of my sight. If I see you again, I will kill you.”
The thug offered a curt nod and made his escape. Fleeing like a wounded animal, he paused only long enough to glance over his shoulder, as if to reassure himself Gavin did not plan to put a bullet in his back.
Sophie stepped into his line of sight. As she peered up at him, her chest rose and fell with anxious breaths. “Whoever was in that carriage may return,” she said. “It’s not safe…to stay here.”
Her voice trembled. She had courage, but she wasn’t immune to fear. Blast it, he wanted to offer comfort. But the need to determine what danger they still faced overruled the impulse. Still, he reached for her, drawing a fingertip over the curve of her face, allowing himself that one liberty. Surprisingly, she did not pull away, even as he took her hand and drew her closer. “Did he hurt you?”
“No,” she said, little more than a whisper.
“You’re sure?” he pressed.
“Quite so.”
Her flaxen hair had fallen loose from her carefully pinned coiffure, curling over her shoulders. He resisted the temptation to run his fingers through the soft waves, to test the silk against his touch. He dragged in a breath.
“I trust you were not acquainted with those men.”
She shook her head. “I’ve no idea who they were.”
“Did you recognize the coach?”
She shook her head again. “Broughams are far from a rarity in the city.”
“That particular coach bore an unusual insignia. Did you recognize it?”
Her brow furrowed as she pondered the question. “No. It has no meaning to me.”
He studied her in the moonlight. Pressing her palm to her cheek, she ran her fingertips over her flesh with a gingerly touch.
“He’s injured you,” Gavin said. “Tell me the truth.”
“It’s a bit tender, but no need for concern.”
Hellfire and damnation, the brute had harmed her, though she seemed loath to admit it. Her bottom lip quivered despite what appeared her best effort to remain stoic. She winced as her fingers brushed the underside of her jaw. Perhaps he should have pumped a bullet into the bastard after all.
“I will summon my personal physician,” he said, feeling oddly helpless in the face of her distress.
“That won’t be necessary. It’s nothing a little powder won’t conceal.”
He bit back a particularly coarse epithet that came to mind. He’d let the bloke off much too easy. “The bloody coward, preying on a woman.”
To his surprise, a wan smile curved her lips. “But not a helpless woman. I suspect I got the better of him. I aimed for his solar plexus.”
Cheeky thing.
“One can only wonder that he didn’t take his leave sooner.” Gavin forced a casualness to his tone he did not feel. “I suspect you would have found a way past the lummox sooner or later, even without my intervention.”
“In this case, sooner was definitely preferable to later.” She tugged her cloak around her body. “Now that our excitement is over, I shall be on my way. I will hire a hansom to take me home.”
“I’m not letting you go anywhere tonight without an escort.”
“I am entirely capable of making my way home. I’m not about to let a pair of ruffians set me to running like a skittish rabbit.”
His hand caught her elbow. “I won’t chance those bastards coming after you again.”
Reflexively, her hand went to her throat. The light touch against the manhandled flesh brought a wince to her lips.
“I suppose there would be no harm in it,” she said, reluctance coloring her tone. “My boardinghouse is scarcely more than a mile from where we stand. When the air is brisk, I can cover the distance in little more than a quarter hour.”
“We won’t be walking tonight. My driver waits at the Hound and Fox. I’d planned to indulge my craving for port tonight and perhaps separate some sot from his blunt at the billiard table, before I observed the trouble you’d gotten yourself into.”
“I did not get myself into trouble, as you put it,” Sophie protested. “I simply attempted to make my way home, as I do every night. Those gutter-dwellers intended to rob me. A spot of bad luck. Nothing more.”
“Those men had no interest in your purse. They had one quarry in mind—you.”