Chapter Fifteen
Morning’s first light streamed through the gauze-thin curtain, rousing Sophie from what had been a perfectly delectable dream. With a little groan, she snatched the covers to her chin and rolled onto her side, away from the offensive brightness. A comfortable haze fell over her, that delicious sense of being perched between the conscious world and the realm of slumber. Perhaps, if she relaxed just enough, she’d be able to pick up the intriguing fantasy right where she’d left it.
Ah, yes, that was it. She drifted away, back into the light-dappled corridors of her dreamscape. Excitement surged through her, a thrill unlike any she’d ever known. The adventure was so new, and yet, it seemed she’d been waiting for this moment all of her life. The man at her side moved closer, his touch upon her forearm gentle, yet searing her with awareness. Could he also sense the electricity that bound them together in this brief expanse of time?
They breached the threshold of the antechamber, moving through the mazelike spaces with a sure, steady confidence. Finding the final chamber, she entered it without a moment’s hesitation. Emboldened, she lifted her lantern, searching…searching…
She spotted the scarab-adorned box. Reached for the artifact. They’d found it. The treasure she’d sought for so long. Turning to look at the man who’d led her to this place, she stared into his indigo eyes.
With a start, Sophie tossed aside the covers. Her lids opened, taking in the dawn, as if that would calm her. Oh, good heavens! Why did it have to be him in her dream? She might’ve enjoyed a bracing expedition with a deliciously handsome thespian or a dashing duke.
But she hadn’t dreamed of some noble gent. Or of her favorite actor, Maurice Blythe, even though she’d clung to his every perfectly enunciated word during his performance of Henry V. No, she would have welcomed those men into her dreams. But the man who’d accompanied her into the pyramid was certainly not a gentleman she’d invite into her life. Not even into the world of her dreams.
Dash it, of all people, she’d dreamed of Stanwyck.
Even in her slumber, he’d been arrogant, the glint in his eyes as enticing as it was infuriating.
If only he were not so very tempting. An utter rogue.
But my, his kiss had been delicious. Pity he appealed to her so.
Not that it mattered. Even if he fancied her at the moment, there could be nothing enduring between them. Despite his scandalous ways, a man like Stanwyck would someday settle into a comfortable life, with a bride and an heir to carry on his name. He’d require a woman who would play the hostess and raise his children, an upstanding paragon of virtue—her character beyond reproach, if only to counter his own tarnished respectability.
Sophie certainly didn’t fit that bill. Domestic bliss and a spotless reputation held little appeal. She’d no desire to be tied down by tedious responsibilities. Heaven only knew she’d had enough of those while a governess. No, she craved experiences beyond the four walls of a residence, no matter how stately that home might be. Life offered far too many adventures to be rooted in one place, committed to one man—no matter how tempting that man might be.
Drat, drat, drat. She snapped herself back to reality. The very notion of a relationship with the professor was preposterous. She’d no time for such foolishness. She would not squander even a few more precious moments of her morning thinking about the likes of Gavin Stanwyck.
A glance at the clock on her bedside table confirmed her suspicion that she’d slept longer than she’d initially believed. She’d slumbered away her morning. Perhaps her encounter with the ruffians had left her more shaken than she wanted to admit. What else could explain the arrogant boor’s appearance in her dreams?
Slipping her legs over the edge of the bed, she came to her feet, stomped over to the window, and threw open the curtains. Soft rays warmed her face, but she blinked and turned away. Pity she hadn’t taken to her bed at a more respectable hour. Of course, that was not to be helped. After the incident with the hooligans and Stanwyck, she’d required time to ease the tension from her muscles before she could sleep.
Well, there’d be no time to dwell on that. She had scarcely an hour to prepare for an intelligence briefing with Jennie. Her mentor had little patience for tardiness, but there was nothing to be done about it now. After all, she’d suffered a harrowing experience the night before. One simply could not expect a woman who’d narrowly escaped the clutches of ruffians to be prompt for a meeting, much less a meeting held before the clock struck noon.
Rummaging about her quarters, she selected a proper walking suit in a muted shade of green. The sage tones and black braid trim did not distract the eye from her unduly peaked complexion, but a few light pinches to her cheeks were precisely the thing to brighten her weary pallor. Jennie would question her appearance if she appeared unwell or unrested. Quite protective, she was, though she’d no cause to be. Just as Jennie had done in her investigations, Sophie had learned to conduct herself smartly while under duress. She rather relished a challenge. If Stanwyck and his pistol had not happened along, she would’ve minimized the threat and carried on her inquiries. At least, she had not been forced to break cover. Stanwyck’s appearance had been a blessing in that regard. Not that she’d truly needed his assistance.
Despite the warmth in the room, a chill skittered down her spine. She had suffered a close call with the hoodlums. Even now, the hulking oaf’s rancid breath lingered in her memory, and the image of the dark carriage she’d spotted bolting into the night, as if making its escape, set off an instinctive alarm. Whoever had sought her presence had not hesitated to employ violence. Surely, the culprit would not be so easily dissuaded. London suffered from no shortage of vermin ready and willing to perform dirty deeds for the right amount of silver.
Sophie rubbed her hands over her arms. A dull throb met her touch. The blighter had left his mark on her. Stanwyck had been right about that. Not that it mattered. Her shirtwaist blouse would cover the marks. No need to give Jennie one more thing to concern herself with, any reason to consider pulling her from this case.
Piling her hair into a loose coiffure, she placed a handful of pins into the rebellious strands, then selected a velvet-trimmed hat to top her upswept curls. Glancing over the hatpins she kept in a small drawer, she selected a pin adorned with mother-of-pearl and secured the head covering. Adorned as it was, the pin was a beautiful ornament that would draw attention to the dainty hat, but the long, dagger-sharp pin also provided some measure of security. If the criminals who’d attempted to force her into the carriage decided to show their faces again, she’d have a weapon at her fingertips.
Leaving the boardinghouse, she hailed a hack to transport her to Holborn Street, a few blocks from the Boar’s Head Tavern. One could never be too cautious. The driver was most likely a decent fellow. But disclosing her rendezvous location to anyone outside the agency would be imprudent, especially given the circumstances. She’d no cause to suspect she’d been followed. But a coin or two in his palm would prove a strong incentive for a bloke to disclose her destination.
She covered the remaining distance to the establishment on foot, weaving through the pedestrians as if the crowd were a disguise. At times like this, her petite frame was a blessing. Surrounded by gents of all shapes and sizes, she’d be difficult to spot among the men who stood head and shoulders over her. Only the feathery flounce on her hat surpassed the average fellow’s shoulders.
A painted image of a grinning boar hung suspended from a sign outside the plain brick building. Sophie opened the front door of the working man’s pub. The hinges let out a groan cantankerous enough to stir a musty specter from its haunts.
The proprietress sidled up to Sophie. Warmth danced in Geraldine Nolan’s eyes. With many, Gerry had a world-weary way about her, but once she’d warmed up to Sophie, she’d proven a true friend. One of Matthew’s fiercest defenders since his childhood, Gerry had stood true when the former Scotland Yard detective had fallen into disgrace, the victim of a nefarious plot that had cost him everything he’d held dear. His aunt was one of the handful of souls on the planet whom the man would trust with his secrets, as well as his life.
Evidently, Gerry shared her nephew’s keen talent for observation. She studied Sophie’s face, a hint of a smile dancing about her mouth. “Dark circles under yer eyes, my friend. So, dearie, who’s the gentleman who kept ye from your rest?”
It seemed a shame to douse the flicker of innuendo in Gerry’s sly tone. Sophie met her lively eyes. “Ah, if only there had been merely one. Truth be told, I’ve three men to blame for these horrid shadows.”
Gerry’s brows shot up. Her mouth spread into a teasing smile. “A pair of gents and a spare? And t’think I pondered that ye might need me to give ye a bit of encouragement where luring a man was concerned. Ye’ve done me proud.”
“I’ve no trouble luring them. But their interest isn’t what you think.”
“Do tell, my dear.” Motioning Sophie through the dining area of the café, Gerry led her through the maze of small tables and well-used chairs. As usual, the plain-furnished space smelled of lemons and soap, the freshly swept floor gleaming with a newly applied coat of beeswax beneath their shoes.
“It’s not what you’d like to think,” Sophie said, glancing about the bustling establishment.
Gerry shot her a frown. “I suspect I already know the truth. Jennie’s been in a bit of a stir since she arrived. Seems she’s heard some troubling news.”
“Troubling news, is it? My, is there an operative I’m not aware of within the organization?”
“Ye know I can’t speak to such matters. But suffice it t’say yer editor at the Herald has his sources.” Gerry dropped her voice to a whisper.
Of course, MacAllister Campbell would have got wind of the events of the night before. The Herald’s canny managing editor and Colton Agency operative had established a network of contacts throughout the city. Tin in the hands of a gambling hell tough or a rough-edged tavern bouncer brought in information Campbell would be hard-pressed to attain through more conventional means.
“He was here? This morning?”
Gerry nodded. “He’s been here and gone. Didn’t say much. But what did come out of that tight-lipped mouth of his…well, I’ll leave that to Jennie.”
Blast the man. She’d no need for Campbell to involve his sources in her investigation. Though scarcely a decade her senior, he regarded her with a keen protectiveness. If he’d gotten wind of what had happened the night before, he’d likely advised Jennie to assign a more experienced operative to the case.
Gerry led Sophie to the cramped, windowless room she used as an office and closed the door behind them. Jennie sat in a high-back chair, jotting notes on a writing pad. She looked up, her irises green as jade. Tiny creases formed at the corners of her eyes, while her mouth settled into a line that betrayed none of her thoughts.
“Good morning.” Jennie’s voice revealed no hint of emotion, even as she studied Sophie with that diamond-sharp focus of hers. She gestured to the whitewashed sideboard. “Would you like a spot of tea? A pastry, perhaps?”
“Of course,” Sophie said, helping herself to a scone while Gerry poured tea into a delicate white-and-blue porcelain cup that seemed rather out of place in the workman’s pub.
“I’ll be leaving the two of ye to yer business,” Gerry said. “I imagine ye’ve a bit t’discuss.”
“You might say that,” Jennie said, her tone precise and cool. “Thank you, Gerry.”
The older woman stepped quietly from the room. The door closed soundlessly behind her.
“My investigation of Trask has been moving along smoothly,” Sophie offered, heading off the questions in Jennie’s eyes. “I’ve earned the man’s trust. And that is an excellent start.”
Jennie nodded and took a sip of tea. “Indeed. You’ve taken on the role of medium with great flair. Word about town is that Trask’s latest assistant is quite talented. Well done, Sophie.”
“Thank you.” Sophie stared down at the pastry on her plate. “We’re onto something with him. I’m confident my inquiries will unveil some clues as to the deaths.”
“I have no doubt you’ll unearth some truths about the matter. But I must say I am concerned for your safety. Trask is not known to harbor a predilection toward violence. But the men he deals with, men like McNaughton…they’re not the sort to restrain their anger.”
The look in Jennie’s eyes made it clear she’d more on her mind. Best to tell her the details of the ugly encounter Stanwyck had interrupted. More than likely, she already knew the raw facts. Jennie hadn’t abandoned her keen reporter’s instincts.
“I’ve had no trouble with Adam McNaughton. He’s an unpleasant sort, to be sure. But he’s given me no cause to fear him.” Sophie picked at the scone. Pulling off a currant, she popped it into her mouth. “But there was an incident last night. You already know, don’t you?”
Concern glimmered in Jennie’s eyes. “One of Campbell’s informants spotted an altercation centered around a pretty bit of muslin. His words, not mine. Of course, he does not know your identity, so we could not be certain you were the woman in question. But I suspected as much. I trust you were unharmed.”
“Other than a couple of tender spots, I’m none the worse. Based on what the ruffians said, I was being summoned to a private meeting…a meeting I had no choice but to attend.”
“Could it have been a ruse, a means to earn your trust?”
“At first, I considered that possibility. But a carriage awaited the gutter-dwellers, an elegant brougham.”
Jennie’s mouth tensed to a slash. “Could you identify the carriage?”
“Not likely. I caught only a fleeting glance as it sped off. But I’ve little doubt the coach was not a hired conveyance.” Taking a sip of tea, Sophie collected her thoughts. “Jennie, what do you know of Gavin Stanwyck?”
As Jennie’s brow furrowed, she reached for her teacup. “London’s newest catch?”
“Ah, yes, that would be the one. Despite inheriting a fortune, he’s come seeking some long-lost treasure.”
“How very odd. I’ve heard tales of his adventures, but then again, such stories might be little more than puffery. To my knowledge, he’s not a subject of any of the agency’s inquiries.”
“He came to my aid last night. Rather gallant, really. Not at all what I expected. You see, he’s sought Trask’s services. A rather infuriating man, and certainly not one I expected to come upon the scene at that precise moment.”
Jennie nodded her understanding. “You question his motives?”
“The timing of his appearance may have been too convenient.”
“I’ll see what I can learn about the man.” Jennie took another sip of tea. Faint worry lines tugged at her mouth.
Sophie studied the woman who’d taken her on as a protégé. She’d always merited Jennie’s trust. But now, Jennie seemed reticent. Was something amiss beyond the ugliness of the night before?
Sophie leaned closer. “What’s happened? Is there something you haven’t told me?”
“Have you seen the morning edition?”
“No,” she admitted. Drat the luck that she’d squandered precious time exploring some musty tomb in her dreams, with Gavin Stanwyck, no less. The Herald’s advertisements were a frequent means by which the Colton agency and its operatives communicated, embedding their messages in a code that would seem innocuous to a reader while conveying urgent news to agents.
“I didn’t think so.” Jennie handed Sophie a folded newspaper. “Here. See for yourself.”
Unfurling the morning edition, Sophie took in the headline. She stifled a gasp. “Oh, my. There’s been another death.”
“Another accident that occurred with no witnesses, with no plausible explanation, beyond the rather obvious conclusion that it was not an accident at all. Victor Carlton was Trask’s greatest rival. He’d convinced members of the nobility he could speak with the departed. And now the man is dead, fished from the Thames last night. A drowning, or so they say.”
Sophie scanned the article, taking in the pertinent details. Jennie was right. The circumstances of Carlton’s supposedly accidental demise seemed improbable at best.
“Carlton fell from the Blackfriars Bridge shortly after sunset. Yet no one saw him go over. How very odd. That area would’ve been teeming with people right about then.”
“I agree. It doesn’t make sense.” Jennie gently took the paper from Sophie’s hands. “The official report speculated that the man was in his cups and toppled over the rail. He’d last been seen at a gentleman’s club. The barkeeper indicated Carlton had appeared sober and rational upon entering the establishment, but had become exceedingly intoxicated. Oddly enough, Carlton was known to keep his head about him. He was not one to allow himself to become foxed.”
“Perhaps the liquor had a strong effect upon him,” Sophie said. As Jennie had always emphasized, the most direct explanation was generally the most valid solution to a quandary.
“That could be the case. But…the timeline is troubling.”
“How so?”
“Based on the barkeep’s account, Carlton’s state of impairment worsened quickly, far more rapidly than one would reasonably expect.”
“You believe he was drugged?”
“It is a strong possibility. Matthew concurs with my assessment. We suspect that Carlton ingested a substance either before or during his time at his club. Once he’d become thoroughly impaired, he may have had help slipping over the edge.”
Sophie digested the facts. “He was murdered.”
“So it would seem.” Jennie set the cup on the table. “Unfortunately, without concrete evidence, we cannot be certain the man’s supposed drowning was not an unfortunate mishap. But the fact remains, yet another death has occurred bearing a connection to Neil Trask’s occult salon, to his blasted sittings. Matthew and I are concerned that you are in danger.”
“That’s most unlikely,” Sophie said quickly, even as an image of the hoodlum’s beady stare flashed through her mind.
“Matthew is considering another avenue of inquiry regarding this case. He…and Campbell…believe the current strategy may carry too great a risk.”
Sophie pulled in a breath. Jennie, of all people, should understand her desire to pursue this case to its conclusion. Jennie had faced down danger in the course of her investigations. She’d mastered her fear and soldiered on. Sophie could do no less.
“The risk is no greater than I would face in any investigation. I’ve established myself with Trask. I’ve earned his trust. His clients are none the wiser as to my true purposes. This should be my decision.”
To Sophie’s surprise, a smile tugged at the corners of Jennie’s mouth. “I suspected you’d hold fast. At this time, I see no reason to change the course of this mission.” A sisterly regard Sophie had come to cherish filled Jennie’s eyes. “But you must assure me that you will exercise caution.”
“Of course. I’ve no desire to find myself in another fix.”
“Indeed. And do try to avoid distractions.” Jennie took another small sip of tea, seeming to collect her thoughts. “I’ll see what I can gather regarding Professor Stanwyck. It is puzzling that a man of reason would seek out Trask’s decidedly irrational services.”
Sophie took another nibble from the scone. What precisely did Jennie know of the events the night before? Mac Campbell’s spies might well have witnessed Stanwyck’s impulsive kiss. Or perhaps not. Jennie was not one to mince words, nor to censor her queries. If she questioned Sophie’s relationship with Stanwyck, whatever she thought that bond might be, she’d likely voice her concerns.
In any case, there was nothing more to the kiss than another means for Stanwyck to demonstrate that his arrogance was unsurpassed in London—quite possibly, in all of the empire. There was nothing more to it than that. The man certainly would not pose a distraction. She knew full well how to keep her head about her, even if she hadn’t figured out how to banish the infuriating rogue from her dreams.
“My thoughts, precisely,” she said. “Uncovering a bit of Stanwyck’s background should prove informative. His true motives are a mystery, though I’m positive his claim that he’s hunting for some long-lost treasure is poppycock.”
Jennie’s brow furrowed, and again, she looked away. “He’s known to be exceedingly clever. If you suspect he’s on to your ruse…”
“There’s no need for concern. Stanwyck will not pose a problem.”
Sophie took another sip from the porcelain cup. If only she believed her own words.