Chapter Eighteen
Well, she’d certainly made a muddle of her assignment, hadn’t she? Sophie sank into a corner chair in her cramped boardinghouse room, staring down at the lukewarm tea in a chipped porcelain cup. The mission to uncover Trask’s role in the deaths had offered her the best chance to prove herself. Instead, she’d compromised her role—and over a man like Gavin Stanwyck, no less.
Colton had assured her that her skill—or lack of it—had not played a part in his decision to pull her from the case. But she knew better, even if he didn’t. She’d allowed Stanwyck to distract her from the core focus of her assignment. She’d been careless. She’d let emotions that had no business in her investigation get the better of her.
And for that, she could not forgive herself.
By Athena’s bloomers, she should not have allowed herself to be drawn to Gavin. Her attraction to the man had jolted her off course, if only just a bit. Such a foolish, naive mistake.
Setting the tea aside, she moved to her trunk and opened it. Colton had made arrangements for her to take refuge in a secure hotel far from London, answering to yet another name. At least she’d been allowed to keep her first name, ordinary as it was. She might never return to the ramshackle but comfortable boardinghouse that had been her home for three years.
Peculiar, how the realization caused a twinge of pain in the area of her heart. The relocation was necessary. She could not dispute the danger she faced. Trask knew this place, and she’d trustingly—no, foolishly—revealed the location of her residence to the man she’d believed to be a constable on patrol. As long as she stayed here, the brutes who’d come after her would know where to find her. There simply was no choice.
She gathered her books, sparing a moment to glance through a dog-eared volume her grandfather had given her on her seventh birthday, a weighty tome filled with illustrations of ancient treasures. As a girl, she’d dreamed of expeditions and explorations amid mysterious tombs. Perhaps she’d ask Colton to send her out of the country. Egypt would certainly put her out of the ruffians’ reach.
The way her luck had run recently, perhaps she’d encounter Stanwyck at the foot of the Sphinx. Would he greet her with that infuriating half smirk of his, or would his eyes still betray the wound she’d inflicted with her cutting insinuation?
Snatching up a prim white blouse, she placed the silk garment in the trunk. She’d acquired several lovely ensembles during her time as a reporter for the Ladies’ Pages, a necessity for covering fashionable galas and lush society affairs. Had her time at the Herald also come to an end?
She had known when she went undercover as Trask’s assistant that she might need to go into hiding. At the time, she’d dismissed the risks. Another colossal mistake.
A lump seared her throat. She swallowed hard against it. Blast it, she would not weep.
She folded a wool skirt and stored it in the trunk. A wave of despair swelled in her chest. She’d been so confident, playing the role of Sophie Devereaux with a flourish. She’d gained the charlatan’s trust, and it had seemed a matter of time before the vicious criminal McNaughton would let down his guard and reveal a secret or two. She’d maintained a precise focus on the mission. Until Gavin Stanwyck had strolled into Trask’s studio and upended her carefully laid plans.
Stanwyck’s warning played in her mind. Her thoughts swirled with doubt and fear she couldn’t wish away. Even locked in a luxurious room, she’d feel like a prisoner. There was no guarantee she would not share her predecessor Lady Valentina’s fate. Whoever had sent the thugs after her had blunt to spare. Gaining access to a public hotel, no matter how well guarded, would not prove an insurmountable challenge to a determined criminal.
If someone wanted her dead, she’d best be prepared to defend herself.
How very ironic that Gavin had warned her of a possible threat—he’d wanted to protect her, a woman to whom he’d spoken no vows or sweet promises, a woman he bore no responsibility to defend. And now, she knew he was in danger. Yet she stood here, milling about this room, preparing to leave London and everyone she cared about, in an effort to save her own skin.
Colton had assured her that Scotland Yard would soon be on the case. Any threat from Trask would be held firmly in check by the operatives he’d assigned. By now, the agents had taken their positions, set to observe the fraud’s every move. If he went after Gavin, their intervention would be swift and decisive.
Her confidence in Matthew Colton was unwavering. Brilliant and coolheaded, he’d faced down many a threat. In his role as director of the agency, he’d demonstrated an unparalleled strategic ability. She’d never before questioned his judgment. Yet, she could not abide his edict that she play no role in alerting Stanwyck.
If she defied Colton…if she went after Gavin on her own…the director would likely relieve her of her duties to the Crown. Perhaps permanently. She could not go against his orders.
If only the nagging harpy of her conscience did not demand she do precisely that.
How could she live with herself if the agents failed…if Gavin were harmed? Or killed?
Stuffing a few more garments inside the trunk, she uttered an epithet as she fought to close the overfilled container. Making her way through a clutter-strewn floor, she went to the window. A carriage waited below, prepared to take her to a safe haven.
If only she could take refuge from her instincts.
It felt so very wrong to see to her own safety while Gavin had not yet received so much as fair warning of the danger that might lie ahead.
A craggy-faced gent stood by the carriage, conversing with the boardinghouse’s proprietress. Mrs. O’Brien flashed a rare smile. So, Colton had sent Bertram, the man who’d served as his driver, advocate, and friend for the better part of two decades. Seventy if he was a day, Bertram retained a lusty appreciation for the fairer sex, and Mrs. O’Brien basked in his attention.
This could work to her advantage. The seeds of a plan took root in her thoughts. She knew Stanwyck’s haunts, knew the club that seemed his second home.
Convincing Bertram to go along with her scheme would not prove a challenge. After all, a well-timed smile and a dash of flattery worked wonders on the gent. If trouble ensued, Bertram knew his way around a long gun, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Gavin Stanwyck was not an eccentric, nor was he driven by greed. He’d led her on a merry chase, all while pursuing evidence he could use against Trask. He’d put himself at risk to protect her. Devil take it, she would not limp off into hiding like frightened prey. She would find Gavin and alert him to the menace. Perhaps, she might even discover what he knew.
And using that information, she would salvage her mission.
…
Was it Gavin’s imagination, or was the atmosphere at the Hound and Fox club smokier and darker than usual? Or was that merely a reflection of his mood? He’d had a hell of a day, and the evening was not much improved.
He’d thrown an atrocious round of darts, losing soundly to his boorish opponent. Richardson had always been a surly loser and an even more insufferable victor. God above, the buffoon crowed like a rooster at daybreak as he pocketed his winnings.
What had he expected, taking on an opponent on a night like this? Even as he’d fixed the target in his sights, Sophie’s condemnation echoed in his thoughts, a relentless torment. He’d done a blasted fine job of fomenting her contempt. Standing there amongst the headstones, she’d viewed him as if he were the very thing she should fear. No wonder, that. He’d set out to make a fool of her, to trick her into revealing the truth of her act. Now, his instincts insisted she needed protection. Damnable shame she wanted no part of him.
He should go after her. The notion struck him as illogical. Bloody ridiculous, really. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. She’d cast his words under her feet and trod on them with her dainty heels. Did she truly believe he’d go so low as to expect her to lift her skirts in exchange for what he might do to protect her? The censure in her gaze had cut into him, sharp as a dagger’s edge.
She wanted no part of him, of any defense offered. Not that he could blame her. He’d set about convincing her he was a rogue. He’d meant to put her ill at ease, to rattle her composure until she slipped up and exposed herself as a fraud. Or so he’d told himself. In truth, he’d wanted to construct an invisible barrier between them, to convince her to keep her distance. God knew he’d tried. But he’d been drawn to her, a pull as undeniable as opposing poles of a magnet.
If he had a shred of sense left in his thick skull, he’d leave her to her own devices and push on with his quest. Despite her delicate beauty and her petite stature, Sophie was not fragile. Far from it. She was a survivor. She’d no doubt landed on her feet many times.
Damn it, he had to go after her. He had to convince her to take shelter with him, under his roof, where he could provide protection against whatever threat pursued her. He could not lie down at night knowing she was out there, easy prey for the bastard who’d sent those blighters after her.
“Say, aren’t you that chap who digs about in those tombs?”
Gavin pivoted, coming face-to-face with a stoat-faced bloke who looked as though he’d spent an inordinate amount of time tying his cravat. He vaguely recognized the man, the younger son of some esteemed lord or other. Rumor had it he’d recently returned from an extended stay in America, a journey rather conveniently timed after tongues began to wag about the bounder’s unsavory involvement with a housemaid.
“I do fit that description, though, I’m rather confident there are others.”
“John Randall.” The man extended his hand. “I read about you in the papers.”
“Gavin Stanwyck.” He gave the man’s hand a brisk shake. “I take it you have an interest in Egyptian culture.”
Randall shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. I’m more of a sporting man, the thrill of the hunt and all that drivel.”
“Is that so?” Gavin reached for his tumbler of Scotch and took a drink.
Marching up to the dartboard, Randall plucked two barbs from the target. “Interest you in a wager?”
“What do you have in mind?” Gavin set down his glass and took a dart from the man’s hand.
“I hear you’re good…very good.”
Gavin shrugged. “On some nights. Fortunately for you, this is not one of them.”
“One dart, one throw…closest to the bull’s-eye takes a sovereign.”
“Good enough,” Gavin said. “This may be your lucky night.”
“Or your unlucky one.” Randall hurled the little missile, hitting the mark a hair left of dead center.
Bugger it, he should’ve known the bloke would be in fine form. Gavin took aim. The dart pierced the target. Another bull’s-eye.
“You won that round, fair enough,” Randall said. “Shall we have another go? Double or nothing.”
Gavin reached for his glass and took a hearty drink. The whiskey warmed his throat with a smooth heat. “I’d call it a draw. Another time, perhaps.”
“Good enough, Stanwyck.”
He took another drink. Around him, the jovial sounds of boasts and laughter and bawdy humor began to blend. Voices blurred into a discordant chaos. The room swirled.
Grabbing the back of a chair, Gavin steadied himself. Randall pitched another dart, throwing Gavin a glance over his shoulder.
“Something wrong, Professor?” His emotionless tone was all too knowing.
Bloody hell, had he been drugged? Had the bastard slipped something into his drink?
I have to get out of this place! Gavin staggered toward the door, fighting the vertigo threatening to engulf him. With any luck, Avery had returned with the coach.
Randall blocked the exit. “You look like you are in need of assistance. A bit of fresh air might clear your head.” His smile dissolved into a sneer. “A man of your standing should know better than to drink until he’s in his cups.”
Opening the door, the bloke caught Gavin’s upper arm, dragging him from the club. Through the haze of his vision, Gavin spotted his carriage. Why in bloody hell had Avery moved it to the alley? Why had he returned so soon? Damn it, his driver wasn’t supposed to be here now. Why had he cut short his visit with his lady, exposing himself to this treachery?
“Bloody shame about the old man,” Randall said, evil infusing his tone.
Avery…good God, what had happened? The ground tilted, and the world swirled around Gavin. He staggered forward, freed himself from Randall’s hold. His knees threatened to give out, but he focused his vision and struggled to stand.
“Who sent you?”
Randall smiled. “If I were you, mate, I wouldn’t be worrying about who sent me.” He motioned to the thugs waiting by the coach—the same bastards who’d attacked Sophie. Waiting by the coach, Jack tapped a billy club against his palm. “I’d be worrying about who sent them.”