Chapter Ten
As she sipped tea from a delicate porcelain cup, Alex watched Benedict beneath the veil of her lashes. Did he notice the slight trembling of her hands, the way her speech clipped out a bit faster than usual? His expression betrayed no awareness of her agitated nerves. If anything, he appeared relaxed, almost at ease. The old rhythms between them had come into play, rekindling a sense of camaraderie while easing them toward a somewhat easy familiarity. Not so surprising, really. After all, they’d been friends for years before passion had entered their relationship. When they were so very young, their mutual interests had led to easy conversation and a bond that had seemed nearly unbreakable. She’d accepted Benedict, even when his own parents incessantly found fault with his scholarly ways and unflagging interest in Egypt, and he, in turn, had found her unconventional pursuits and small quirks appealing.
Benedict had been a gangly, long-legged youth with scarcely enough meat on his bones. At three years her senior, her brother’s best friend had begun to fill out before he went off to the university. By the time he returned home for the Christmas holiday during the winter of his second year, he’d grown into his long limbs and broad shoulders. Good heavens, he’d been so very handsome. And so very serious, with those mossy hazel eyes and a mouth she’d long dreamed of kissing.
Still, their relationship had remained chaste. The dearest of friends, really.
Until their lips had first touched, a tentative, sweet contact she’d initiated on a dare.
She’d been seventeen that winter. Suddenly, she’d been unable to look at Benedict quite the same. In her heart, she could no longer view him as a mere friend. She’d fallen for him with all the unbridled passion of youth. Impetuous. Unrestrained by doubt. Propelled by intense longing unlike any she’d ever known.
Later, he’d whispered words of love. Seated by a fire in the hearth of her family home, he’d spoken of a betrothal. Soon, he’d murmured. When his years at the university were done. When he was in a position to properly provide for a wife.
And like a fool, she’d believed him.
He’d returned that spring. Before long, he’d whisked her away to a secluded glen and loved her with tenderness. With wonderment. With adoration. The smell of rain and wildflowers had perfumed the air as they’d lain together.
How she’d adored him.
She’d never doubted him.
She’d loved him.
The bittersweet memory shattered, bringing her back to reality. She was older now. Wiser. And, thanks to Benedict, far less inclined to believe empty promises. Three simple words had led to her heartbreak. I love you.
Now, sitting in her study at Benedict’s side, it was difficult to fathom they’d had no real contact in nearly a decade.
Pouring through reference tomes, they searched for some symbol that might reveal the meaning behind the cryptic message. Benedict leaned closer, studying an icon Alex had noted also appeared on the amulet. How much did he know about the pendant?
The faint blend of bergamot and Benedict’s own healthy male essence swept over her senses. A lock of hair tumbled over his forehead, its sandy brown hues interwoven with shades of red and gold. She longed to reach out to him and sweep those unruly strands into place, but she curled her fingers against her palm and pushed aside the impulse. The fashionable elite would judge him in need of a barber’s touch, but in Alex’s eyes, the way his hair slightly brushed his collar was all too appealing.
He’d removed his jacket. Clad in shirtsleeves he’d rolled to the elbow and a waistcoat, a visitor might have found his attire scandalous, but Alex shrugged at the thought. If Mrs. Thomas felt his presence inappropriate, she did not express the thought. Rather, the housekeeper had dropped her icy reserve, seeming to dismiss the frosty attitude she’d cultivated over the years since Benedict had first left London for Cairo.
Chestnut brown hair sprinkled over his forearms emphasized the muscular sinews. His skin bore a bronzed tone, the result of hours beneath the desert sun. Taking his spectacles from a pocket in his vest, he examined the text. The wire-rimmed lenses only added to his attractiveness.
Shifting her attention back to the massive tome that lay open before her, she endeavored to focus on the task at hand. Despite her resolve, her gaze drifted back to Benedict. Her attention swept over the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles bunching beneath his white linen shirt.
Ah, her heart was a traitor. Didn’t she know better by now?
She dismissed the thought. She was a woman now. Not a girl. She could protect herself against any threat, even her heart’s treacherous yearnings.
Tracing a fingertip over a glyph in the text, she carefully examined the intricacies of the design. If only she’d come upon the symbols left behind in the murdered man’s final message.
Reaching for the photograph, she brought it closer. The image was clear enough, but the meaning of the symbols wrought in the dying man’s blood seemed a puzzle she could not solve.
“Benedict, these glyphs might represent numbers,” she said. “The Roman numerals for five and one thousand.”
“It’s possible,” he agreed. “But in conjunction with the other drawings, they make no sense.”
“The code was likely intended to identify his killer. Ah, what he was trying to tell us?”
Benedict’s brow creased. “Hamid had to know his time on earth was ebbing. At that point, he would have been desperate to communicate.”
“Quite so,” she agreed.
Mrs. Thomas rapped lightly upon the door. As she entered, her features were pulled taut with concern. “Mr. and Mrs. Colton are here.”
Oh, dear. She had not expected Jennie and Matthew. Why had they come? Had there been another murder?
Her pulse accelerating, she came to her feet as she steadied her voice. “Please, send them in.”
“Certainly, Miss Quinn.”
Jennie swept into the study. Colton filled the doorway, casting Benedict a look that clearly showed his disapproval.
For his part, Benedict fashioned a bland expression and met the other man’s glare. “I presume you’ve come bearing news.”
Jennie came to her, peering down at the massive volume that sat open on Alex’s desk. Worry lines creased her forehead, and she pulled in a low breath and released it with a little sigh. “I am sorry if we have interrupted your work. But this…this could not wait.”
“Rooney has offered little during his interrogation, but he now says he has a message from his employer,” Colton explained.
“His employer?” Benedict’s jaw firmed with tension. “A rather civilized term for a jackal who’s hired a killer.”
“I cannot say I disagree,” Jennie said.
“He’s indicated he is willing to talk,” Colton said, his tone somber.
Benedict shoved the book he’d been examining aside and rose from his seat. “Then let us be done with it.”
“It’s not that simple. Rooney says he’ll speak only to Alexandra.”
She gasped. “To me?”
Matthew nodded. “He insists he will carry his secret to the grave if anyone else is within his sight.”
“What you are proposing is out of the question,” Benedict protested. “You cannot expect Alexandra to subject herself to that bastard’s evil.”
“She will be well-protected. There is no chance of harm,” Matthew said coolly.
“Have you gone mad? The man tried to kill her.” Flint edged Benedict’s words “I will not allow you to put her in that position.”
The protectiveness in his voice pleased her beyond reason, but she could not allow this debate between the men to continue.
She slanted Benedict a glance as she summoned a confident tone. “Really, now—must I remind you both that I can speak for myself? I cannot see that listening to what the man has to say poses any concern for my safety. Believe me when I say I have no qualms about seeing that horrible man again. I rather look forward to showing him that he has not intimidated me.”
“I do understand, Alex. But I rather agree with Marlsbrook.” Jennie wove her fingers together, as she tended to do when she was upset. “Meeting that cur’s demand goes against my instincts.”
“The prospect does leave a foul taste in one’s mouth,” Matthew said, his tones calm and quiet. “But every scrap of information we can get is valuable. If meeting the rotter’s terms will speed the process, it makes sense.”
“Respectfully, I must disagree,” Jennie said. “Alex, you do not have to do this.”
She squared her shoulders. Her sister’s protectiveness was unwarranted. Good heavens, it wasn’t as if Jennie had to shield her from every scrape and bit of nastiness.
“Think carefully, Alexandra,” Benedict said. “A man like Rooney has no scruples, no sense of decency. God only knows why he wants to talk to you—and you alone.” He reached for her hand. “There are other means of getting the information.”
She firmed her chin. “If providing the man with this concession—a few minutes speaking with me while guards observe the situation at all times—is expedient, then it is worth that small sacrifice on my part.”
“This endeavor is too dangerous,” Benedict persisted. “You don’t know how evil a man like him can be.”
“She will be protected,” Matthew said.
Benedict flashed a scowl. “As if that carries great weight coming from you.”
“Come now, this discussion is pointless.” Alex met Benedict’s eyes. “While I respect your opinions, this decision is entirely my own. I will do it—I will meet with that vile man.”
…
Benedict slanted Alexandra a sidelong glance. As they walked along a dark, damp corridor in the jail where Alfred Rooney was being held, she held her fingers loosely interlaced in what seemed an effort to still any trembling. Her complexion had gone ashen. How could Colton consider allowing Alex to be escorted alone to the iron-barred cell that imprisoned Rooney? Damnation, they should not be so eager to award the contemptible devil the audience he’d demanded. Had the world gone mad?
The unforgiving stone amplified the sound of his boot heels against the floor. Each tap seemed to echo the pounding of his pulse. He’d insisted on accompanying her to the point where he would be out of Rooney’s view. Matthew Colton led Alex to the jackal, while his wife and a massive bodyguard trailed their measured steps.
Courage brimmed in her eyes, not quite disguising the flicker of fear in the depths of her golden-brown irises. If only Alexandra had been not been hell-bent on meeting with the scoundrel. In time, Colton and his agents would have induced Rooney to talk. Benedict had no doubt of that. But days and hours were a luxury they did not have, as she’d pointed out in a calm voice. He suspected her motives were not entirely based on expedience and logic. Rather, a desire to prove to Rooney that he had not cowed her drove her toward that cell.
Still, he could not make peace with the fact that Alexandra would be subjected to Rooney’s despicable gaze, not for one more minute. In this case, the end did not justify the means.
“Stay back,” Colton said as they approached the cell. With a nod, Benedict joined Mrs. Colton and the bodyguard as Colton escorted Alex into the area just beyond Rooney’s cell.
“You’ve more nerve than the men I’ve dealt with,” Rooney’s voice boomed from the cell. “But I told you to come alone.”
“That’s not possible. You know that, Rooney,” Colton responded coolly. “I will step into the corridor, but if you have any notion of exploiting this situation, be aware that I will cut you down and ask questions later.”
“Bugger off,” Rooney muttered. “You don’t scare me. I am a dead man, and we both know it.”
“I will speak to Mr. Rooney now.” Alex’s voice was calm despite the slight waver in her tones.
“Good enough,” Colton said, moments before joining them out of Rooney’s sight. He’d ordered a mirror installed just beyond Rooney’s cell, allowing them to keep Alex in sight. One hint of trouble, and Rooney would no longer have need of the hangman’s services.
“Do you know why I came to you that night?” Rooney asked, seeming to lose a trace of his belligerence.
“I believe you made that abundantly clear.”
“You think I came for the map?”
“That is what you stated.”
“The map is only part of the answer. Haven’t you asked yourself why I didn’t simply break in and steal what I needed?” A harsh, strangled laugh escaped him. “I had a job to do. My employer demanded more than that bloody map.”
“And what might that have been, Mr. Rooney?”
Amazing, how she managed to hold her voice steady. Especially given Benedict’s urge to throttle the man.
“Proof of death—yours.”
The color blanched from Alex’s face. “Why would someone want me dead?”
“Marlsbrook knows the answer to that question better than I do.”
Instinct urged Benedict to go to Alex, but Mrs. Colton placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “We must learn what it is he wants to tell her.”
Christ, this was hard. Harder than he’d expected. “I don’t trust that man. He’ll find a way to hurt her.”
“Believe me, we will not allow that to happen,” Mrs. Colton whispered.
Alex squared her shoulders. “Mr. Rooney, do you plan to tell me what you wanted me to know? Or was that it? You must admit, it’s not much of a revelation. Certainly not worth my time in coming here. Surely, there’s more that you wanted to say.”
Rooney laughed under his breath, a harsh, ugly sound. “If I’d had the time, I would’ve made your death appear to be an accident. It’s more interesting that way. Sir Clayton Finch’s demise was brilliant. I only wish I could lay claim to the deed. His killer was a clever one, one of the best. It’s a game to him, making bleedin’ fools of the Yardmen. At times, the foolish blokes suspect something is amiss. But there’s nothing they can do. Soon enough, you’ll wish I’d been allowed to complete my task. Your death would’ve been quick. Far more merciful—”
“That’s enough, Rooney.” Colton emerged from the shadows to confront the prisoner. “I did not bring Miss Quinn here to subject her to your abuse.”
“So why did you bring her here?” Rooney’s tone hardened. “As for you, Miss Quinn, why are you here? Did you think I’d reveal some bloody secret? Were you fool enough to think I’d tell you who sent me? There’s nothing a lawman can do to me that’s worse than what will happen if I say too much.”
Alex stood silent as the clock pendulum swished. “I wanted to gain some insight into your motives,” she said finally. “After all, it is not every day that someone tries to kill me.”
Her voice was quiet but firm, as if she exerted tremendous effort to maintain calm. Pride surged through Benedict. She showed such courage. Such spirit.
“Do you feel safer now, knowing I’m here in this hellhole?” Rooney’s question reeked with contempt.
“The stout metal bars do offer some reassurance,” she said.
“You’re a little fool. The professor is the one who condemned you. Not me.” His voice sounded like a snarl. “The map lays out the path to your grave. You won’t survive this. No one can protect you.”
Alex recoiled, a visible flinch. Yet, she made no move to leave. In a show of resolve, she squared her shoulders and faced him. “I’d say you missed your calling, Mr. Rooney. With your flair for drama, you might well have been quite a sensation treading the boards.”
Slowly, he shook his head. “You know I’m not the only one. There are more. Like me. They will not stop. Until you are dead. And Marlsbrook swings at the end of a noose.”
“What…what are you talking about?” she demanded.
“Ah, you believe him an innocent man?” Rooney laughed again, a grotesque sound.
“Lord Marlsbrook is not a murderer.” Each syllable sounded forced, as though she fought for composure.
“Murder is not the only sin. I will meet the executioner first. But Marlsbrook will not be far behind.”