Chapter Twelve
The night chill was more pronounced than usual. Scanning the bookshelves in her study for a research volume that might aid her in decoding the symbols in the dead man’s final message, Alex shivered. Pulling her dressing gown tighter, she cinched the wrap, then turned to the hearth and stirred the fire. She drank in the warmth, even as her mind raced.
Jennie’s dire words echoed in her thoughts. Could someone be intent on framing Benedict for a crime—a hanging offense? The prospect rippled another chill over her nape, skittering down the length of her spine. Giving herself a shake as if that would rid herself of the eerie sensation, she considered her next move. It was late, and her bed was warm. But she’d little hope of falling into a slumber. Curling beneath the blankets would not help her. Her best hope lay in deciphering the cryptic message to identify the villain behind the nefarious scheme.
Villain. The word played in her mind. How very melodramatic. But then again, perhaps the word truly fit. After all, she’d recently felt a killer’s hands on her person, a man who had sought proof of her death to satisfy his employer.
As Rooney’s harsh words whispered in her thoughts, another chill rippled over her skin. She let out a low breath, easing tension from her nerves. Devil take it, she had every right to be afraid. Even Matthew had shown a modicum of fear. Confident and bold as he was, he knew they were up against a sinister force they could not even name.
Padding across the plush carpet in slippered feet, she went to the window. With a swish of her hand, the curtain fell to the side, and she peered into the night. Just beyond the lamppost, she spotted the guards Matthew had assigned to her residence. A brawny bear of a man, Inspector Eddington had recently left the service of the Metropolitan Police and now employed his skills on behalf of the agency, while Julian Harker had served the Queen’s Empire in India before joining the ranks of Colton’s operatives. With Eddington seated in a curtained coach and Harker stealthily patrolling the premises, she should feel safe.
No amount of security could ease the fear deep within her. If someone were willing to kill to get to her, they could likely access the premises. Jennie had expressed that very objection as she’d urged Alex to reconsider and take up temporary residence at her spacious home.
Pity it was out of the question. Alex needed her resources. She required access to her reference library and the materials she utilized in her examination of artifacts. And there was an additional consideration. Jennie and Matthew had adopted two orphans, a quick-witted lad and his precocious young sister. Jennie had insisted that no one would dare attack the Colton residence, but the slightest risk to the children was too much for Alex to abide. If any harm came to Douglas and Sally, she would never be able to live with herself.
She turned, and the curtain fell back into place. Perhaps she should have asked Mrs. Thomas to stay with her that night. The housekeeper’s presence might have proven a small comfort, and she’d no doubt Mrs. Thomas would have been eager to exchange the sound of her father’s pronounced snores for the quiet of a chamber under Alex’s roof.
Behind her, the curtain trembled. Alex’s heart stuttered. A little gasp escaped her, only to settle into a sigh of exasperation as Nefritiri strolled out. Good heavens, the cat was going to be the death of her. As if she sensed Alex’s exasperation, the cat formed what looked like a smile on its furry face.
“You naughty brat,” Alex mumbled under her breath as the cat lifted its tail and sashayed beneath her desk. “If you think this is the way to get a spot of cream, you are mistaken.”
The cat issued a plaintive meow. “Oh, you spoiled girl.” She reached down to rub the feline behind the ears. “I am afraid you’ll have to wait. I’ve work to do.”
As if the creature understood her, Nefritiri stalked away, presumably in search of a warm cushion upon which to curl up and go to sleep.
Alex returned to her desk. Lifting the photograph of the images, she stared at the icons. The imprecision of the symbols complicated her task. Of course, one could not have expected precise lettering from a dying man, much less one who’d been forced to employ his own blood to etch out the message.
Nine symbols in all. One of the drawings, an unclosed circle, appeared to be incomplete. Had the dying man’s strength ebbed before he could complete the image? A glyph that appeared to be the Egyptian symbol for death and an image that might have represented a horse were centered amidst an array of icons. An image that appeared to be an arrow was surrounded by symbols—a pair of wavy lines, a column of some sort, a letter that appeared to be an M, another glyph that resembled a horse, and a symbol that might have been a V.
What in blazes was the unlucky man trying to tell the others? The obvious conclusion was that it was a warning. But about what?
She flipped open a reference book, a thick and unwieldly tome. The symbol that resembled a column might have been meant to indicate the Roman numeral two. But why had horizontal lines been drawn above and below the numerals? The V and the M might also have been Roman numerals. This was all so very odd. It was unusual for her to have such difficulty translating hieroglyphs.
Roman numerals. The words repeated in her mind. Perhaps she was on the right track. Could it be that the symbols were not actually Egyptian at all, but rather, Roman in origin?
Where had she seen them before? Somehow, now that she viewed them through the lens of Roman origin rather than Egyptian, they seemed familiar.
She studied the M. It appeared to have a curved half loop at the end of the letter. What was it intended to depict?
Suddenly, a veil lifted, the preconception that had obscured her view of the symbols. They’d been operating under the wrong assumption. One of the icons—the symbol for death—had been drawn in the Egyptian way. But the others were distinctly European in origin.
The M was not a letter of the alphabet. Nor was it the Roman numeral for one thousand. No, it was a Greek symbol depicting a constellation, the stars that together formed the image of a scorpion in the night sky.
Scorpio.
One of the twelve signs of the Zodiac.
The astrological sign of her birth.
God above, was that it? Were these symbols meant to indicate the constellations, the supposed sun signs of those involved with this sinister plot? The victims, perhaps? Or the perpetrators?
Her heart raced as she studied each in turn. The crudely sketched form she’d initially thought depicted a horse was actually a simplified drawing of a goat. Capricorn, the constellation associated with births in late December and early January. Benedict had been born shortly after the New Year. Could the icon represent him?
But why were there two of the symbols? Were two people involved in this plot who’d been born under the sign of Capricorn?
The question nagged at her, but she could not afford to dwell on it. Who were the other symbols meant to indicate? Were these clues to the person or persons behind this madness, or was this array meant to provide a warning to those in danger?
She pulled in a ragged breath. Leaning forward, she pressed her palms to the table, watching her knuckles go white as she pushed down against the polished wood, alleviating her mental strain. If she was right, the symbols could provide a list of those who remained in danger.
Benedict had to be informed. It did not matter that the hour was late or that any sensible soul was long in his bed.
He needed to know.
She should go to him. Perhaps one of the guards would provide transport to his residence. They’d likely balk at the request. But she was not a prisoner. They could not prevent her from venturing to Benedict’s townhouse.
Then again, it might be better if he came to her. Transporting the photograph presented a significant risk. If someone was determined to eliminate the evidence against them, the image would be a prime target. It would be far safer within the confines of her study.
She would send word to Benedict. The risk of a scandal was the least of her worries given the circumstances. One of the guards could be dispatched to his townhouse. Once Benedict arrived, she’d inform him of her discovery. And then, she’d send him on his way.
Come the morning, she’d summon Jennie and Matthew. Together they could use this intelligence to formulate a plan.
…
“I take it you’ve had an enjoyable evening, Lord Marlsbrook.”
Returning to his townhouse after making the rounds of taverns that reeked of liquor and smoke, and gambling hells populated with the worst sort, Benedict shot his butler a scowl. Roderick approached from the stairs, clad in a nightshirt and dressing gown. From the look on his face, it was evident he’d not been to sleep yet that night. Was the man’s dyspepsia acting up, or had something else prevented him from taking his slumber?
“What in hell would give you that idea?” Benedict said, infusing his question with the surliest tone he could muster. Roderick knew damned well he’d had a thoroughly miserable night to cap what had been a brutally unpleasant day.
Roderick eyed Benedict’s unknotted cravat. “Perhaps it’s that light spring in your step,” he replied, his voice rife with irony.
“Remind me to begin the search for your replacement in the morning.”
His butler flashed the slimmest of smiles. “I shall write the advertisement myself.”
Something in Roderick’s expression gave Benedict pause. At more than thirty years Benedict’s senior, Roderick was still a vigorous, healthy man. But at times, the acid in his gullet troubled him.
“How is that stomach of yours?” Benedict inquired. “Has the acid made sleep difficult again?”
“I’ve mixed a tonic. It should ease the discomfort shortly. Did you find what you were looking for tonight?”
“Not yet. But I will. Rooney was paid to commit the attack on Miss Quinn. From what I’ve observed, the bastard isn’t the type to be discreet. Someone knows who’s behind it, and I intend to find them. A fair amount of coin in their palm may loosen their tongue.”
“You’re taking a risk with your life,” Roderick said. “Have you considered letting Colton’s operatives take those chances instead of you?”
“The option is not acceptable. I will not hand over responsibility for Miss Quinn’s defense to people I neither know well nor fully trust.”
Roderick regarded him with a somber expression, seeming to understand Benedict’s concern. “Would you like something to help you sleep? A nightcap, perhaps?”
Benedict shook his head. He’d made an effort to remain unfoxed that night. He had to keep his wits about him, and he couldn’t afford to fall into too deep a slumber.
“No, thank you,” he said. “Get some rest. Your tonic should be taking effect soon.”
“Very good, sir. You do the same.”
As the butler headed to his quarters on the first floor, Benedict wearily made his way up the stairs to his bedchamber. Craving fresh air, he cracked open a window before he stripped off his cravat and looped it over the closest of the four bed posts. His shirt came next. That wound up tossed in a heap upon a chair. Clad in his trousers, he lay flat upon his bed and folded his arms behind his head.
The cool air nipped at his skin, but he welcomed its small bite. The sensation distracted him from his thoughts. The look in Alex’s eyes as she’d left the Colton Agency had been a blow to the gut. The faintest ember of distrust had smoldered in her gaze, ready to flare into a full flame at the slightest provocation. Not that he blamed her. It wasn’t every day that a woman heard a criminal of the worst sort declare that the man she’d once loved would one day march to the gallows.
He’d committed his fair share of sins. Perhaps more than his fair share, truth be told. Still, she’d defended him, even in the face of Matthew Colton’s accusation. But there was no denying the flicker of doubt below the surface of her protest.
Why had it wounded him to see that expression flash across her features? It wasn’t as if he’d done anything to deserve her trust. But still, he couldn’t deny the peculiar sense of loss that hurt like a physical pain.
He’d thought some of the ice between Alexandra and himself had melted. That was, until that bastard Rooney had taunted her.
It didn’t seem possible that she’d believe the vicious implication of Rooney’s words. Surely, she could not entertain the notion that he’d committed murder. Or that anything he’d ever done had come close to such a vile act.
Someone hated him. He knew that now. Someone with money, but no conscience to hold them back from a depraved scheme. The jackal had set Rooney upon Alex. That much was evident. Had she stood in the way of whatever it was they wanted? Or had killing Alex represented a means to an end—an end that involved inflicting some twisted fate upon Benedict?
He’d wanted to protect her. Well, he’d royally cocked it up, hadn’t he? Would Rooney have gone after her if he’d stayed away from London?
His regrets made no difference. He had to keep Alex safe. He’d wanted to get his hands on that map. Now, he shoved that quest to the back of his thoughts. Possessing the route to the treasure wasn’t the priority. No, that had changed in the instant he’d seen Rooney put his hands on her. Now, he had to find a way to keep her alive.
He closed his eyes. The afternoon’s events were reenacted in his thoughts. If he lived to be a very old man, he would not forget Rooney’s voice as he’d spewed his venom, every word calculated to turn Alex against him.
After he’d led Alex away from the criminal, Colton had made his contempt for Benedict clear. The man’s accusing glare had angered him, but God knew he understood the agent’s position. Matthew Colton cared for Alex, just as a brother cared for his kin. She was his wife’s only sister. If anything happened to her, a man like him would feel he’d failed not only Alex but his family. Colton’s skepticism was justified. But it didn’t make it any easier to stomach.
The rumble of a carriage in the street beyond his townhouse drifted through an open window. The sound was not unusual. Still, it set his nerves on edge. He rolled onto his side and gave his pillow a sound thump for good measure. God above, he was as jumpy as a tomcat hearing a growl in the darkness.
A minute passed. Or had he dozed off and missed the progression of time? Roderick’s heavy footsteps outside his door startled him to wakefulness. A bold knock followed.
“What is it, man?” he called.
“You have a visitor.” Roderick’s tone reflected both his exhaustion and his annoyance.
“A visitor? At this hour?”
“Yes. One of the Colton Agency gents.”
“Something is wrong.” Benedict sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He was up and pulling on his shirt before he received an answer.
“I do not believe that to be the case,” Roderick said. “He says he comes bearing a message from Miss Quinn.”
“Good God.” Benedict tugged on his boots and followed Roderick to the entry hall.
A burly man he recognized as a member of Alex’s security detail waited by the door. “Miss Quinn asked me to give this to you.”
Benedict took the envelope from the man’s hand and tore it open. The letter inside was brief and to the point, penned in Alexandra’s rounded, gently flowing script. She needed him to come to her that night, propriety be damned.
“Do you know what this is about?” he asked the guard.
The man gave his head a brisk shake. “She did not offer any information beyond the urgency of the message. Miss Quinn also requested that I see to your security,” the man said.
“She did, eh?”
“Miss Quinn was rather insistent on the point. You can come with me.”
“That will not be necessary. I will drive my own carriage.”
“Very good, sir,” the guard said. “I will follow behind, if you do not mind. I would not be remiss in my duties. I gave the lady my word.”
“Good enough,” Benedict agreed, raking his fingers through his unkempt hair.
He turned to Roderick. “Get some sleep, man. She would not have summoned me on a whim. There’s no telling how long I’ll be gone.”