Chapter Seventeen
Since the moment he’d first caught a glimpse of Alexandra Quinn, Benedict had believed her the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. On that rather momentous occasion—in his memory, at least, though to the rest of the world, it had likely been the most mundane of days—she’d been sitting in her father’s study, her face nearly hidden by the book she was reading. As she’d lowered the volume, revealing her sparkling eyes, ginger-shaded brown hair, and perfect rosy mouth, the breath had rushed from his lungs. She’d been perfection—or as close to it as he was likely to find on terra firma.
Her hell-raising brother had made the introductions. Benedict was three years her senior, but Alex had exuded a maturity well beyond her seventeen years. He’d never believed all that fairy-tale rot about love at first sight, and truth be told, he would not have dubbed what he’d felt for Alexandra in those first few minutes as love. Lust might have been more appropriate, but not entirely accurate. He’d felt a keen attraction from the first. There was no denying that. But more than anything, she’d intrigued him. The intelligence and curiosity in those golden brown eyes of hers drew him in, bewitching him as powerfully as an enchantress’s spell.
He’d wanted to learn everything about her. Her dreams. Her secrets. Her hidden desires.
Now, nearly a decade after that first meeting, she was a woman. Confident and radiantly lovely. She still had the power to take his breath away.
In an effort to avoid the appearance that Benedict and Alex had rekindled their love affair, Colton and his associates had arranged for them to travel to the ball in separate conveyances. Obviously, Colton realized Alexandra’s beauty might well work to their advantage if one or both of the brothers were drawn to her.
Arriving first, he’d stood on the periphery of the ballroom, making torturously dull conversation with some wealthy industrialist’s dough-faced son who fancied himself a patron of the arts. When the balding fop referred to Raymond Stockwell’s latest work as something akin to Shakespeare’s genius, it was all he could do to answer without a resounding laugh to punctuate his statement.
And then, Alexandra walked in.
Suddenly, he did not give a damn about the playwright’s supposed genius. Or lack of it, for that matter. It was all he could to do catch his breath.
God above, she was beautiful.
He was usually quite glib, a skill he’d cultivated since his days at Eton. He could talk his way out of a scrape or charm any collector into financing one of his expeditions. But suddenly, he could not think of a word other than that—beautiful.
Had she always been so lovely? Or had she grown into a woman who was confident and capable, a brilliant beauty who spoke with conviction and passion?
Her emerald silk gown sensuously draped her lush curves. The low-cut neckline emphasized deliciously rounded breasts that fit perfectly in his hands, while her bodice drew his eye to her slim waist. He could fit his hands around her middle, even without benefit of a corset. The all-too-tempting memory of holding her the night before kindled a heated desire. The hunger spread through every cell of his body. His cock hardened with unspoken need. Bloody good thing he’d selected a loosely tailored jacket for the evening.
Her long auburn curls were swept into an elegant coiffure. In his mind’s eye, he pictured himself removing each pin, until those lush locks cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. He imagined those wavy tendrils splayed over a pillow in his bed, and he blinked to clear his head.
The slightest hint of color brightened her cheeks, bringing her high cheekbones into focus. A black-and-emerald choker at her throat drew his eye to the slender column and silken skin. Ah, what he would give to trace that delicate slope with his mouth, drinking in the taste and subtle scent of her and relishing her throaty, pleasure-filled whimpers.
She smiled, greeting each of the guests in turn, until a man he recognized as Raymond Stockwell approached her. Her mouth thinned, so subtly a man who did not know her as he did would not have noticed. She smiled then, the slight curve of her lips only enhancing her beauty.
As he studied Alex’s every move, a petite honey-haired blonde approached him. Her direct gaze and open smile took him by surprise.
She bypassed him, greeting the bore who’d finally ceased his rambling about Stockwell’s play. “It’s so good to see you, Sir Chester. You are looking well.”
“As are you, my dear…I take it your most recent expedition was a success.”
“Quite so,” she replied, her tone enthusiastic yet soft. “Of course, my husband has been quite insufferable since being knighted. I dare say the man expects me to address him as Sir Gavin. Suffice it to say he has been utterly disappointed in that regard.”
Sir Gavin. Blast it, this was Gavin Stanwyck’s bride, the former Sophie Atherton. Alex had spoken of the ex-journalist who now served as a covert agent in Her Majesty’s service. How bloody ironic that his greatest rival had wed a beauty, been knighted by the queen, and stumbled upon a major find within the course of one year. Lucky bastard.
Lucky? As he studied Sophie Stanwyck’s pretty, rounded face and large, dark eyes, he pondered the word. Had Stanwyck enjoyed good fortune? Or had the man mustered the courage to recognize the true treasure he had found and speak his vows—rather than settling for a life of regret and enduring a hunger he could never entirely sate?
Sir Chester glanced his way. “Lady Stanwyck, please allow me to introduce Lord Marlsbrook.”
When they’d finished the formalities, Lady Stanwyck smiled, even as she narrowed her dark eyes in seeming assessment. “Lord Marlsbrook, it is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
As they continued to exchange pleasantries, Gavin Stanwyck approached. How much did the arrogant Egyptologist know of Sophie’s purpose at the event?
“Marlsbrook, I hadn’t expected to find you here.” Dry derision colored Stanwyck’s tone. “I rather thought you’d be off scavenging some tomb or other.”
Benedict’s hand clenched and unclenched at his side. The man was still a pompous arse, knighthood be damned. Given his family’s wealth, he’d never had to concern himself with obtaining funds for his expeditions or honoring his obligations. Stanwyck enjoyed the luxury of hunting relics for the excitement of the find, rather than pursuing them as a means to an end.
“I’m plotting my next raid as we speak.” He refused to dignify the man’s cut with an emotion-driven response.
Stanwyck shot Sir Chester a look. A sly smile curved his mouth. “Isn’t that your wife…over there, with Sir Geoffrey Nesbitt? I’ve heard tales—rumor has it the man is an outrageous lecher. But that doesn’t trouble you in the least now, does it?”
“Bloody hell,” Sir Chester muttered. He turned toward the beauty he’d taken as his fifth wife. She stood chatting with a decrepit but obscenely wealthy industrialist, appearing quite taken with the ruddy-faced bloke’s conversation, and perhaps, his fortune.
Stanwyck leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “She is a lovely woman. It would be a shame if anyone got the wrong idea about her and Nesbitt.”
“I do believe it’s high time I give Sir Geoffrey my regards,” Sir Chester said as he shuffled off. “You have my thanks, Stanwyck.”
Stanwyck’s cagy smile transformed to a bland expression that revealed nothing of his thoughts. “I hear you’re in a bit of a fix, Marlsbrook.”
Benedict gave a bland shrug. “I cannot say I would describe the situation as such.”
Stanwyck regarded him with a bored expression. “I am well aware of my wife’s reasons for attending this dull, high-browed torment. It seems we have a mutual interest—protecting Alexandra.”
“Good enough,” Benedict responded. “I will be in your debt if you work to ensure Miss Quinn’s safety.”
“What in damnation have you gotten yourself involved with this time?”
“If I knew the answer to that question, we would not be having this conversation.”
“True enough,” Stanwyck said with a nod. “Damnable shame about Professor Stockwell.”
“He was a good man,” Benedict said, keeping his voice even.
“I held him in great esteem,” Stanwyck said.
“His son, Raymond, is talking with Alexandra,” Sophie said. “I will endeavor to become better acquainted.”
Stanwyck reached for her, pulling her close. He bent close and whispered something in her ear that brought a rosy blush to her cheeks, then added, “Do be careful, love.”
“Of course. You’ve no reason for concern,” she said, then hurried to greet their host.
“I understand she is close to Alexandra’s sister,” Benedict commented.
“Quite so. Sophie trained as a journalist under Mrs. Colton.”
“So, tell me honestly, Stanwyck, what are your thoughts on these women acting as agents in service of the Crown?”
The faintest of smiles flickered over his features. “I should not like to tangle with any of the Colton Agency operatives. They would prove formidable opponents. I suspect the women would present even more of a challenge than the men—the element of surprise works in their favor.”
“True enough.” Benedict’s gaze wandered, catching sight of Alex across the spacious floor. She’d engaged Raymond Stockwell in conversation, her animated smile lighting her face.
“It may not be my place, but I feel I should offer you a word of advice.” Stanwyck’s voice pulled his thoughts back to the conversation.
“And what the bloody hell might that be?”
“Whatever your intentions are regarding Alexandra, treat her with honesty. She deserves that much. And more.”
Though he resented Stanwyck’s commentary, he took the man’s point. As with Colton, Stanwyck viewed Alexandra with affection. Her well-being was in the forefront of his thoughts.
“Of course,” he said.
Stanwyck’s gaze appeared to track his wife as now she and Stockwell moved gracefully across the dance floor. For a long moment, he stood silent, a muscle in his jaw taut.
“Marlsbrook, there’s one more thing,” he said without taking his eyes off his wife. “If you hurt Alexandra again, you will live to regret it. You have my word on that.”
His threat was not entirely unexpected. Stanwyck was an arrogant windbag, but in his own way, he possessed a sense of integrity. Obviously, judging from the way he looked at his wife, the bastard was besotted with her. In Stanwyck’s book, anyone dear to his bride warranted his protection.
“Hurt her? Good God, man, I’ve traveled from Egypt to protect her.”
With a hike of a brow, Stanwyck dismissed his words. “Do you expect me to believe there is no ulterior motive at play? I’ve heard the rumblings… Stockwell had knowledge of a significant find, one that would eclipse the vast majority of expeditions. You must admit, the timing of your return is rather convenient.”
Bugger it, this was a development he had not anticipated. What did Stanwyck know of the map? He’d believed the professor had spoken to him of the treasure in confidence. Who else had he told?
“I’ve no intention of discussing this matter with you…here, of all places.”
“Understood,” Stanwyck said. “God only knows who is listening.”
“I take it you are not allied with Harold Stockwell.”
Benedict’s gaze wandered to Alex. She’d now taken to the dance floor with a man he recognized as an actor in Stockwell’s latest play. A sense of joy lit her features as she glided across the ballroom floor, her elegant posture and flowing motions a contrast to the surprisingly clunky movements of the leading man.
“Not in the least. His methods are sloppy. Why, I’d rather throw my lot in with you.” Stanwyck’s attention shot to the corner of the room, where his wife stood smiling and conversing with the playwright. “I have not seen the man tonight. I’m told he is having a hard time with his father’s death.”
“Unlike his brother.”
“Indeed. But then again, Professor Stockwell clearly favored his older son,” Stanwyck said. “They had far more in common. If Josiah Stockwell was seeking a major find, it’s likely he shared that knowledge with his eldest.”
“Perhaps,” Benedict said, refusing to confirm or deny his knowledge of the treasure.
Stanwyck’s interest darted to his wife again. Given the man’s past reputation as a rogue, Benedict would once have wagered it was not possible to tie Stanwyck down to one woman.
He would have lost that bet.
“We must continue this discussion at another time,” Stanwyck said. “At some point, you are going to have to tell the truth about Stockwell and what he knew. Both your life and Alex’s might depend on it.”
…
The ballroom at the Barrington Hotel was widely considered one of the most elegant in all of London. Gleaming crystal chandeliers bathed the regally attired guests in a shimmering light. To Alex’s right, a countess preened in a gown of burgundy silk while the American heiress to a railroad fortune sauntered past in a creation fresh from Paris. Light glittered off the diamonds at her neck. The ball had drawn many of Society’s moneyed elites. Though she could never have identified with the jewel-bedecked women who surrounded her, Alex squared her shoulders and did her best to blend in with the sophisticates.
Across the room, Benedict stood with Stanwyck, attired in a well-tailored black jacket and trousers with a tastefully knotted tie of crimson silk at his throat. His hair gleamed like burnished wheat, and the carved planes of his face drew the attention of more than one woman. The diamond-adorned American slowed as she passed by him, her gaze lingering on his features a few moments longer than was proper. Not that Alex could blame her. Benedict was a striking figure of a man, his rugged coloring and sleek strength ever so much more appealing than the pale, milquetoast gentlemen who congregated around the dance floor.
Their host held court not far from the spot where Alex had positioned herself, mingling with the guests while keeping an eye on the playwright. Handsome in his expertly tailored finery, Raymond Stockwell had inherited his father’s height and lean build, but from there, any comparison was nonexistent. While Professor Stockwell’s hair had borne touches of red even into his sixth decade on earth, and the warmth in his features had been most endearing, the younger man’s deep brown hair, keenly intelligent dark eyes, and piercing gaze reminded Alex of a hawk. The man was strikingly attractive. Yet somehow, inapproachable and quietly fierce.
Dressed in black with a snowy white cravat at his throat, Raymond Stockwell seemed to view everyone in attendance as either a prospective patron of his theatrical endeavors, a potential liaison to warm his sheets, or, in the case of the tear-stained young woman who stood within a stone’s throw of Alex, someone he’d deemed unworthy of an audience.
She turned to the sniffling young woman who dabbed at her eyes with a small square of linen. “Lady Mildred, is something wrong?”
“No…not at all,” she sniffled unconvincingly.
“I cannot help but notice that you are on the verge of tears,” she persisted gently. Given the faint marks on her cheeks, Lady Mildred had already been weeping. But Alex did not wish to cause the shy young woman additional embarrassment.
“It’s only that…well…” She shot Stockwell a dagger-filled glance. “He is such an unpleasant man. He implied that…that my father might want to consider financing one of his productions… If not, well, I did not deserve his time.”
“Why, the cad,” Alex murmured sympathetically. His demeanor with her had been quite the opposite. Solicitous and open, he’d seemed quite interested in impressing her. Surely the man did not believe her father possessed the funds to fritter away on one of his plays. How very odd.
“It would not be so hard to bear,” Lady Mildred said, her voice a near whisper. “But…the last time we were together, he led me to believe…” She sniffled loudly, and it appeared a torrent of tears would erupt. “He led me to believe he might come to care for me, in due time.”
“The man is a rogue of the worst sort,” Alex said. “If I were you, I’d want nothing to do with him.”
Lady Mildred gave a nod, buried her nose in her handkerchief, and gave another sniff. “I had no idea he was such an unfeeling excuse for a man.”
With that, Lady Mildred took her leave, likely heading for the Ladies’ Necessary to freshen her face. As if on cue, Raymond spotted her. Maneuvering around a few fawning women, he came to her. A smile he no doubt intended to be charming marked his well-defined features.
“I was hoping to encounter you again this evening,” he said.
“Were you now?” Deciding she would let this interaction play out, she composed her features.
“It’s not every day that I meet a woman like you.”
She made a show of glancing about the room. “This ballroom is awash in beautiful women who would like nothing more than to curry your favor. I cannot help but wonder why you might think me unique.”
He held her gaze. “If pressed, I would have to say it is the fact that you do not wish to gain my attention that makes you fascinating.”
She forced a little shrug. “If you believe I am playing hard to get, I’m afraid you are mistaken.”
His sly, meant-to-be charming expression returned. “I have no such notion. That is one of the things that intrigues me about you.”
A man who reminded her of a well-fed bull sidled up to Stockwell. His broad, fleshy face and square jaw seemed a bit too large for his features. Judging from the lack of wrinkles and absence of gray in his dull brown hair, he was still a young man, though his exaggerated mustache created the illusion of a man in his middle years.
Small, nondescript brown eyes met hers. An unpleasant smile pulled at his lips as his gaze swept over her. Not quite a leer, but too lingering to be comfortable.
“Keeping the ladies to yourself again,” the man said. There was something familiar about him, but she could not put a name to the face.
“Sadly, Miss Quinn is quite immune to my charms,” Raymond Stockwell said with a light, humor-filled tone. “It’s been ages since I saw you last, Nelson.”
“I’ve had business on the Continent,” Nelson replied without elaboration. He pinned Stockwell with a narrow-eyed look. “Might I warrant an introduction to this lovely lady?”
“Of course. I have been remiss in my duties as host.” Raymond offered a false smile, then introduced the stocky man as a financier, Edward Nelson.
Alex exchanged pleasantries with the newcomer, but his tendency to direct his gaze to her bosom rather than her face made her skin crawl. Perhaps she would take her leave and avail herself of Raymond’s company after his repugnant acquaintance wandered away.
She spotted Sophie through the crowd. The petite blonde had worked her way past a throng of dancers, somehow managing to make eye contact. Her sister’s protégé was indeed a force of nature.
By the time Sophie had crossed to where she stood, a heavily painted brunette with hair down to her waist had caught Nelson’s eye. Mumbling an excuse, he quickly took his leave.
“Mr. Stockwell, allow me to extend my compliments,” Sophie began. “This affair is perfect. The music is sublime.”
“I’m pleased my little soiree is a pleasant experience for you. Sir Gavin is in attendance, is he not?”
“Oh, dear, he’s here somewhere. I’ve no idea where that husband of mine has gone. I suspect he’s regaling some unfortunate fellow with the dreary details of his latest expedition.” She framed her features in a solemn expression. “I have been meaning to properly express my condolences. Sir Gavin and I were deeply saddened to learn of your father’s untimely passing.”
Raymond adopted an equally somber expression. “I have not yet come to terms with the shock to the system. I’ve tried to distract myself from the grief.”
“Might I ask how your brother is taking the news?” Alex spoke up.
A slight curl of his lip betrayed his initial reaction to the question. He quickly reined in the response, but he’d already made his derision clear.
“Harold has used our father’s demise as an excuse to remain thoroughly foxed. The fool has crawled into a bottle of whisky.”
Sophie cast her a speaking glance. Harold Stockwell was generally considered to be a scholarly, level-headed fellow. Had his father’s death taken such a great toll on him?
“How very sad,” Sophie said. “I’d heard he might be in attendance tonight.”
“He’s here. Somewhere.” Raymond pointed to the stairs. “Last time I saw him, he was huddled in his room with his favorite companion—a bottle of Scotch. I must admit I am thankful he has not yet indulged his taste for absinthe.” Idly, he adjusted his cravat. “I should not have besieged the two of you with such unpleasant details. I do beg your pardon.”
“Please, think nothing of it. I’m sure this has been a difficult time,” Sophie said gently.
“Facing our father’s death has been an ordeal for both Harold and myself.” Stockwell turned to Alex. “I know how fond Father was of you. He held you in the highest regard.”
“The news of his death was a terrible shock. I have still not quite come to grips with it,” she said truthfully.
“Indeed,” he said.
A sudden commotion pulled their attention to the area of the ballroom occupied by the musicians. A metallic crash interrupted the strains of a waltz. A man raised himself from the spot where he’d landed on the floor.
Harold Stockwell brusquely shook his head, as if that might clear away the effects of far too much liquor. His black trousers had escaped the effects of the tumble, but his paisley waistcoat and black jacket were a rumpled mess. Dragging his fingers through dark strands that were far too long to be fashionable, he stared into the crowd.
“Why don’t you watch where you put those blasted things?” he bellowed at a violinist who took several steps in retreat. Stumbling past the musician, he managed to knock the top hat off a weasel-faced duke’s head while nearly tripping over a ruby-bedecked matron.
“Bloody hell,” Raymond Stockwell muttered under his breath. “Ladies, if you will excuse me.”
Before he could take his leave, his brother lumbered toward them. Harold’s gaze settled squarely on Alex. She swallowed against a wave of sudden apprehension. The towering man resembled an angry bull.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Benedict. He started toward them. Did he think to intercept the elder of the brothers?
Alex briskly shook her head. She did not require Benedict’s intervention. Not yet, at least.
Harold Stockwell made his way to where they stood. Sketching an exaggerated bow, he greeted them in turn.
“Miss Quinn, it has been far too long.” He badly slurred the words. “I had not expected you to be here tonight. If I had, I would have made my entrance well before now.”
“It is good to see you again,” she said, hoping her tone did not betray the falseness of her words.
“No—it is not. I look like bloody hell, and I feel far worse. My father should not have died as he did. I should have been there. It’s my fault, damn it.”
The expletive drew shocked gasps from the guests who stood within earshot. He shot them a scowl.
“It could not have been your responsibility. Do not blame yourself,” Alex said, choking back a fresh wave of emotion.
“Ah, but I do, Miss Quinn. How can I not?” Once again, he tore his fingers through his hair. Tears glistened in his red-rimmed eyes. “If I had not learned of that accursed tomb… If I had not told my father of the legend… He would still be alive. He would not have been murdered.”