Page 27 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
Alex pondered her words. “Five men? Are you quite sure? I was told that three men were killed before the professor’s death.”
“There has been another death. “I trust you read of Sir Clayton Finch’s death in theHerald.”
She pulled in a low breath. “Good heavens, how can this be?”
“The man had survived countless battles only to die in his own bath.”
“Could he have suffered an accident?”
“Highly unlikely. A postmortem examination revealed no sign of injury that would result from a fall. No fractures. No blunt trauma to his skull. Nothing that would explain how he ended up dead in his own tub with water in his lungs. Matthew’s contact at Scotland Yard believes he was drugged. Sir Clayton was known to consume a tumbler of whisky before he retired in the evening. His drink may have been dosed with a powerful sedative before he settled into the bath.”
Alex pressed her hand to her mouth as horrified understanding filled her. “Benedict warned me that we were in danger.”
“Are you aware that Marlsbrook arrived in London three days ago? Sir Clayton died that night.”
“A bizarre coincidence, I’m sure.”
“Can you be so certain?” Jennie’s mouth thinned with tension she did not try to hide. “Matthew and I share a deep concern regarding the many coincidences surrounding Lord Marlsbrook’s recent time in Egypt and his return to London.”
“I received a letter today from Professor Stockwell,” Alex offered, struggling to make sense of it all. “He feared my safety was at risk, even though I was far from Egypt. Benedict may also be in grave danger.”
“That is certainly a possibility,” Jennie said, her tones soft and measured. “But another explanation exists.”
“Another explanation?” Alex studied her sister’s face, searching for understanding. “Surely, you are not implying Benedict is a killer.”
“That’s not it, though I would be dishonest if I did not admit the possibility had entered my mind. Matthew instructed one of his agents to make inquiries regarding Lord Marlsbrook’s whereabouts since he arrived in London. Evidently, the night that Sir Clayton died, Marlsbrook was making his way through London’s underbelly. He was nowhere near the dead man’s residence.”
“He was searching for Rooney.” A peculiar sense of relief filled Alex. Benedict was many things—heaven knew she’d selected many a choice epithet to describe the man after he’d left her heart in tatters, but he was not evil. He was not a murderer.
“That would appear to be the case.”
“Could Rooney have killed Sir Clayton?”
“We don’t believe so,” Jennie said. “It does not appear that Alfred Rooney was in the city at the time. Our sources are confident that Rooney traveled through Rome and stayed in Paris for at least two nights before he arrived in London two days ago, shortly after Marlsbrook arrived by steamer.”
“Benedict had mentioned that Rooney’s trail had gone cold.”
“It appears he has been honest with you. But the fact remains—someone killed Sir Clayton before Rooney came to London. The danger is real, Alex. And it appears to be following Lord Marlsbrook.”
Chapter Eight
Rousing from his comfortable bed in the Mayfair townhouse that served as his residence on those rare nights he spent in London, Benedict moved with cautious stealth from one room to the next. After the night before, he was taking no chances. He’d little doubt his butler would sound the alarm if an intruder dared enter, but Roderick was not as young as he used to be. If anyone lay in wait, the rotter would soon become acquainted with the business end of Benedict’s revolver.
With the plush carpet muffling his footfalls, he stepped into the library. Odd, how this room out of all of those in the residence felt the most like home. As a boy, he’d spent long hours devouring every book he could find, gleaning knowledge of the ancient world while avoiding the stony silence that surrounded his parents’ marriage. After years of unhappiness, his mother and father had simply come to a near-wordless truce. From time to time, his father would encounter Benedict there in the library of the family’s manor home. How his thin lips would curl in disdain. Damnable shame his parents had not managed to sire another son. Perhaps that lad would have proven a more fitting heir to theman among menhis father had pretended to be.
Glancing about the place, he noted the gleaming woodwork and shelves that had been freshly dusted. Roderick did a fine job overseeing the household staff, ensuring the care and upkeep of the townhouse in Benedict’s absence. Truth be told, he had considered taking up residence in some fine hotel or another on those occasions when he had reason to be in London. But the house had been Roderick’s home for more than two decades. His conscience would not allow him to displace the elderly man. Since the death of his wife, a rosy-cheeked imp of a woman who’d served as Benedict’s housekeeper, Roderick had viewed Benedict as the closest thing to family he possessed.
On Benedict’s part, the feeling had been mutual. Roderick had seemed a surrogate father, a man whose own children had died in an outbreak of fever a year before Benedict had taken his first breath. While Benedict’s father had whiled away the hours in gambling hells, convinced he was one turn of the cards away from restoring the fortune he’d lost, Roderick had provided a listening ear and common-sense advice for a lad torn between his passions and his family’s expectations. Now, Benedict would see to it that Roderick could call the townhouse his home as long as the old gentleman saw fit.
Moving to a Chippendale wing chair that had seen better days, he sat down and stretched out his long legs. The elegant furnishings and expensive rugs beneath his feet seemed altogether foreign after the long months he’d spent in the desert. Still, there was something to be said for the place. Pity he wouldn’t be able to indulge himself with a creature comfort or two for more than another night. He had to return to Egypt. The legendary riches in the tomb Stockwell had spent years trying to locate would not lay undisturbed for long. Though the young daughter of an obscure ruler had made no mark on history, the princess’s burial place was reputed to house a fortune in relics. Benedict was not the only one on the hunt for the long-hidden crypt. But damned if he wouldn’t be the one to get there first.
Once he had Stockwell’s map, he would find the treasure. And in the process, he’d unmask the bastard who’d ordered those men killed. He would see the cur responsible for the professor’s death brought to justice. Whether at the end of a rope or with a well-placed bullet, he didn’t care. He would see Stockwell avenged, if it was the last thing he did.
The last thing he did. The words played in his thoughts like a warning.
Devil take it, he was allowing the professor’s fear and his own exhaustion to get the better of him. He was smart—smart enough to avoid Stockwell’s fate and protect Alexandra from the malicious threat. Somehow, he had to convince her to come with him. He could protect her. He was sure of that. Together, they would be a formidable team. Alexandra’s keen knowledge of hieroglyphics and her ability to decipher the most baffling symbols would prove invaluable to his quest.
Still, he had to convince her to hand over the map before they departed London. Without it, he had little chance of uncovering the treasure before Gavin Stanwyck and his team located the priceless cache. Alexandra might well have the document and not even realize what she possessed. Enticing her to help him find the map would be a challenge, but the prospect was not daunting.
