Page 41 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
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.
TheMwas 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?”
