Page 11 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
Trask’s brows sank. His mouth softened from its harsh line. “You’ve no need to worry. The bloke’s harmless enough. You know how to handle his kind.” He grinned. “A few stern words from Esme will put him in his place.”
“You’re sure of that?” If she had her way, they’d put a good scare in Stanwyck and send him running back to his country home.
“Quite sure. We’ll feed him whatever he wants to hear, and perhaps, he’ll lead himself…and us…to the treasure he seeks.”
“If such a thing even exists.”
Trask smiled as though he pictured piles of sovereigns from Stanwyck’s coffers filling his money box. “As long as it exists in Stanwyck’s mind, he’ll spend whatever it takes to find it. Ye know who his father was, don’t you?”
“I’ve no idea.” The lie tumbled easily from her lips. Of course she knew Stanwyck’s background. But she wasn’t about to reveal that truth.
“The gent’s father was one of the wealthiest merchants in London. That bloody store he opened on Jermyn Street made him a fortune. After his brother went and got himself killed, Gavin Stanwyck became the heir. The man has riches to spare, Sophie. A few smiles on your part might make him all the more generous.”
“Very well. If you feel so strongly about his prospects.”
Trask nodded. “I’ve seldom felt so enthused about a client. You will make this happen. I have no doubt.”
She drew her cape closed. “I will do my best.”
Indeed, she would do whatever it took to uncover Gavin Stanwyck’s motives for seeking out Trask’s dubious services. The man’s presence at this dank little salon intrigued her even as his outrageous talk ofhisEsme seemed a pebble in her shoe. An image of Stanwyck, his eyes flashing with wry wit, invaded her thoughts. Whatever had drawn him to this place had nothing to do with spirits and lost treasure.
Blast it, whatever his reasons for seeking out Trask, the professor’s interference was a complication she had not anticipated. She needed to keep her head about her. She’d come here to unmask a cunning assassin who’d staged three killings as cruel accidents. If Trask or any of his cronies were tied to the deaths, she’d uncover their parts in the crimes. But that took time. She couldn’t chance any loss of the charlatan’s trust. If Stanwyck undermined her masquerade, her mission would be in shreds. She’d no doubt Trask and his associates would be dangerous if provoked. More than her investigation might be in jeopardy.
With a deliberate cough, Trask stepped to the side, as if for the first time noticing she’d prepared to leave. “I’ll see you home.”
“That won’t be necessary. The walk will do me good.”
His brows knit together. “So late? These streets are dangerous.”
She shrugged. “You’ve no worries. I assure you I won’t wind up in the river and place you in the position of having to find a new assistant.”
With that, she breezed past him. No sense letting him think she was a milksop. She wanted no more to do with Neil Trask that evening.
“Sophie, the streets can be dangerous at night. Especially for a woman.”
She turned to face him. “No more dangerous than the fire with which you play.”
Chapter Four
A thick mist hovered in the air, permeating Sophie’s wool cape. A chill sank into her bones. She’d never been prone to flights of fancy, but the dense, shadowed fog provided abundant fodder for apprehension. Pity she’d no desire to pen a penny dreadful. London by gaslight could inspire quite a spine-tingling tale.
The fine hairs at her nape stood on end. Rather peculiar. She’d let her imagination run away with her. That was the only logical explanation.
Still, she quickened her pace. Perhaps she should have accepted Trask’s offer after all. He’d become accustomed to transporting her home in his carriage, a sleek phaeton he maintained with the care one would devote to a prized steed.
Her lips pursed in annoyance. Neil Trask was an unscrupulous man, his actions driven by greed. But for some reason she couldn’t quite explain, she could not bring herself to entirely dislike him. At times, he possessed an endearing manner, an easy familiarity that an unwary soul might well interpret as genuine. Even knowing what she did of the man, she’d been unable to completely shield herself against the disarming affability he employed like a weapon.
In the distance, a hound’s bellow drifted through the night. A twinge of warning slithered along her spine. With a sharp breath, she steadied her nerves. What in blazes had come over her? It wasn’t like her to be so skittish. At this rate, she’d be seeing spooks and specters lurking around every corner.
Perhaps Esme will show her face. She bit back a giggle. Esme had been her creation, an elusive spirit guide with a decidedly mercurial nature. Trask preferred to affect a male guide, a serious-minded soul he’d dubbed Louis who’d lost his earthly head to the guillotine during the French Revolution. When Trask decided his liaison to the other side was a native Londoner, the failed thespian cast aside his atrocious accent. His English persona, an unfortunate contemporary of Shakespeare, affected a proper British dialect and recounted the sad tale of his end in the Tower during the reign of the Virgin Queen.
Squaring her shoulders, Sophie maintained her brisk strides. Her heels tapped an even rhythm against the pavement. She’d be home soon enough. A sip of brandy and a good book would ease the tension that seemed to permeate every muscle.
Without a sound, a man stepped into her path. As her smile dissolved in a gasp, she struggled to make out his features through the shadows obscuring his face. He stood head and shoulders over her, his hair a pale, ethereal shade that might have been white blond in the light of day.
Swallowing hard, she slid one hand into the reticule tethered to her wrist. Her fingers closed around her hidden knife. To the unsuspecting eye, the implement appeared to be a fountain pen. One touch to the nib and a concealed blade would deploy.
Steadying her tone, she faced him directly. “Do I know you, sir?”
