Page 13 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
“I’m confident I shall have no difficulty making my way home. Thank you again for being a gentleman.” Sophie turned away, but the constable’s voice stilled her.
“A pretty miss like you had best be careful.” The benevolent notes that had colored his words had been replaced with a far steelier edge.
A shiver crept over her spine. “Indeed, I make a point to be vigilant.”
He eyed her, as if in warning. “Ye never know what sort of villains are lurking in the night.”
There were times when Sophie would much rather have been weaving her way through the streets of London on some inquiry or other than to be shuttered inside the serviceable room at the boardinghouse she’d called home since a month past her twentieth birthday.
This was not one of those times.
Gaslight illuminated the front entrance of the plain brick building a five minute walk beyond Charing Cross. A lamp blazed in a second story window.Bloody perfect. The landlady was still up and about. Sophie let out a sigh. After the trying events of the evening, she’d no patience for Mrs. O’Brien’s prying questions. With any luck, she’d manage to creep up the stairs while avoiding the matron’s all-too-observant eyes.
A low, plaintive cry drew her attention to the shadows just beyond the front door. A cat strolled from the darkness, its eyes gleaming yellow in the lamplight. Another soft meow, and the sleek creature sidled up to Sophie, rubbing against her skirt. Crouching, she gave the cat a gentle rub behind the ears that was rewarded with a robust purr. The ebony kitten certainly knew how to win her over, night after night.
Turning to the stairs, she dashed up to her flat, lit a lamp, and bolted the door behind her. She gave the latch a tug for good measure. The pistol in the bedside table would provide ample defense against an intruder, but she’d no desire to put that theory to the test.
Stepping lightly over a rug that had seen better days…much better days, from the looks of the threadbare spots scattered throughout its braided threads, she tiptoed to the painted chest beside the window, removed her high-top boots, and took out her nightdress. She slipped off the oh-so-prim garments she’d selected with Stanwyck in mind and donned the simple gown. The soft cotton was smooth and warm against her skin, but a shiver danced over her arms.
A muffled squeak beneath her stocking-clad feet jarred her, and she sighed again. With any luck, Mrs. O’Brien had snored through the board’s creaky protest. In any case, there was nothing to be done about it.
She snatched her wrapper from the hook on the wall and huddled within it, then propped a pillow between the bed and the wall. Leaning against it, she stretched out her legs and wiggled her toes. Such a small, glorious pleasure after their confinement within her tautly laced shoes.
Nervous energy pulsed in her veins. Considering the events of the evening, it seemed no wonder. Even now, the constable’s creased, ordinary features played in her memory. She’d no true cause to harbor suspicion of the man. So why had his words of caution struck an ominous chord?
Ah, she was letting her doubts get the better of her. By all rights, she should be under her blanket, dreaming of some rousing expedition in a sunny, far-off place, but she knew better than to think sleep would come. Not yet. Not while her mind still raced with questions.
She opened the book on her bedside table, but she could find no interest in the novel.Drat. Closing it, she retrieved her journal from the drawer directly beneath the one in which she stored her Sharps Pepperbox revolver.
Relaxing against the makeshift bolster, Sophie glanced over her notes. Anyone who happened upon the leather-bound journal she’d received from her uncle on her seventeenth birthday would believe the book to be a diary, the events within meriting little interest. Indeed, over the years, she’d documented her fascination with all things Egyptian and even kept note of the hieroglyphs she’d learned to interpret. But recent entries contained hidden information within the scribblings. Utilizing a code she’d devised, she’d penned key references to the cases she’d investigated since becoming a part of the Colton Agency. Even her mentor, Jennie Quinn Colton, would be hard-pressed to decipher the hidden meaning in her seemingly ordinary statements accented with symbols first written thousands of years earlier in the Nile Valley.
The pale man’s cold, hard eyes flashed in her thoughts. She was loath to admit it, even to herself, but fear had rippled through her during the encounter. The ruffian was not the sort who’d hesitate to hurt a woman. His cruel expression betrayed that much. Her knife would’ve enabled her defense. But she uttered a small, silent prayer of thanks that she had not needed to use the weapon.
She’d never laid eyes on the blighter before tonight. Not that she’d have much cause to mingle with his sort. In her position at theHerald, she reported news of the latest fashions from the Continent, provided gossip-laden accounts of society balls, and depicted the goings-on of London’s elite. Her latest article for theLadies’ Pageshad featured the eccentric widow of a prominent industrialist who’d constructed an elegant home on her country estate for her beloved Abyssinian cats. Amusing, perhaps. But certainly not fraught with peril, unlike the undercover investigations her mentor had conducted during her years at the paper.
Jennie’s exposés had destroyed powerful criminals and uncovered abuses at facilities entrusted with caring for the most vulnerable in society. She’d stepped away from her role at the paper and now employed her investigative talents as a director of the agency she and her husband had founded at the behest of the Crown. Operating under the guise of a detective service, the agents delved into matters beyond the expertise of Scotland Yard.
Sophie had been honored to become a part of the exciting endeavor, even as she’d maintained her role as a reporter at theLadies’ Pages. Her position at theHeraldprovided access to places and events and society types who played into their investigations and offered a plausible justification for her travels throughout the city. Unlike her journalistic duties, her assignments on behalf of the agency were laced with risk. Even though Jennie urged caution, Sophie relished the thrill of treading a bit dangerously. The adventure of it all made her come alive.
Even so, the encounter with the pale man had triggered an innate warning. Perhaps more caution was warranted.
Pushing the wiry cur from her thoughts, she focused on the notations she’d made regarding her investigation.
The first death had come late in the winter. Outspoken and brash, Albert Cochrane, Lord Eversleigh, had garnered his fair share of adversaries during three decades in Parliament, though, none might have been considered an enemy, much less one who’d shatter the back of the man’s skull. A trusted member of the Queen’s inner circle, the viscount had been consumed by grief following the death of his beloved son. Eversleigh had sought out Trask, desperate for some hint that his son’s spirit lived on in another realm.
He’d been found early one morning, sprawled lifeless upon freshly fallen snow, steps from the entry to his Mayfair home. Only a thin trickle of blood at the base of his skull had provided any clue that the aging viscount’s death had been the result of decidedly unnatural causes. A tragic accident, the officials had said, speculating the gentleman had taken a deadly fall. A logical conclusion, most agreed.
Pity the verdict could not explain the presence of a needle puncture behind the viscount’s left ear.
Sophie tapped her fingertip against the paper, mulling the facts of the case. Eversleigh’s daughter had relayed details of her father’s meetings with Trask, but in her distraught state, authorities had given little credence to her accusations.
Sir Clayton Fenshaw had been the second man to die. He’d risen from humble means, parlaying the fortune he’d made in the textile trade into the power that came with a seat in Parliament. The well-heeled industrialist had met his fate at his country home on a glorious spring day. Thrown from his beloved steed, Fenshaw had suffered a broken neck, or so the formal inquiry had concluded. That verdict could not explain away the single bruise over the pulse point on his throat, a marking approximately the size of a man’s thumb. That inconvenient detail was dismissed as irrelevant to what was deemed an accidental demise. The man’s connection with Neil Trask had not been examined. After all, it wouldn’t do to bring attention to the desperation of a grief-stricken man. But the fact remained that Fenshaw had attended at least three sittings with Trask, seeking contact with the wife he’d lost to a merciless fever.
Of course, it might well be a coincidence. There was no reason to suspect that Trask had any connection with the deaths.
Until the third man had died.
She let out a sigh. This morbid exercise was serving no purpose, other than ensuring she would not sleep well that night. Without further evidence of Trask’s involvement, she could draw no conclusions. She’d have to delve deeper into Trask’s records and see what other intelligence she could coax out of the man. If he had files hidden away, she needed to find them.
