Page 79 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
Campbell regarded him with a cold scowl. “Word is out that you were set upon by thieves last night. I’m apt to wonder if you did not suffer some injury to your head in the encounter.”
“I know she works for you, Campbell. I also know that if anything happens to her, I will hold you personally accountable.”
Campbell folded his arms, regarding Gavin as if he’d gone quite mad. “Is that so?”
“I’d say your judgment is questionable at best, sending a woman into a den of jackals.”
The Scot cocked his head, regarding Gavin with unmasked contempt. “Might I suggest you go back to one of those tombs you’re so fond of and dust the sand off some bloke’s sarcophagus?”
If Campbell thought a petty insult would send him on his way, he would discover he was grossly mistaken. “Where the bloody hell is she?”
“What makes you think she wants to be found, much less by the likes of you?”
“She is in danger. I know a way…a way to protect her.”
“Assuming the Miss Devereaux you seek is indeed in the employ of this paper, what in the name of all that is good and holy would lead you to believe I’d trust a word out of your mouth?”
The hinges behind him gave a slight groan. Sophie quietly entered the office and closed the door.
Relief flooded Gavin’s veins, even as her mouth pursed into a frown. “I should have known you’d puzzle out where I’d gone,” she said.
“Not the greeting I expected, but I’ll take it.”
“Indeed.” Her frown deepened. “As my secret is out, the need for pretense is over.” She nodded to Campbell. “Given the events of the past two nights, I believe he can be trusted.”
Campbell nodded. “If it were not for the attack ye suffered last night, I’d be tempted to suspect you’re the one who did the bloke in.”
“Did the bloke in?” Gavin questioned.
Sophie offered a grim nod. “Trask.”
Her matter-of-fact tone could not camouflage the distress in her eyes. Brushing past him, she settled into an upholstered chair to the right of Campbell’s desk. She motioned Gavin to take a seat on the opposite side, then shot the editor a speaking glance.
Campbell settled back into his leather wing chair, eyeing Gavin with a protective scrutiny. “Workers on a barge fished Trask out of the river shortly after dawn.”
“A suicide, or so it appears,” Sophie explained. “A witness well in his cups saw him plunge from a bridge, miles from his studio. Rather convenient, I’d say.”
“Especially given the fact the unlucky bastard suffered a broken neck, likely before the fall,” Campbell added. “Our source indicated his head had been turned one hundred eighty degrees.”
Sophie’s complexion blanched, but she drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair and maintained her composure. “It would seem Jack and Reggie had a busy night.”
Campbell stood, pointing at the map of Britain on his desk. Several cities and hamlets throughout England and Scotland were marked with cryptic symbols. The right margin had been inscribed with another symbol and a location—Paris. “If those curs were indeed the culprits. Given the scope of this investigation, the person who ordered his killing likely has an assortment of assassins at his disposal.”
“Orherdisposal,” Sophie pointed out.
“Of course.” Campbell’s brows hiked, and his mouth curved in something that might’ve been respect. “Sophie fancies herself a suffragette.”
Her soft smile brightened features that had paled to the color of freshly laundered linen. “Murder is not a solely masculine providence.”
“Indeed,” Gavin agreed. “It would appear Trask was not behind the attack on my life.”
“He may well have sent those men to silence you, to clean up the mess he’d made by taking you on as a client.” Sophie spoke calmly, with authority. “He let his greed overrule his caution, and he paid the price.”
A light rap upon the door added to the tension in the room. The secretary’s crisp tones followed. “Mr. Campbell, the director has arrived. Mrs. Colton has accompanied him.”
“Very good. Please send them in.”
Moments later, a tall, dark-haired man and a strikingly beautiful woman strode into the office.The Sinister Inspector.Gavin recognized Matthew Colton at first glance. Colton’s image had been depicted in theHeraldon more occasions than he could recall. The former Yardman’s murder trial had been the talk of London. Colton’s acquittal had been met with jeers from those who had believed he’d cheated the hangman. God knew theHeraldhad portrayed Colton as a fiend, a murderer who’d richly deserved a noose tightened about his neck—what in blazes was the man doing, taking a meeting with theHerald’s managing editor?
