Free When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) by Tara Kingston Page A

regarded him with a narrow-eyed stare that brought to mind one particularly shrewish governess his father had employed. Of course, if that harpy had possessed lips the color of ripe berries, Matthew might have paid far more exacting attention to his Latin declensions.
    “It has been a pleasure, Mr. Colton, but I must complete my errands.” Her curt nod seemed a dismissal. “Until tonight.”
    He reached for her. “Not quite yet, Miss Danvers.”
    She didn’t try to pull away. Rather, she faced him directly, her eyes widening, her expression softening. A hint of a smile tugged at her mouth.
    “You have my word that I shall not offend the patrons with my dastardly feather. After all, some might feel great sympathy for the unfortunate bird that parted with it, especially after the fellows have imbibed an ale or three.”
    “As long as you keep your interactions with the customers focused on whatever they came to slog down, what you wear does not signify.”
    He’d expected her to stiffen, but if anything, the amusement playing on Jennie’s mouth intensified. “I’d only hoped to be congenial. I shall do my best to adopt a more efficient manner.”
    “That will be a start,” he said, well aware the sincerity in her lively green eyes could not hide the plain truth. She didn’t mean a word she said. In his gut, he knew she had good reason for the attention she paid to stench-ridden bastards like Duncan Poole.
    No, she wasn’t at the Lancaster to keep a roof over her head. She’d tangled herself in a dangerous web. Invited the threat. Encouraged it. But why?
    He’d ferret out her motives. He had to. Jennie had no idea what she faced, what terror was to come if she triggered Harwick’s distrust. A woman like her could not imagine the brutality that awaited anyone who crossed the cur.
    Somehow, he had to shield her. Matthew felt that truth in his bones.
    Bloody ironic, that. Christ, he was a marked man himself. He’d no way of knowing when his associates would put a bullet in his brain. A year? A month? A day?
    Sooner or later, he’d wind up face down in the Thames. Just like his partner at the Yard. John Crosby hadn’t deserved the death he’d been dealt. Matthew should have been the one to die that night. At least he’d courted his fate.
    Before long, he’d get his due.
    His fingers closed around Jennie’s wrist. Her pulse throbbed against his touch. At the moment, her pretty face bore tiny crinkles around her eyes and a distinct vee between her brows. “Are you all right, Mr. Colton?” The concern in her voice sounded genuine.
    He nodded as he released her. “I’ll take no more of your time.”
    “I understand you feel a duty to ensure my safety. Since the incident at the tavern, you’ve appointed yourself the protector of defenseless women.”
    He tore his attention from her mouth. Defenseless? Jennie was as defenseless as a black widow spider. But no weapon she possessed would protect her from what might lay ahead.
    Her clever eyes studied him beneath the veil of her lashes. “Until tonight, Mr. Colton.”
    …
    The fading light of day cast a somber gray haze over the boardinghouse that served as Jennie’s London residence. In truth, its weathered brick was not so different from that which had stood the test of time on the stately country manor in which she’d spent her formative years. Of course, that was where any resemblance ended.
    Her family’s ancestral home boasted sprawling grounds, a lush green landscape dappled with wildflowers, and trees that had taken root centuries before Queen Victoria ruled the land. Jennie missed the freshness of the air, the smell of evergreens, the quiet of the meadow. And the library. Her heart pinched as she pictured herself curled by the fireplace in one of the overstuffed chairs. How delightful it would be to while away pleasant hours in that grand room once again.
    It was there that she’d first encountered her father’s former student, Macalister