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

Campbell. Youthful and brash, he’d held Jennie spellbound with tales of his investigations, the dangers he’d faced head on in pursuit of facts he’d weave into riveting accounts in the pages of the Herald . She’d been a girl then, still under the tutelage of her reed-thin governess, Miss Simmons, but even then, Jennie knew she’d found her calling. She’d longed for the adventures young Mr. Campbell had recounted with gusto, yearned to ferret out elusive truths and expose crime and evil using the power of her clever pen.
    Against the odds, she’d succeeded. Her investigative reports had righted wrongs that had been ignored by decent folk smug in their comfortable homes. Her exposés had met with smashing success. Even if her readers could never know that she was the reporter behind the byline.
    Of course, Mama and Papa had worried so. Especially in the early days, when she was naïve and far too trusting. But Campbell had guided her. Protective as an older brother, he was. At times, that inclination of his to guard her seemed yet another obstacle. But she treasured the fact that beneath his gruff manner, he’d been a true mentor. Above all, he knew her capabilities. Her intellect. And he’d shown her a rare, ungrudging respect.
    Her mind’s wanderings conjured a renewed longing for the place she’d loved for so many years. She’d soon return home for a visit, after she’d seen justice for Mary. For now, she had only her memories of Larkspur Manor to comfort her.
    Staring up at the rows of curtained windows, she dashed off a silent plea to heaven that she’d make it to her room without catching the owner’s attention. Mrs. O’Brien fed her appetite for tasty bits and pieces of gossip with ravenous gusto, all in the name of keeping a protective eye on the women who roomed in her building. No point adding to the crafty widow’s abundant larder of scandalous tidbits.
    Pressing gently against the unlatched door, Jennie slipped inside and made it to the second floor landing. Hinges in desperate need of oiling screeched as a door at the far end of the corridor opened.
    Drat!
    A wraith of a woman in a lemon yellow dress stood with arms akimbo. Mrs. O’Brien’s sharp gaze darted over Jennie. Peculiar, how very much the matron resembled the budgie she kept caged in her parlor.
    Jennie forced a smile. There was no avoiding the woman now. Best to get it over with.
    “Busy as always, Mrs. O’Brien?”
    “There’s always work t’ be done. That no-good Polly Fletcher left a room full o’filth behind. An utter disgrace, I tell ye.”
    “How unfair that you’re left to clean up her mess.”
    The older woman’s eyes narrowed to pinpricks. “I always knew that girl was trouble. Out with a new gentleman each night. Some of ’em married, too.”
    “Why did she leave?”
    “One of ’er admirers arranged a flat nearer to ’is residence. She likes t’pretend she’s all ’igh and mighty.” Mrs. O’Brien snorted under her breath. “Nothin’ but a pox-ridden strumpet, I tell you.”
    “Well, in that case, good riddance. You’ve no need for her kind.”
    “’Tis a wonder all the hairs on my head haven’t gone white as snow, worryin’ over you girls like I do.” Mrs. O’Brien patted the salt-and-pepper strands she’d piled in a messy bun for emphasis. “Could be worse, I s’pose. My Bert provided for me when ’e bought this house. Mr. O’Brien always was clever. He was a good man, in ’is way. That’s what ye need, my dear. A good man.”
    “A good man is exceedingly rare these days.”
    The matron waved away Jennie’s words with a bony hand. “Poppycock. Men ’ave always ’ad their wicked ways. It’s a woman’s job to lead ’em from their lustful urges.”
    Jennie toyed with the lace on her sleeve. Her encounter with Matthew Colton had confirmed she harbored no desire for a man without lustful urges. Evidently, she’d grown a bit wicked herself. “A tall order, indeed.”
    “I pray ye