A Promise of Scandal (Middleton Book 3) Page 2

  A more significant point of concern and the reason Home Office stepped in and appointed Derek and James to find the man, was Walker, the bold bastard, had recently started to threaten mutiny to the members of the House of Commons.

  James had to hand it to the man, he had a big set of balls.

  And he was as slippery as an eel.

  “Do you know under what name Walker is supposedly hiding behind?” James asked.

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here.”

  James raised a thick brow. “Prickly, are you?”

  “This entire affair is a pain in my ass.”

  On that, they were in agreement. “A dubious lead is better than no lead, I suppose.” James sat back in his chair. “Who is the source?”

  Derek sighed again. “An unknown missive sent to Bow Street.”

  James cursed. “It’s a waste of bloody time.”

  “Normally, I would agree. The tone of the message, however, gave me pause.”

  “The source is not valid. This could be a trap. Or smoke. Why do you think this is Walker?”

  Derek fished the note from his pocket and slid it across the table to James, who snatched up the small piece of paper and read its contents out loud.

  “Dear Officers of Bow Street, I have reason to suspect a sinister plot is stirring behind the walls of the Regent Theatre. A certain Mr. Jennings and an unknown employee of this theatre were overheard by this author discussing the details of an imminent riot on what they referred to as HC. Please investigate.”

  “Signed, a concerned citizen,” Derek finished.

  Derek had been right; there was something about the tone of the message that gave James pause too. Also, they already knew a riot was imminent, and whoever penned this note explicitly stated the word. It was too much of a coincidence. Perhaps too much.

  James looked up at his brother. “Well hell.”

  “My sentiment exactly.” Derek’s eyes darkened. “Dated four days ago.”

  “Why the devil did it take so long before this reached us? Parliament could have burned down twice by now.”

  “Crossed channels,” Derek said darkly. “The missive almost did not reach us at all. By chance it crossed Hunt’s desk.”

  James cursed. Marcus Hunt was a trusted friend and one of the few men privy to their dealings for the Office.

  James studied the missive again. “It’s a woman’s scrawl,” he noted.

  Derek nodded. “HC could stand for House of Commons.”

  James had picked up on that as well. He slid the missive back to his brother. It was the only lead they had. And by the looks of it, a fair chance this was their man. But in all James’s years working for the Crown, he had learned to be suspicious of information falling into his lap without lifting a single finger.

  And neither James nor Derek had lifted a bloody finger.

  Could they just have gotten lucky?

  Except James did not believe in luck. He believed in working for results—usually by lifting every damn finger.

  “What’s the plan?” James asked his brother, reaching for his coffee, which had all but turned cold.

  “The author’s testimony will be valuable to this case. You will infiltrate the theatre, locate Mr. Jennings and whoever wrote the note. Find them and, hopefully, we find Walker. Stop the riot. Carry on with our lives.”

  “Good plan.”

  Derek regarded James over the rim of his cup. “I’ve already found a way in for you.”

  “So long as I’m not a playwright.”

  “What is wrong with being a playwright?”

  “You be a playwright and then ask that question.”

  “I don’t have the patience or the charm.”

  “A playwright needs neither.” James split into a grin. “He merely needs to grunt. Something you are quite accomplished at.”

  Derek ignored him, setting down his coffee. “I’ve reached out to the theatre. They are not employing any new staff but they are open for an investor. Seems one of their patrons withdrew their interest.”

  “I wonder how that came about,” James drawled.

  “I have no idea,” Derek answered, blinking innocently. “He might have received a better investment opportunity.”

  “Right,” James said. “Shouldn’t be too hard to ferret out two mice with a bit of cheese.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Walker could be taking a piss on our intelligence,” James pointed out. “This could be a trap.”

  “Or a distraction,” Derek conceded. “I have men watching every inch of this city. The moment anyone stirs, I will know.”

  “The moment they stir it will be too late.”

  “Let us pray it does not come to that.”

  James sighed. He would be the first to admit there were times he hated his job. Crawling through piss-ridden gutters and getting chased down the street by drunken harlots took its toll on a man. And sneaking through the burrows of a theatre surrounded by actors and actresses, searching for clues about Walker? He’d rather eat dirt. He preferred the high chase, guns blazing and swords drawn.

  But not all cases were the same.

  In the end, action-filled or not, what mattered was saving lives. That was why no matter how tedious a case became or how much a chase took its toll, the sense of pride and accomplishment when they caught the villain made every minute of hell worth it.

  “You ever feel you are getting too old for this spy business?” James asked his brother.

  “I am not a spy.”

  “Agent of the crown, then.”

  “Not that either.”

  James scowled. “You are not a journalist, Derek. Field operator. Working for the Crown. Same thing. Do you ever think we’re getting too old?”

  “You feel old?”

  “Only when my joints crack in the morning as I get out of bed.”

  Derek arched a brow. “What would you do if you retired?”

  “Haven’t thought about life after this.”

  “You’d return to the field within a week,” Derek predicted.

  James grunted. Maybe. Maybe not. He would be bored to tears within days. That did not mean he had to chase criminals down Piccadilly in the dead of night. There were other things he could do with his time.

  James just wasn’t sure what. He also wasn’t sure why the hell his brain had traveled so far beyond the topics of conversation that he was usually comfortable with.

  An unbidden image of a woman trespassed in his mind. Blond. Deep ocean eyes. Pert little nose. He shook his head and forced her back into the mental box she had slipped out of labeled Off Limits. It was a box dedicated to all the things that distracted James from his cases. Sometimes, like with her, it even made him doubt the course he had chosen for his life.

  He slammed and sealed the lid shut.

  “I received word from our solicitor.”

  James glanced at Derek. “About?”

  His brother’s jaw firmed a fraction before he said, “Aunt Madeline.”

  “Bloody hell. What about her?”

  “She’s returning to London.”

  James cursed. Madeline Shaw, sister to the late Duke of Wolverton, had run off to Russia after the duke had committed suicide mere hours after discovering his wife, James’s mother, had taken her own life. She had abandoned James and Derek to face the speculation and scandal alone. They had only been seventeen at the time.

  Fortunately, with the help of their father’s man of affairs and solicitor, they had created a new life for themselves, one away from the rumors and gossip their parents had brought on them by their selfishness.

  James dismissed the painful memories that rattled the box—this one labeled Taboo—he had shoved them into fifteen years ago.

  “What the hell does that have to do with us?” James demanded.

  “She seeks an audience.”

  “No.” Absolutely not.

  In light of their family devastation, James and Derek had shed the skin of th
eir former life and all that came with it. The sacrifice hadn’t been all that hard since they had not fully entered society back then. After their aunt left, they never did. Now, after fifteen years of absence, the title of Wolverton had grown into a myth. They were simply known as Derek and James Shaw. The Shaw Brothers. Rich. Mysterious. Tolerated.

  No one recognized them as heir and spare of Wolverton. Not even their Eton classmates. But then, they’d filled out since then. Had become harder. Meaner. And they’d made sure that there was nothing to link them to a former, pampered life.

  “I thought you’d say that,” Derek answered.

  “Didn’t she marry a Count? Lexivich Demi-something.”

  “Count Alexandrovich Nikita Demikov. He recently passed away. Bad heart, I’m told.”

  “Christ, our family is cursed.”

  “They had two sons,” Derek continued. “Twins. One perished at birth, the other is strong and healthy.”

  James swore beneath his breath.

  “I see you understand.”

  “This changes matters,” James said. “We swore to end the family line with us. If Madeline has a son, he stands to inherit your title.”

  “I bloody well understand what it means.”

  “A half-Brit half-Russian Wolverton. That ought to have society ablaze with titters.”

  James chuckled at his brother’s glare. “Well, I cannot say I’m all that surprised. Madeline was bound to birth offspring in her marriage. I just never quite thought about what would happen if her child was a boy.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “You could always reenter society. Take a wife,” James suggested, gauging his brother’s answer by the slight twitch of his left eye. He loathed the idea.

  “Not happening,” Derek confirmed.

  “Society or the wife?” James teased.

  “Both.”

  James nodded. Too much time had passed. They were content with their lives. No need for that to change. No need to reach beyond what they had made of themselves. Neither of them would be happy living a life driven by leisure.

  But . . .

  “If Madeline is returning from Russia, the truth may come to light,” James pointed out.

  “She has not seen us in fifteen years.”

  “She will put the pieces together.”

  “I’ll handle Madeline.”

  “Meaning you will present her with your stoniest look and expect her to fall into line?”

  Derek said nothing.

  “You really are planning to meet with her. Do you think it’s wise to rip open old wounds?”

  “She already ripped it open by reaching out.” Derek rubbed his temples. “I do not plan to meet with her in any official fashion. I’ll communicate through our solicitor.”

  “She won’t accept that. Not while Shaw blood runs through her veins.”

  “That’s not my problem. We will see what she wants and then go from there.”

  James nodded. The matter appeared to weigh heavily on his brother’s mind. His too. He felt the same as Derek. It bothered him—the sudden return of their aunt. She was an uncertain variable. And James didn’t trust anything he was uncertain about.

  “Very well, in the meanwhile, I will investigate the lead,” James said, tapping his finger on the note. Locate Jennings and find the author. Elementary. “But if it turns out to be nothing more than a dancer setting her lover up for revenge, you will be picking up my tab at Boodle’s for the next quarter.”

  That earned James a twitch of the lips.

  “Agreed.”

  Chapter 3

  A lady ought never to be caught in a compromising position.

  Such were the words Poppy had read in the Times two days past on the subject of scandal.

  Understandable, Poppy had mused at the time, though it was an ancient dictum assessed a bit too high in her opinion. Because what if an imperiling set of circumstances could not be helped? Did the Times know anything about being a lady? A woman.

  Poppy thought not. Else they would not have published such an outlandish statement even though dozens of mamas and countless of papas must have nodded sanctimoniously at reading that one line.

  The rule, if it could be called such, was indeed a complicated one. But one, Poppy surmised that was turned over by many a woman in the current age.

  The paper did have one detail right.

  Never be caught.

  Poppy inhaled a deep, fortifying breath as she stared up at the imposing three-story structure that composed the Regent Theatre.

  As of that very moment, she was no longer Poppy Middleton but Charlotte Rose.

  Actress. Rising star. A complete mystery.

  In danger. Maybe.

  Poppy tugged at her skirts.

  This certainly counted as a damaging set of circumstances.

  But circumstances that could not be helped. Poppy refused to abandon her friend in her time of need. Her mission was simple: find Elliot Jennings, observe with who he interacted daily, and, when the time was right, retrieve Beatrix’s necklace. Elementary.

  She pushed through the back entrance of the theatre and found herself amazed.

  The building was alive with chatter, people acting out their parts in the hallway, and somewhere loud, dramatic cords of a piano were being struck. No one took note of her, too involved in their own world of make-believe and stagecraft.

  Beatrix must have done an excellent job in refashioning her, Poppy mused with smug satisfaction.

  They had stayed up all night, both dressing up as Charlotte and working to disguise what seemed most out of place until almost no difference could be detected at first glance. Almost. To the perceptive eye, small nuances such as the curve of their noses might be easily detectable. But Poppy was confident her theory would hold. People rarely noticed those little things, too distracted with themselves.

  Still, best not to tempt fate. She would steer clear of the theatre manager, Mr. Florence, and the owner, Sullivan Marks, as best she could.

  A thrill shot up Poppy’s spine as she made her way in the direction of Beatrix’s dressing room. Beatrix had explained the directions quite thoroughly—straight down the hallway, up the flight of stairs on her right, fourth door to her left.

  Poppy reached the winding stairwell at the same time as the swift clashing of swords drew her attention away. Curious, she followed the sound to a set of doors that led to a side entrance of the stage.

  The Regent Theatre was no Drury Lane, but spacious and warm in its own right with a seating capacity of one thousand. Gold Corinthian columns, each framing a statue on a pedestal lined the walls, and two galleries and tiers of boxes swathed the auditorium in velvet grandeur.

  Two men were sparring on a slanted stage in a mesmerizing dance. The opponents lunged at each other with surefooted measure—attack and defend, attack and defend. It was hard to tell who had the upper hand between them; both men were equally swift and agile.

  One of the men had dark hair, a robust figure with strong, handsome features.

  “You are off your game today, Eli,” he said to his opponent with a forward thrust of his blade.

  Eli? As in Elliot Jennings? Poppy studied the man carefully. She watched as he shrugged out of his jacket and carelessly tossed it aside before taking his position again. He matched the description Beatrix had given her, though he hardly appeared the dangerous sort. Soft sandy hair framed his face, and his eyes danced along with his feet as he sparred.

  His opponent laughed. “A late night on the town, Marks?”

  As in Sullivan Marks? The owner? Poppy had heard many stories about him. To Beatrix, the man was a genius.

  “Miss Rose,” a voice called out from the left-wing of the stage. Startled, Poppy’s gaze flicked to two men she hadn’t noticed watching the match.

  They started over to her.

  This was not good.

  The man leading the way was tall and lanky. From his receding hairline and general demeanor, Poppy gues
sed him to be Mr. Florence—unless there was another man of a matching description that Beatrix had failed to mention. Not good at all.

  Her gaze swept over to the man trailing after Mr. Florence. She had no idea who he—Poppy stifled a gasp as a set of deep, cerulean eyes fell on her.

  Her heart turned over.

  The man was tall, over a head taller than Mr. Florence, and his assessing gaze traveled over her with interest. His stride bled confidence even as his sharp, angular features held a discernable note of boredom. A strand of auburn hair fell across his brow, and Poppy’s fingers itched to brush it back. His impossibly broad shoulders, clad in crisp attire, snagged her attention even as her eyes trailed the line of his dark trousers molding to his long, powerful legs.

  Her eyes returned to his gaze, still on her.

  No.

  No. No. No.

  This could not be happening.

  He was here.

  James Shaw.

  In the flesh.

  Which meant only one thing: Beatrix’s message had been received. Shaw must be here on behalf of Bow Street. And if he was here, it meant whatever Beatrix had overheard was more dangerous than they first imagined.

  Her heartbeat stuttered.

  This was the worst possible scenario. Shaw knew Poppy. They had been introduced just over two years ago. More than that, this was the man who had saved Poppy’s life when she had been caught in a fire—the life-changing fire.

  Remain calm. He has no reason to suspect you.

  Poppy said nothing as the two men reached her. Fortunately, she didn’t have to utter a word. Mr. Florence, who shifted his gaze to Mr. Shaw every two seconds, launched into introductions.

  “Miss Rose,” he began. “This is Mr. Greenwich, our newest patron.”

  Is that so?

  Poppy narrowed her eyes on Mr. Greenwich.

  “Miss Rose is our theatre’s most promising star,” Mr. Florence announced before promptly coughing into his handkerchief. “A true talent.”