“Someone wanted to make sure he didn’t talk,” Campbell said.
“Obviously, whoever wanted him dead is close enough to know what’s going on,” Alex said.
“It is possible that the instruction came from afar,” Campbell said. “But it’s more likely that whoever ordered Rooney’s death is right here. In London.”
“We will position agents among the servers and musicians to be present at the ball tonight,” Jennie said. “I’ve received word that Sophie and Gavin will also be in attendance. She is eager to join the investigation.”
The word that Sophie Atherton Stanwyck and her husband would be present was both exciting and a shade troubling. Sophie was a dear friend and a skilled agent, while her husband, Sir Gavin Stanwyck, was a well-respected Egyptologist. Pity he and Benedict had previously clashed over Benedict’s tomb raiding.
She slanted him a glance. He appeared utterly nonplussed by the revelation. If he gave a fig that a man who’d often served as a rival in his race to an antiquity would be present in the same ballroom that night, his features did not show it.
“My, that is exciting news,” Alex said, perhaps none too convincingly. “I have not chatted with Stanwyck since the celebration following his knighthood.”
“Sophie is an extremely competent agent, and she’s quite adept at providing a distraction if the need arises.” Campbell rose to his full height, towering over Alex. The Scot was a formidable figure of a man, broad shouldered and powerfully built. Handsome, despite the ever-present scowl he wore like a mask.
“We’re confident her presence will be an asset,” Jennie went on.
“You will not be in danger,” Campbell said. “Try to be relaxed and natural, and interact in a conversational manner with Raymond Stockwell and his brother. We are convinced they may be linked to the deaths. But we cannot rule out the possibility that they are in danger.”
“Indeed, their lives may also be at risk.” Jennie’s tone grew solemn with concern. “A connection with Professor Stockwell appears to be the link between the persons indicated in Hamid’s message. What closer connection could there be than the professor’s own sons?”
Alex considered her sister’s words. If the men were in danger, they needed to know. This was not a sleuthing game. “Have they been informed of the potential threat?”
“Matthew took it upon himself to meet with them after Rooney’s attack. He took care to reveal as little as possible, while alerting the brothers to the fact that their safety might be at risk.”
“And if one of them is actually the cur responsible for the murders?” Benedict questioned. “Was it wise to inform them of the investigation?”
“Unfortunately, we saw little alternative,” Campbell explained, drumming his long fingers against the desk. “Given the circumstances, it would be unethical to withhold that information. If either of them is the scoundrel responsible for the killings, he should be getting nervous.”
“The brothers are aware that we have identified a common link between the deaths.” Jennie looked down at the document, hesitating for a heartbeat. “If one of them did indeed engineer the murders, he is aware that we have deduced the deaths were not accidents. If he is agitated, he may well reveal himself.”
“Then again, he may simply kill to protect himself.” Benedict’s eyes were steely and cold. “Once you have condemned so many to their graves, what is one more death?”
Chapter Seventeen
Since the moment he’d first caught a glimpse of Alexandra Quinn, Benedict had believed her the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. On that rather momentous occasion—in his memory, at least, though to the rest of the world, it had likely been the most mundane of days—she’d been sitting in her father’s study, her face nearly hidden by the book she was reading. As she’d lowered the volume, revealing her sparkling eyes, ginger-shaded brown hair, and perfect rosy mouth, the breath had rushed from his lungs. She’d been perfection—or as close to it as he was likely to find onterra firma.
Her hell-raising brother had made the introductions. Benedict was three years her senior, but Alex had exuded a maturity well beyond her seventeen years. He’d never believed all that fairy-tale rot about love at first sight, and truth be told, he would not have dubbed what he’d felt for Alexandra in those first few minutes aslove.Lust might have been more appropriate, but not entirely accurate. He’d felt a keen attraction from the first. There was no denying that. But more than anything, she’d intrigued him. The intelligence and curiosity in those golden brown eyes of hers drew him in, bewitching him as powerfully as an enchantress’s spell.
He’d wanted to learn everything about her. Her dreams. Her secrets. Her hidden desires.
Now, nearly a decade after that first meeting, she was a woman. Confident and radiantly lovely. She still had the power to take his breath away.
In an effort to avoid the appearance that Benedict and Alex had rekindled their love affair, Colton and his associates had arranged for them to travel to the ball in separate conveyances. Obviously, Colton realized Alexandra’s beauty might well work to their advantage if one or both of the brothers were drawn to her.
Arriving first, he’d stood on the periphery of the ballroom, making torturously dull conversation with some wealthy industrialist’s dough-faced son who fancied himself a patron of the arts. When the balding fop referred to Raymond Stockwell’s latest work as something akin to Shakespeare’s genius, it was all he could do to answer without a resounding laugh to punctuate his statement.
And then, Alexandra walked in.
Suddenly, he did not give a damn about the playwright’s supposed genius. Or lack of it, for that matter. It was all he could to do catch his breath.
God above, she was beautiful.
He was usually quite glib, a skill he’d cultivated since his days at Eton. He could talk his way out of a scrape or charm any collector into financing one of his expeditions. But suddenly, he could not think of a word other than that—beautiful.
Had she always been so lovely? Or had she grown into a woman who was confident and capable, a brilliant beauty who spoke with conviction and passion?
Her emerald silk gown sensuously draped her lush curves. The low-cut neckline emphasized deliciously rounded breasts that fit perfectly in his hands, while her bodice drew his eye to her slim waist. He could fit his hands around her middle, even without benefit of a corset. The all-too-tempting memory of holding her the night before kindled a heated desire. The hunger spread through every cell of his body. His cock hardened with unspoken need. Bloody good thing he’d selected a loosely tailored jacket for the evening.
