The Suspect's Daughter (35 page)

But could he truly recognize genuine love? He’d thought he’d found it in the past, but that was a convincing counterfeit. And since then, he’d become the most unlovable person he knew. Was what he saw in Jocelyn’s eyes the real thing?

He thought back. His brothers all seemed happy, married to surprisingly decent women. Each couple freely exchanged loving glances that certainly mirrored what he’d seen in Jocelyn’s expression. And it bore little resemblance to the false adoration, the feigned passion Isabel had poured on him. The idea that a good woman, a woman like Jocelyn, would love a closed up lout like him was almost laughable. But it had been there last night, and at other times. He recalled her arms wrapped around him as he poured out his grief. He’d felt safe. Truly safe. With Jocelyn.

Could he accept her offering? Did he dare hand her his heart and trust that she’d keep it safe?

He was too broken to make a woman happy. She’d soon see how little he had to offer and give up on him.

Although, she had backbone. She’d proven herself calm under pressure and met every challenge face on, all with that dignity and composure he’d come to associate with her. And that smile. Cheeky wench. She certainly took delight in teasing him.

A life with her taunted him, a tantalizing dream. He visualized waking up with her in his arms, basking in her smiles across the table, sharing his thoughts with her, listening to her animated voice as she spoke of fairies and elves. He would certainly spend fewer nights creeping about London in search of a fight if she were waiting for him. She seemed to view him as a rogue Runner, a defender of the law, a protector of peace. But really all he wanted was an escape from his own loneliness and misery.

Perhaps he’d sought that escape in the wrong places.

Jackson arrived, grinning. “I thought I smelled food.”

Grant gestured. “Take a seat. I have a cook now. She made enough for three.”

“A cook, huh?”

“Eating all my meals at taverns lost its appeal.”

“I can see that.” Jackson made short work of the remaining food.

Sipping black coffee from a cup he didn’t know he owned, Grant let him eat, then asked, “Is there any special reason you’re here?”

Jackson grinned and polished off a sausage. “Besides your charming company? Barnes wants to see us.”

Clark appeared and said with more formality than usual, “There’s a footman all dressed up in livery here. He delivered this and is waiting for a reply. If you are available, the person who sent this is waiting outside to speak with you.”

He handed Grant a creased and folded piece of stationery sealed with wax but bearing no seal, with his name written on it in a decidedly feminine hand with neat, even letters. The faint scent of flowers and vanilla wafted from it.

Jackson stared in rapt attention. “That smells like the perfume Miss Fairley wears.”

Grant resisted the urge to leap at Jackson’s throat. “How would you know?”

Jackson held out his hands in surrender. “I have spent a little time in her company. From a very respectful distance.”

Grant scowled at him and turned his attention back to the note but not before he caught a brief flash of amusement crossing Jackson’s features. Upon breaking the seal, Grant read the note. She’d signed it “friend.” Were they friends? Could he view her as a friend? Trust her as a friend? She’d certainly supported him last night as a friend. But he wanted to do things with her that went far beyond a platonic relationship.

Returning his focus to matters at hand, he read her note a second time.

“She’s reminding me of a conversation she overheard at the house party. Emma couldn’t have been the only one there involved in the plot.”

Jackson asked Clark, “She’s waiting outside?”

The boy nodded. Grant and Jackson rose and followed the footman to a carriage waiting in front of the main door. Two figures sat inside. Wasn’t that the carriage belonging to her aunt? Bonnet-framed faces peered out of the windows. Jocelyn and her aunt, Mrs. Shaw, waited.

Pleasure drummed his heart at the very sight of Jocelyn’s face. She was beautiful in a serene, wholesome way, so unlike the mysterious seductiveness of Isabel. He squelched his admiration of her sweet beauty and the light that emanated from her. Ruthlessly, he suffocated the way she’d curved into his back and held him while he unmanned himself with memories of false love and betrayal. And he shut off all memories of her wearing only a dressing robe over a shift, her sash tied at her natural waist to show off her voluptuous curves, her golden hair spilling down her shoulders and back, the way the ends had brushed against her swaying hips as she led the way upstairs. He most especially refused to recall her calm and wisdom during events that would have sent other females into hysterics.

He swore and mastered his thoughts more completely. The case. She wanted to discuss who was in on the plot to assassinate the prime minister and cabinet. There. That helped.

A footman opened the door for them. As Grant got in and slid over to make room for Jackson, he glanced at both of the occupants.

Jocelyn spoke, “My aunt knows everything, as of a moment ago, so you can speak freely.”

Grant stumbled over the fact that Jocelyn had revealed the conspiracy, but she’d probably needed to tell her aunt something to win her cooperation today. And it wasn’t exactly a secret from the Fairley family any more. Looking discomfited, Jackson sat next to Grant.

Mrs. Shaw eyed Grant with new light and not a little suspicion. She probably thought he had pretended to court Jocelyn in order to investigate her father. But even he wasn’t that ruthless. He would never sink to Isabel’s level.

He turned his attention to Jocelyn. Her eyes fixed trustingly on him. Trust. She trusted him.

Did he deserve her trust?

Could he trust her?

“Here is everything I remember.” Jocelyn’s gaze darted from Grant to Jackson and back again. “It was late and I was ascending the main staircase in the hall. I heard two low voices, male, but very soft, speaking. One said, something about the prime minister. The other said, ‘Sacrifices must be made, but I don’t like your plan.’ And then something about innocent men being destroyed.”

Grant sifted through her words, searching for a deeper meaning but couldn’t find any. “What were the names of all the guests?”

She recited several names, most matching his memory. During the interchange, Mrs. Shaw remained quiet, watching them as if she viewed a diverting stage performance.

When Jocelyn had finished naming the guests, Jackson shook his head. “None of those were names Emma White said were part of the conspirators. But she might not know everyone involved.”

“Or they might not be leaders, just others who are helping,” Grant mused. He turned his attention to Jocelyn. “Everyone else involved so far were of the working class. Could the men you overheard have been servants?”

She tried to recall their words, their voices, but only ghostly threads remained. “No, I don’t think so. Their accents seemed too refined.”

“Gentlemen, then.”

“I believe so.”

He glanced at Mrs. Shaw and then leaned forward to get closer to Jocelyn, searching for signs of distress in her expression. “Do you feel you are in danger?”

Serene blue eyes fixed on him. “No, only now I don’t know who to trust. That’s why I decided to deliver this message in person.”

Grant nodded. “I’ll ask Emma White if she knows who they are.”

“Will she tell you, do you think?”

He smiled grimly. “She’s proven surprisingly cooperative, once she learned her lover was just using her.”

“No,” Jocelyn gasped in true distress. “She was certain he loved her so much.”

Quietly, he said, “She was. But he didn’t.”

Her brow furrowed and she stared downward, then met his gaze, searching his face for …what? She already knew the ugly truth of his past.

Her uncertainty and the almost desperate way she looked at him tugged at his heart. His heart. The heart that had slowly clawed back up to her light, like a ghoul escaping a grave and seeking a new life. Could his heart—could he—truly have a new life? With her?

She opened her mouth to utter some apparently burning question, but stopped, casting a glance at her aunt and Jackson. Jocelyn’s brows drew together and she twisted her gloved hands in her lap.

Against his better judgment, he touched her hand. “If I learn of anything, I’ll let you know. But for now I think you’re safe assuming your servants are loyal.”

“I want to go with you to talk to Emma.”

“No. Out of the question.”

“She might talk to me. Please.” She turned her hands over and squeezed his.

“I don’t think she will; she has a healthy resentment for people of your class.”

“As the son of an earl, you technically outrank me,” she reminded him.

“Not if you consider the company I usually keep.”

“I resent that,” Jackson said, but his eyes glittered with humor.

Grant tried again. “She’s only helping us because we’ve offered her a deal, and it suits her sense of revenge.” He softened his voice. “Go home where you’re safe. We’ll take care of it. By this time tomorrow, it will all be over and the threat to the prime minister and his cabinet will be averted.”

She squeezed his hands more tightly, her eyes pleading. “Please be careful. I would be heartbroken if you got hurt.” Sincerity emanated from every word. She truly meant it.

Heartbroken. Over him. He’d given her so little, and yet, somehow, inexplicably, she cared for him. Perhaps even…loved him. He met her gaze but didn’t have to search deeply to find the truth in her eyes. She loved him. She truly loved him—a genuine love, not the counterfeit that had nearly destroyed his body and his heart and his soul—until Jocelyn breathed healing life into him. Did he dare accept her gift?

He offered her a faint smile and touched her cheek. “Friend?”

She gave a sad half-laugh. “Friend.”

He and Jackson got out of Mrs. Shaw’s carriage and watched it roll away until it disappeared in the maze of London’s streets. A renewed reason to keep England safe seized Grant—not to feed his hunger for action or for a misplaced revenge against criminals who broke the law and preyed on the innocent—to keep Jocelyn and her family safe.

“She’s worth it,” Jackson said softly.

Grant studied Jackson’s face.

A new intensity appeared in the Runner’s gaze. Jackson pointed his chin in the direction of the coach. “She’s worth giving up your freedom, your bachelorhood. I trust her. You should, too.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jackson headed in the direction of the Bow Street Office.

Grant stood rooted to the sidewalk as Jackson’s words echoed in his ears.
Worth it. Trust.

Perhaps.

But for now, he had a task and it wasn’t to agonize over whether or not he had a future with Jocelyn Fairley. He caught up to Jackson and they strode to Bow Street, each lost in private thoughts.

The Bow Street Magistrate’s office was abuzz with Runners coming and going. Grant and Jackson found Barnes in his private office in the corner of the building. He ushered them in and closed the door to his private office.

Without preamble, Barnes spoke. “The prime minister and his cabinet are having dinner Lord Tierney’s home at seven o’clock. The Secret Service has replaced most of the staff. They’ll privately evacuate the cabinet after they arrive. When gunmen storm the place, agents will act.”

Grant shifted. “If the service doesn’t take prisoners, we may not learn who are all the members of this Freedom Fighters group, and they may plan another strike.”

“I am well aware of that. I’ve been leaning on Carter but he still won’t talk. I have Runners searching for the others Emma White named, but we haven’t located them yet.”

“What do you want us to do?” Jackson asked.

“Climb a roof. I’m having all the Runners patrol the area but I need sharpshooters to take up positions on nearby rooftops and keep watch. Maybe you’ll see something the others miss.”

Grant eyed him. “What do you suspect?”

Barnes shook his head and made a circle with his hand. “Something about all this feels off; we’re missing something. And Carter mentioned something bigger in the works.” He let out a grunt of frustration and shook his head. “Keep your eyes open. A plan of this scale wouldn’t rely on a few men with guns.”

Once they’d completed reviewing their plans in detail, Grant loaded and checked his most accurate rifle and went to his assigned rooftop to keep watch. In addition to whatever might have set off Barnes’s instincts, Grant would also take out any targets that fled the building after the agents arrested the anarchists.

But the rooftop was already occupied by another gunner. The other man wore the coarse clothing of a fishmonger and had a long, red mustache and mutton chops. Clutching his rifle, he paced along the edge of the building, unaware of Grant.

If the gunman were on the roof instead of inside the building, then the Runners’ plan had a major flaw that would get everyone killed. What, then? Did they plan to set fire to the house and shoot people who ran out?

Falling into a crouch, Grant crept to the other man and hefted his gun. He called out, “Let me guess, you’re a Freedom Fighter.”

With a cry of surprise, the gunman turned. His craggy face revealed years of exposure to sun and wind.

“Don’t move,” Grant said, his rifle poised.

The ginger-haired man froze.

“What are your orders? Shoot people as they run out of a burning building?”

The other man, who smelled strongly of fish, clutched his gun with blackened fingers. He clamped his mouth shut.

Grant cocked his rifle. “Answer me or I’ll shoot.”

The man swallowed, saying nothing.

Words the anarchists spoke came back to him.
Something bigger. A weapon
. Setting fire to building wouldn’t be considered a weapon. Horror crept over Grant. Not fire. An explosive?

“Are they setting off a flash powder explosive?”

The gunman’s expression turned to surprise and Grant could almost hear him ask,
How did you know?

Instead, the other man hefted his gun and pointed the barrel at Grant. As the man’s fingers squeezed the trigger, Grant fired. The other man crumpled onto the rooftop. Grant ran back down the way he’d come up.