Chapter 37

37

"I want to know what you're playing at." Arms crossed, Harlowe stood before her as he'd done so often before – an authoritarian figure demanding effort, results, and compliance.

She planted one hand on her hip and sent him a glare of her own, not caring how annoyed she might look when the truth was she wanted to gut him. "You've always taught me to use every weapon at my disposal. And you told me when I began this mission to use my best judgement. That's what I'm doing."

He stared at her. "Explain."

She ought to insist on the same. He'd lied to her from the very beginning, crafting a pretty illusion of fatherly love, pretending she was more than a discarded mongrel whose only value had been her potential.

"Marsdale may be Croft's longtime friend, but he's also a staunch supporter of law and order. He could prove a valuable asset if I can convince him Croft is in danger. There's a chance he might offer up valuable information in order to help."

"In other words, you want to play the pair against each other."

"There's no telling what I'll be able to find once I gain access to Croft's home. Making Marsdale my ally will help."

"He certainly seemed quite smitten by you." Harlowe tapped his nails against the edge of his glass. The ringing sound jarred her nerves. "I'm surprised he'd risk Croft's wrath by daring to look your way, never mind engage in an open flirtation. Word will likely reach Croft's ears. Are you sure this isn't a test?"

"It's not."

"How do you know?"

There was no easy answer to this, none she could think of at that very moment. So she held herself completely still and spoke with as much conviction as she could muster. "I just do."

He held her gaze for what seemed an eternity before giving a slow shake of his head. "Not good enough. You'll not risk what you've already gained. Forget Marsdale and focus on Croft."

"Bu—"

"That's an order, Samantha."

It took every ounce of her training to fight her instinctual defiance, to stop from cursing him to damnation or flinging her blasted glass at his head. She nodded without even blinking and turned for the door.

"And since Croft has already taken his leave," Harlowe added before she could slip from his grasp, "there's no need for you to return to the ballroom. Get some rest. Lord knows you'll need it for what lies ahead."

The assignation she was supposed to have with Croft tomorrow. She'd not even mentioned it to him, had made no commitment regarding his offer, and would surely pay for it dearly if Harlowe found out she had other priorities.

She took a sharp breath, ignored the tension boiling within, and slipped from the room. Her only advantage right now was Harlowe's misplaced belief in her total compliance.

Moving swiftly, she walked to the stairs at the front of the house. It didn't take long to reach them or to make her way to the first-floor landing. Once there, she strode to the end of the hallway, past her bedchamber door, and straight to the service stairs.

A second to pause and listen, followed by a hasty decent. She opened the door at the end of the stairs, and exited into the hallway where Marsdale waited, directly behind the ballroom. A wooden screen had been placed there to block the view of the service entrance.

"We don't have much time," she whispered, closing the distance between them and sending a swift glance over her shoulder. "Harlowe doesn't believe you'd pursue me and risk falling out with Croft. He suspects I'm up to something."

Marsdale arched a brow. "He's not wrong. His reasoning is also cause for concern. If he doubts I'd seduce you, chances are the killer will too."

"I know." It was an angle she'd stupidly failed to consider, but not an impossible one to deal with. Provided she was willing to stake everything, including her freedom, on catching the bastard who slit women's throats for the pleasure of watching them bleed. "It's a risk we'll have to take."

She couldn't tell him what she had in mind. He'd walk away this second if he had an inkling.

Marsdale glanced at the screen. Doubt creased his brow. He was starting to question his resolve. It was evident in his posture, which was slacker now than when she'd arrived.

They didn't have time for this. Not with the chance of Harlowe insisting the servants notify him if they saw her. She had to act fast.

Her hand caught Marsdale's. "Croft is depending on you to see this through. If it goes wrong, then so be it. But if it goes right, his sister will be avenged. As will the rest of the victims."

Marsdale's jaw hardened. His gaze found hers with unforgiving resolve. Less than a second to breathe was all he gave her before he'd pinned her against the wall. He leaned in, anger and pain colliding in an expression filled with unspeakable loss.

"Damn Croft and damn you." The fury with which he spoke stilled the beats of her heart. It slashed at her with commanding force as his mouth found hers, his hands gripping her waist to hold her steady.

It was a kiss that would mark her forever, much in the way her first encounter with death had done. Nothing about it compared with what she and Adrian had recently shared. That had been a passionate declaration intended to cut through the clutter, expose their longings, and forge a stronger connection.

While leaving them both wanting more.

By contrast, this was a deep dive into an unexplored well of emotion, a purging of the soul and a desperate search for peace.

There was little doubt in Samantha's mind she'd be glad when it ended.

And yet, she could not forget her own part in it.

So she set her mind to unbuttoning Marsdale's jacket.

He pulled back, his breaths coming hard as he dropped his gaze to her fingers. "What are you doing?"

"Ensuring my absolute ruination." She tugged his shirt free, then pulled up the left side of her skirt, exposing the thigh where no blade would be found.

Marsdale stared at her. The swift shake of his head warned he was having a crisis of conscience. She grabbed his hand and forced it against her pliable flesh, holding it there even as he attempted to pull it away.

"Think of the woman you wish you were with in this moment." Curling her fingers into his lapel, she caught the fabric and drew him closer. "Kiss her ."

His mouth was on her again, trailing down the length of her neck, the words he murmured begging forgiveness.

Samantha threw her head back, made sure her hold on him was secure, then shifted position and leaned against the screen. The wood creaked and groaned beneath her weight. Somebody gasped and Samantha slid her gaze sideways to where a maid stood, her hand at her throat and her eyes impossibly wide.

"Now," Samantha hissed, hoping Marsdale would hear and prepare for the impact that followed as she used her strength to pull him with her. The force of the movement threw the wood screen completely off balance. She heard it snap as she slammed down onto the floor, crashing into the brightly lit ballroom and sending it into a frenzy.

A woman shrieked. Other guests gasped. The music came to an instant halt. Samantha blinked and focused on Marsdale. The earl, who'd landed beside her, his legs tangled with hers, had never looked more stunned.

A silent pause followed and then…

Heels clicking on marble approached. A pair of men's shoes came into view.

"Get up." Harlowe seethed.

Marsdale managed to push himself upright. He offered Samantha his hand and she took it, allowed him to help her stand. Ignoring Harlowe for a brief moment, she made a show of putting herself back in order – smoothing her skirts and tucking stray strands of hair back in place.

"My apologies," Marsdale said, his voice carrying loudly in the still room. "My intention was not to disrupt the festivities."

A male guest snorted. "No worries, Marsdale. Your intentions could not be much clearer."

Someone snickered.

"Too bad the screen was not made of sturdier stuff," another man shouted, his comment resulting in wild hoots of laughter.

Samantha finally looked at Harlowe, unsurprised to find his expression tight with rage. "It appears we got slightly carried away."

"You were supposed to have gone to bed." Every word Harlowe spoke was sharp enough to cut steel.

"As you can see," Samantha murmured, "I had more important matters to deal with."

"Isn't she being courted by Croft?" an elderly woman asked. It sounded like Lady Heathbrooke. "Where is he, by the way?"

"His whereabouts are inconsequential." The masculine voice that spoke carried vast amounts of authority. Even Harlowe turned to see who'd made the remark. The Duke of Eldridge stepped forward, his lean figure conveying both power and confidence. "The only question of interest is what happens next?"

"I…" Marsdale cleared his throat. He turned to Samantha, his green eyes holding an unspoken promise to follow her lead.

She raised her chin. "Nothing. The earl and I had a brief lapse in judgement. That is all."

The resulting murmurs were in disagreement.

Harlowe stepped right up to her. His hand caught her arm in a hold so tight she knew it would bruise.

"I don't know what you're playing at," he hissed, "but rest assured I will find out."

"Two angles. One goal. I told you that already."

"And I told you to abandon that plan."

"While I understand your anger, Harlowe," said Eldridge, "rough handling your charge doesn't paint you in a positive light."

"Release her," Marsdale told him with an added touch of firmness.

Harlowe loosened his hold and let his hand drop. He gave Marsdale a hard look. "You're a scoundrel. Had she been a gentleman's daughter, you'd never have done this. Not without making an offer of marriage."

Marsdale flinched but swiftly recovered. He straightened his spine and seemed to grow a few inches taller. Hands clenched with such force his knuckles turned white, he leaned toward Harlowe, a deadly gleam in his emerald-green eyes. "You forget yourself, sir."

Samantha clasped her hands together and prayed her next words wouldn't be a colossal mistake. "Has it not occurred to anyone yet that I might have a prior attachment?"

The room went entirely still, like a memory frozen in time.

She shrugged one shoulder, a careless gesture she hoped would incite the right person. "Croft proposed to me earlier this evening and I accepted. We're to be married."

* * *

The Mayfair Murderer, as he'd most recently been dubbed by the papers, considered the scene playing out before him. It was hard to believe Miss Carmichael could be so careless with Mr. Croft's feelings. Not that the man seemed the least bit sensitive, but he had looked fairly enamored with her this evening. He'd looked like he cared.

Which he probably did if he'd asked her to be his wife.

Yet here she was, throwing herself at his friend.

Outrage on Croft's behalf – that long-detested taste of betrayal – gripped him once more. It burned through his veins, sank its claws deep, and awakened his hunger.

She'd humiliated Croft this evening, had left a stain on his reputation. Whatever happened from this point onward, whether he cast her aside or not, that stain would remain. And yet, she seemed not to give it much thought, her blasé manner showing no sign of remorse.

There was no regret there, no sense of wrongdoing, just an almost callous degree of entitlement that was destined to touch Marsdale too. The poor fop would likely wind up at the wrong end of Croft's dueling pistols for this.

Shoving his hand in his pocket, the murderer stroked his thumb over the watch he kept there – a soothing exercise keeping his lethal compulsions in check. For the moment.

He studied the look of defiance on Miss Carmichael's face as she spoke with Harlowe, disgust turning his stomach to ice.

Women like her had no place in the world. They had to be snuffed from existence.

Although…

He paused to consider, his head tilting slightly while thinking through all the events leading up to this moment. Something wasn't quite right. It felt like a perfectly laid out mosaic with one single tile out of place.

Croft and Marsdale were friends. Croft had spent the better part of the evening showering Miss Carmichael with attention. No sooner had he departed than she'd begun flirting with Marsdale. Marsdale had always come across as the honorable sort – beyond reproach. It seemed unlikely of him to seduce the woman his friend was keen on.

And then of course there was the fact that Croft was intent on catching his sister's killer. He'd made no secret of it.

So maybe…just maybe…this was a trick intended to lure him out.

A far more plausible notion than anything else he'd witnessed these past ten minutes.

With a smirk, he proceeded to ponder his next move. If Croft was indeed attempting to trap him, caution would be required. To better assess the situation, he'd have to come up with a trap of his own.

By the time he arrived home later that evening, an idea was already taking shape. He took a seat at his desk and retrieved two pieces of foolscap, then proceeded to pen the first of two notes.