They reached the apartments bearing the placardNumber 7and paused. She cast a glance over her shoulder in the direction of the clerk and the main desk. They were decidedly out of sight.
“I have no intention of using my wiles, if indeed I possess any,” she countered wryly.
“You possess them.” His response was quick. “You most certainly possess them, Miss Montgomery.”
Before she could respond, or even mull over Arden’s assertion, a gentleman bearing a valise bustled around the corner and straight into their path. It happened so swiftly, none of them had the opportunity to stop before a collision ensued.
The man’s valise fell to the ground with a loud, unnatural thump. It landed with such force, it split open, and the contents of the case spilled out, all over the polished hall.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said, as he stooped to hastily stuff the contents of his valise back inside it. “I ought not to have been traveling without paying attention.”
His accent gave him away. He was American. Of that, she had no doubt. And although he was on the wrong floor, that meant nothing. He had seemingly been in the act of moving to another destination with haste.
“Nonsense,” Arden said easily, his tone congenial. “The fault is mine. I was determined that my wife ought to examine the apartments available here, for she found the last establishment sorely lacking.”
“Indeed.” The American was hunkered down, frantically stuffing the contents of his valise within it once more.
Hazel studied the papers and attempted to read every word she saw printed upon the pages. She spied a map of London. Innocuous enough in the possession of any traveler, but on an American, who seemed eager to escape after Fenian bombs had just exploded on the railways, it was damning indeed.
“Nonsense, sir.” Arden bent down as well, snagging some of the papers. “Allow me to help you.”
“No thank you!” the man protested, his tone vehement.Too vehement.
Before Hazel could even formulate another thought, the American stuffed a handful of his spilled belongings in his valise and abruptly broke into a run, sprinting for the lobby. Arden growled a curse.
“Wait here for me,” he bit out, then ran after the man.
Chapter Nine
If Arden thoughtHazel was going to remain where she was and simply await his return, he was mistaken. One suspicious American, hell-bent upon leaving the hotel in a hurry, meant there could be more. She wasted no time in finding the staircase leading to the second floor and took the steps as quickly as she could. When she reached the top, a quick scan of the placards led her to her quarry.
Room twelve.
She offered a quick knock on the door, and when there was no answer forthcoming, she tried the latch. It was unlocked. Casting a glance either way down the empty hall, she hesitated not a moment, before slipping inside.
The room was bathed in shadows and lit by a lone gas lamp. She made her way about the chamber, looking for any shred of evidence—newspapers, correspondence, books, maps—but the room was spartanly kept, and indeed, looked as if it had never even been inhabited.
Swiftly, she left the chamber, intent upon investigating number fourteen as well. But when she reached the hall, she discovered a man leaving that particular room, a hat worn low over his brow, and a portmanteau in hand.
“Sir,” she called out, belatedly recalling she had neglected to tuck her small pistol into her reticule before leaving for Winchelsea’s townhome.
The man’s head jerked up, and the luminaries in the hall cast light over his countenance. She barely suppressed her gasp of shock, for she knew the man staring back at her. She had served him at the Emerald Club in New York, when she had been disguised as Mrs. Mulligan.
Sean Flannery.
Although she had suspected the bombings this evening had been the products of the Emerald Club, seeing a member she knew so well, still rocked her.
“Have we met before, madam?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I do not recall ever having met you before, sir,” she lied, careful to mimic an English accent, clipped and precise. “Forgive my interruption. You seem to be going somewhere in haste. I was merely looking for an acquaintance of mine.”
“You were in my room,” said a deep voice behind her. “Why?”
The hackles on her neck rose as she slowly turned to face the man who had approached her from behind so soundlessly. Recognition hit her, along with a burst of dread. Thomas Mulroney, one of McKenna’s most trusted men.
And she saw recognition flare in his eyes as well, along with a dawning comprehension.Damnation, she had no means of defending herself, and she was in the untenable position of facing two men who had potentially just caused dozens of people to be injured, or worse.
“What are you doing here,Mrs. Mulligan?” Mulroney asked, steel in his voice.
