“Have you seen enough of the Hall of Kings?” he asked her.
“I would dearly like to see The Chamber of Horrors,” she said. “After all, you paid an extra six pence for the privilege, did you not?”
He was surprised, she had noticed, but he ought not to have been. Hazel was an observer. She studied the world and people around her, constantly absorbing and learning. What she saw, she used to her advantage, whether in private, or in the midst of an investigation.
“I did,” he acknowledged. “Though I was not certain you would wish to enter a chamber bearing such a grim designation.”
“That is theonlyreason I wish to enter.” She paused, appearing to think better of her response, before continuing, “Well, that and the prospect of seeing Napoleon’s traveling carriage. Of course, there is also the guillotine. Is it true that it is an actual, working guillotine, used during the French revolution?”
Yes, he decided, he had certainly made the right decision in bringing Hazel here. She was not the sort of woman who could be contained in a drawing room, or content to dance the quadrille. She was the sort of woman who thrilled at the prospect of walking into a chamber hung in black, notorious for its macabre collection.
“There is only one way to truly tell,” he said. “After you, Miss Montgomery.”
Weary after aday of investigations, followed by their impromptu trip to Madame Tussaud’s, Hazel crossed the threshold of her guest chamber at Lark House on a contented yawn. Her evening with Lucien had been surprising. His desire to please her with the visit even more so.
His words returned to her now, making her smile anew.I admire you greatly, Hazel.
She knew the feeling all too well. Because not only did she admire Lucien, but she was beginning to fear she was losing her heart to him. It had happened gradually at first, spurred by his nearness, his kisses and caresses. But this evening, there had been something indefinable in the air. A current of knowledge that what was between them had changed.
Still, she was not prepared for that change. It frightened her, for she knew, regardless of how she felt for him, there could never be a permanent place in his life for someone like her. He had not broached the topic of his proposal again, and she was grateful for it. But he had certainly played the role of suitor well, charming her, making her laugh, escorting her about as if she were a queen on his arm.
She would remember this night and cherish it forever. She would—
Someone had been inside her chamber.
The realization interrupted the wayward bent of her musings. She knew it to her marrow. Years as a seasoned Pinkerton had taught her to have a heightened cognizance of her surroundings. But it was not just the instincts honed as an agent. Her mind liked order. She preferred organization. A clear scheme at all times.
Her writing surface, for instance. Wherever she was, regardless of the case she was investigating, she kept her journal on the left side of her desk, the ink at the right. Newspapers and other resources were stacked tidily at the top, leaving her writing space open and clean.
The disorganization on the writing desk in her guest chamber stood out first. She strode toward it, the hackles on her neck rising. To an impartial observer, nothing would appear out of order on the immaculately polished surface of the burled walnut desk. But her journal—the gift from Lucien with the handsome, creamy pages upon which she had yet to write a single word—was in the center of her desk. The newspapers depicting descriptions of the railway explosions were on the left. Her pen and ink were two inches out of place.
Someone had been shuffling through her personal effects.
The detective in her spun with questions. All the earlier merriment of the evening fled her. Icy fingers of dread gripped her gut. Who? Why? How?
And, most importantly, what else had that someone been doing?
Carefully, Hazel began a search of the chamber. Her garments were still hung with neat precision in the massive wardrobe. A peek into the adjoining bathroom revealed nothing untoward. Her soaps were laid out, a stack of clean towels awaiting her use.
Whoever had been within her chamber, their purpose had been clear. None of her personal items—not her sparse jewelry collection, not her brush and hairpins, not her stockings and shoes—had been moved or touched. The travel-battered carpetbag she had been carrying with her for years rose to her mind then. Although she had given the bulk of her notes to Lucien, there remained some important information contained within it still. Journals, notes on Emerald Club members, snippets of conversations she had overheard, newspaper clippings, a handful of telegrams she had managed to pilfer, amongst other pertinent documents.
She always kept the satchel beneath her bed, wherever she traveled. Out of the way, not immediately visible to others. Safe. Dread swirling in her gut, she dropped to her knees. In the low light of the gas lamp, she could not readily see through the murk beneath the bed hangings. Blindly, she groped, reaching forward, until her hand connected with an object.
But it was decidedly not the object she had been seeking. Nor was it an object that felt familiar. Her fingertips struck something hard. Wooden, she thought, and not finely fashioned either. Not polished, but rough. A box.
No, she realized as she slid the item from beneath her bed in dawning horror.Good, sweet Lord in heaven.Not a box at all. Her carpetbag had been stolen, and in its place, someone had left a bomb. She had to warn the household. Had to get to Lucien.
Heart pounding, she raced from her chamber and ran down the hall to find him.
Chapter Sixteen
“It is fortunateindeed, Miss Montgomery, that you discovered the device when you did,” announced Colonel Olden, the Home Office Chief Inspector of Explosives. “You had but an hour to spare before detonation.”
An hour.
Fucking hell.
A flurry of Scotland Yard investigators and Special League agents had combed Lark House in search of the villain responsible for the device Hazel had found beneath her bed, and for the possible existence of additional bombs. Their exhaustive explorations had turned up nothing, and no one.
