To Love a Scoundrel (2 page)

Chicago, Illinois

Spring 1876

Her favorite college professor once said she was well-suited for her chosen profession because a woman could rationalize anything. Including murder.

Jewel Flannery had cause to consider that professor's words often. As an outstanding employee of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, she had to rationalize her actions each time she took on a new case. This one was no different.

Jewel considered the possibility that this time she might have to shoot a man in the line of duty—a small-time counterfeiter at that—as she probed and twisted the stiletto in Matt Scottson's lock.

When it gave way, she took a quick glance up and down the hallway, then slipped into the hotel room and closed the door. After waiting and listening in the semidarkness for a moment, she was satisfied that she was alone. Jewel crossed the living room of the opulent suite and headed for the bedroom.

Carefully pushing the heavy oak door open, she followed a ribbon-thin path of light to the dresser. Her fingers trembling in anticipation of finding a link between Scottson and the bogus bills, Jewel reached for a nearby oil lamp and turned up the wick a notch.

A man's voice suddenly shattered the tension. "Don't scream."

Jewel stiffened against the walnut dresser. She heard the metallic click of a gun's hammer just before she felt the barrel being pressed into the soft hollow behind her ear.

"Now turn around," he ordered in a menacing whisper. "Nice and easy. No quick movements."

Jewel did a slow pirouette, burying the stiletto in the folds of her voluminous skirt as she turned. She raised her gaze to the owner of the voice.

Brent Sebastian Connors stared into her cool green eyes and sucked in his breath. Then he whispered another order. "You've got one minute to explain yourself. Unless you've got an engraved invitation to visit this bedroom, ma'am, you're in a heap of trouble."

Jewel studied him, but no recognition registered. She didn't know who he was or why he was in Scotty's room, but she did know that the stranger didn't belong in this hotel suite any more than she did. Slipping into a slightly modified version of the role she was playing, Jewel smiled. "You mean this isn't my room? How could I have made a silly mistake like that?"

He slid the pistol down her jawline, caressing her with the barrel, and brought it to rest under her chin. "How silly of you indeed."

Gauging him, working on a plausible alibi for herself, Jewel pulled her shoulders back and forced a giggle.

Fascinated at the way her quivering bosom spilled over the top of her low-cut bodice, Brent grinned, then withdrew his gaze from the inviting cleavage. Suddenly more relaxed and confident, he went on. "I don't want to have to blow a hole in that beautiful face, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to be dead, so why don't you save us both some trouble? I want the truth. Talk—and I mean now."

Considering her options, searching for a sign of weakness, she centered on the man's voice and the hint of a drawl. If his roots were in the South, if he'd retained any part of his gentlemanly upbringing, he ought to melt under a "helpless female" facade. With painstaking precision, Jewel inched the knife toward his crotch.

Then, in spite of the frowzy blond wig piled high on her head, the oversized beauty mark painted at the corner of her upturned mouth, and the low-cut dance hall dress, Jewel transformed herself into a simpering, trembling excuse for a woman.

"Oh, suh," she pleaded in a barely audible voice. "Puh-leeze don't shoot me. I nevuh meant any harm. I only..." She batted her eyelashes and swooned against his broad chest. "Oh, I—I don't feel well. I think I may faint. Puh-leeze don't let me fall, suh."

In position now, Jewel took advantage of the gunman's moment of confusion and went on the offensive. She slid the blade along his pant leg until it rested—most threateningly. She gently pushed, and the knife pierced the expensive striped wool fabric of his trousers. Jewel increased the pressure and knew by his expression and the sudden tensing of his body that she'd made contact with the flesh of his inner thigh.

"Now then," she said, her voice suddenly bold. "Since I
don't
want to have to push this knife any deeper and get blood all over my new dress"—she paused, grinning at the shudder he was unable to contain—"and since I'm pretty sure you don't want to sing with the Chicago Ladies Choir, why don't you save us both some trouble and drop the gun? Then you can tell me why
you're
in this room."

"I can't do that. Drop the knife!" He didn't move a muscle.

"Sorry." She batted her auburn eyelashes again. "My
mama
raised me to take care of myself at any cost. You wouldn't want me to disappoint my mama, would you, now? Drop the gun."

"Drop the knife."

"You first."

Brent clenched his teeth and stared into her eyes. She looked amused, as if she was enjoying his discomfort. Was she deranged enough to carry out her threat? The seconds were ticking by, and Scottson could burst in on them at any minute. How would Connors explain his presence in the man's room if his suspicions were unfounded?

"Tell you what. Why don't we both drop our weapons at the count of three? Then we can straighten out who does and doesn't belong in this room."

Jewel pursed her lips in concentration. He was a gambler; that much she could determine by his manner of dress. The fine three-piece suit of striped charcoal gray, the ruffled dress shirt, and the red cravat complete with diamond stickpin announced that he was a betting man, a dandy. If he were to shed his jacket, Jewel was certain she'd find a lady's garter constricting the muscles of his upper arm. Was he a thief as well? A liar? Probably both.

She looked up into his face and was caught by eyes the color of pure clover honey. He was a dashing figure with dark wavy hair and a sable mustache, cocky and handsome, sure of himself.
Too
sure of himself, she decided as the twin dimples in his cheeks began to deepen.

Gambler or thief, it didn't much matter. To Jewel they were one in the same. She matched his grin and said, "Sounds fair enough. Who counts?"

The dimples became caves. "Be my guest."

"All right." With a short nod, she cleared her throat and began. "One, two... three"

Golden brown eyes stared into the cool green of hers. But no one moved. The Colt .45 remained pressed against her throat, the stiletto sandwiched between his thighs.

"Maybe it'll work better if I count," he suggested, sweat dotting his brow.

"I suppose that could work. Let's find out. Go ahead."

Again he stared into her eyes, wondering if what he saw was intelligence or dementia. Before he could decide or begin the count, the door to the suite crashed open.

Loud masculine voices argued from the living room.

"Take it easy," the first complained. "I said I'd give all yer money back to ya."

"You'll be doin' more than that, Scotty. You'll be payin' more than that. You've fleeced your last honest gambling man. You're lower than a gopher-fed snake's belly drug through the bowels of hell. It's time you got your comeuppance."

In jeopardy of discovery, Jewel and Brent froze as the men quarreled. Then the crack of gunfire exploded from the other side of the bedroom door. Like an oak tree split by a sudden bolt of lightning, the pair sprang apart.

Her fist still curled around the pearl handle of the knife, his thumb perched atop the hammer of the Colt, Brent and Jewel crept to the door and peeked into the other room. A man in a black suit, his back to them, knelt by a body on the floor. He issued a hoarse laugh as he stuffed some bills and coins into his pockets, then rose and made a fast exit.

"Damn," Jewel muttered as she impulsively reached for the doorknob.

"Son of a bitch," Brent spat as he prepared to ram his way through the opening.

In the last second before she touched the knob, as he lowered his right shoulder, they were drawn together by a singular thought: What's
your
interest in Scotty? They stared at each other for a long moment, Jewel's eyebrows arched high with surprise, Brent's knotted together in puzzlement. Then he shook his head and kicked the door opened.

The centerpiece of the living room was a chandelier that could only have been called gaudy. Now that great glass sculpture burned brightly. Huge pear-shaped drops of crystal hung from every available brass curlicue and sent glittering light bouncing off the ceilings and walls.

A few of those beams skipped across the face of Matt Scottson. He stared lifelessly at Jewel and Brent as they approached him, his expression one of shock, of disbelief. His eyes, flat and cold like stones discarded from a miner's pan, were wide open, gawking but not seeing. His mouth formed a perfect circle, as if he were preparing to whistle for his horse. Prisms of light danced across his shirt, flickering and drawing attention to the small crimson hole in his chest. Scotty was deader than a snakebit rat and twice as surprised.

"Son of a bitch," Brent complained again as he stepped across the body and jerked open the heavy outer door. Sticking his head through the crack, he surveyed the hallway. Deserted. Ducking back inside the room, he slammed the door and turned back to the woman.

Jewel dropped to her knees, ignoring the gambler's raised eyebrows. She grabbed Scotty's collar. "Wake up, you yellow-bellied son of Satan. Get up and take your medicine like a man."

Brent stared down at the dance hall girl as she tried to force some life back into the corpse. Again he wondered about her interest in the dead man, her obvious distress. Had Scotty been a customer? Had he run out on her without settling up, perhaps? Or was it something else? With lazy deliberation, Brent reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a toothpick. Twirling it through the thick hair at the corner of his mouth, he inquired, "Begging your pardon, but if you don't mind my asking, I was just wondering—did ole Scotty try to stiff you?"

Jewel ignored his inquiry. She released her grip on the body and let Scottson's head drop to the floor. Finally resigned to the fact that the suspect was dead and that she'd failed in her mission, she struggled to her feet, disregarding Brent's outstretched hand as well as his inquiry. Grumbling in exasperation, she turned and stomped toward the door.

"Not so fast, dear lady." Brent caught her by the elbow. "I asked you a question. I expect an answer."

A sassy reply was perched on the tip of her tongue, but Jewel kept it to herself when she saw the flecks of determination mingled among the bits of gold twinkling in his honey-brown eyes. She jerked her arm away, then slipped back into her helpless-female mode.

"I—I really can't talk about it, suh." Jewel reached between her breasts and pulled out a lace hanky. Dabbing at her nose, she struggled to produce the necessary moisture, then added, "You see—that is..."

"Now, take it easy. Just tell me why you broke into this room and what Scotty meant to you."

A manufactured tear finally rolled down her painted cheek. Jewel nearly swooned as she said, "Well, suh, it's just that... you see, Scotty was my long lost father."

Chapter 2

Jewel stared out the third-floor office window belonging to the founder of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Below, the dusty streets of Chicago swirled with early morning activity and industrial soot. Tradesmen jockeyed for position along the plank sidewalks, hawking their wares and fighting for the right-of-way against fancy carriages and hansom cabs. A young boy dressed in navy blue knickers and white knee socks cried out in pain as his mother swatted him alongside the head. Jewel watched, full of empathy, but nonetheless amused, as the woman boxed her young son's ears all the way up the street and around the corner.

A plump matron dressed in black silk caught Jewel's attention as the woman stepped from a cab across the street and entered the offices of the Pennsylvania & Reading Railroad. Reminded of her mission, her failure, Jewel heaved a heavy sigh and turned to face her employer. "I'm sorry, Allan. I was so sure I'd catch Scotty with the goods. Maybe if I'd—"

"You ought to know by now that maybe's and what if s don't do us one bit of good in this business. You're one of the best operatives I've got, male
or
female, so sit down and stop fretting. You're making me nervous."