Darling Jack. Mary McBride
girl. You’ll find the expense sheets over there by the window. I hope. Good luck.” Nora Quillan sniffed and waded into the feminine melee, clapping her hands and shouting, “Ladies! Ladies! Could we have a little order in here, please?”
It wasn’t that she was immune, Anna thought as she made her way to the window. That wasn’t the case at all. It was rather that she didn’t believe in expending useless emotions. She wasn’t the sort of person who wasted dreams. Not that she had any. But if she had…
She gave a little shrug, and was reaching for the sheaf of papers on the library table when the door of Allan Pinkerton’s office opened. There was a lastmoment jostling in the anteroom, a flurry of movement followed by a communal sigh that dwindled to a breathless hush as Pinkerton’s most illustrious spy appeared.
Anna’s hand halted in midair. Her heart, like countless others in the room, gathered speed, bounded into her throat and then plummeted to the pit of her stomach.
Johnathan Hazard—Mad Jack—was the most beautiful man in the world. From his jet-dark hair to the tips of his high glossed boots. He was broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and perfectly tall. His bearing was straight and military, although Anna knew he had never been a soldier. His air of command was that of a duke or baron, even though he was the fourth son of an earl. Still, he was beautiful. Hazard was fashioned, Anna thought suddenly, not as a man at all, but as a model for what a man might be, if all the gods could agree on a single definition of masculine beauty. Or if they consulted her.
Which they hadn’t. Anna reminded herself quickly and firmly, redirecting her gaze to the stack of papers and the task at hand.
“Well?” Allan Pinkerton stood at Jack Hazard’s shoulder. He spoke with the hushed tone of a conspirator. “That’s the lot of them. A bevy, if you will. Take your pick, Jack. And be quick about it. I’d like to get back to business.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Hazard shifted his stance and crossed his arms, surveying the roomful of women. “I’ll need her for a month or so. Which one can you spare?”
“None of them, damn it.” Pinkerton shot back. Then he demurred. “Well, anyone but Miss Quillan, I suppose. The whole place would come undone without her.”
“I don’t want your ramrod, Allan. God forbid.” Hazard laughed as his gaze cut to the dark-haired secretary, who was poised like a pillar of salt behind her desk. And then, just at the edge of his vision, there came a sudden flash of light, a glint of gold that made him turn toward the window.
“What about her?”
“Her?”
“Over there. The little mouse. The one in the brown dress and the spectacles who’s doing her best to blend into the woodwork.”
Pinkerton squinted. “Oh. Mrs. Matlin.”
“Mrs. Matlin?” A frown creased Hazard’s forehead. “Is she married?”
“No. At least I don’t believe so. She’s a widow, as I recall. Been here for years.”
“I never noticed her.”
“I don’t suppose many do.”
Jack Hazard grinned. “A widow ought to do nicely. See that she’s on the train tomorrow morning, will you?”
Pinkerton cleared his throat. “I’ll ask her, Jack, but I can’t promise—”
“Don’t promise, Allan. Just do it.”
Then, with what seemed like a gust of audible sighs at his back, the Pinkerton National Detective Agency’s most illustrious spy walked out of the room.
Nora Quillan already had her hat and gloves on. As on most days, she had worked late. Today in particular, with all the commotion, she had been hard-pressed to get the agency back to some semblance of order. Having done that, Nora was ready to go home to a cold supper, a single glass of ale and a good night’s sleep. Still, she knocked on her employer’s door and walked into his office before he was able to call, “Come in.”
“You’re making a dreadful mistake, Mr. P.,” she said.
“Another one, Nora?” Allan Pinkerton turned from the window, hands clasped at his back, an indulgent grin upon his lips. “And just what is this dreadful mistake?”
“I know you think the world of Johnathan Hazard, but—”
“He’s the best man I have,” Pinkerton said, interrupting her.
“He was.” Nora sighed now as she crossed the room and settled on the arm of a chair. “His imprisonment during the war changed him. And now, after that Von Drosten woman sank her claws into him—and probably her fangs, as well—he’s worse. Much worse.” She narrowed her gaze on the man at the window. “Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it. And I must say I’m shocked that you’d risk letting him fall into her clutches again.”
Allan Pinkerton was accustomed to his secretary’s candor. He valued her opinions. Nora Quillan was rarely wrong. In this instance, however, he prayed she was. Dead wrong.
“Did Jack say anything to you?” he asked her.
Nora sniffed. “He didn’t have to. I’ve known him for over ten years. Nearly as long as you have. The changes are obvious, although I must say he’s done his best to mask them.”
Pinkerton nodded—in agreement, in dismay. He was remembering his detective’s uncharacteristic plea earlier that day, the way the man’s voice had shattered, the tremor in his hands that he’d been hard-pressed to disguise. But Hazard had, damn it. He had.
“He isn’t drinking anymore, Nora.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t. Especially if he’s under her influence again. That woman is evil, Mr. P. Surely you recognize that now if you didn’t before. The Baroness Von Drosten is the devil in silk and ermine.”
“She’s a fake,” Pinkerton said through clenched teeth.
A harsh laugh broke from Nora’s throat. “It doesn’t seem to matter, does it? Fake or not, she still manages to cast her evil spell on—”
“That’s enough, Nora.” Allan Pinkerton sagged into the chair behind his desk and began massaging his throbbing temples. His own worries about Jack Hazard were legion; he didn’t need Nora’s to aggravate them.
“Hazard has a plan,” he said, attempting to put an end to the discussion.
“He had a plan before,” Nora shot back, as soon as the words were out of her employer’s mouth. “He was going to seduce her last year, wasn’t he? But instead, the baroness seduced him. And worse.”
“This time he won’t be alone.”
Nora rolled her eyes. “That’s the other mistake I was intending to bring to your attention. To send littie Mrs. Matlin along on this…this devil’s business… is like sending a lamb to the slaughter.”
“She agreed, Nora. We spoke at length this afternoon,” he muttered. “The woman even seemed rather pleased.”
“She wants to keep her job! How the devil else would you expect her to behave?” Nora shot up from the arm of the chair now, planting her fists on her hips. “You’re determined to carry through with this, aren’t you?”
Allan Pinkerton closed his eyes and slowly nodded his head.
Nora threw up her hands. “I knew it. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother wasting my breath,” she muttered on her way to the door. “Nothing good will come of this. You mark my words. Jack Hazard will be lost forever, if he isn’t already. And God only knows what will happen to poor, unsuspecting Anna Matlin.”
“Is that all, Nora?” Pinkerton asked wearily.
“I should think that would be