Page 9 of An Extraordinary Lord

“An event that set off the riot that first night, that continued to generate every subsequent riot. But there wasn’t any.” He blew out a harsh breath. “These riots are unpredictable in their targets, seemingly with no reason but starting as if on cue and dissipating too rapidly… None of it’s natural.”

“So you’re saying these riots are being orchestrated? Why would that be?”

“That’s what we need you to help us figure out.”

Something about the grim way he said that made her heart stutter. She wanted no part of this. Yet they’d promised her a pardon, a way to both protect Filipe and ensure she’d never go back to the hell of Newgate… She pulled in a deep breath. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Work with us to track the movements of a criminal organization we’ve been following whom we believe is responsible for the riots.”

Wariness licked at the backs of her knees. “Which organization?”

“Scepter.”

Her body flashed ice-cold, her breath strangling in her throat. Somehow she managed to force out in a fear-driven rasp, “You’re out of your bloody minds!”

Merritt joined Clayton Elliott on the other side of the room. “I hate it when you think you’re right.”

“Because you know I usually am. Including this time.” His old friend slanted him a knowing look. “She gives money to a destitute old thief-taker so he won’t starve on the streets.” Clayton’s mouth twisted ruefully. “She’s not a hardened criminal.”

At that moment, Merritt didn’t have any idea what the hell she was.

He’d certainly never seen another woman like her, and not just because of the men’s clothes or the arsenal of weapons she’d carried. There was a depth to her that belied her age, a sharp edge and quickness of wit that were nearly as fast as her swordplay. Then there was her intelligence. She was well educated, no doubt about that. Not with the way she spoke, the passing references she’d made…the accent that hinted that English wasn’t her first language and lingered just faintly enough that he couldn’t place it. She certainly hadn’t grown up near the docks on the east side of the City or the rookeries to the west.

So who the devil was she? That is, besides the physical manifestation of everything he’d spent his professional life fighting against and his personal life detesting—a criminal, hardened or otherwise.

“What makes you think she’s innocent?” Merritt asked.

“I didn’t say innocent,” Clayton corrected.

“You’re thinking it.”

Clayton blew out a breath of irritation that Merritt knew him so well. “What Ithinkis that she’s not an average criminal. We can use that to our advantage if you still want to go through with this.”

“I do.” He was determined to find whoever was leading the riots, yet he was distracted by this woman and the unanswered questions about her that swirled in his head. There were too many puzzle pieces he simply couldn’t make fit. About both of them.

“You truly think Scepter’s involved?” Clayton pressed.

Scepter…a criminal organization that the men of the Armory had all vowed to stop after it attempted to harm two of their own and the women both men cared about. What they’d discovered, though, was that the group’s final aims weren’t criminal but revolutionary. Scepter wanted to destroy the regency and put an end to what they saw as the monarchy’s moral and financial corruption.

But riots fermented among the lower classes. Why would Scepter be behind those? Mobs were too uncontrolled. Too bottom-up. Too…Frenchfor a group that wanted a revolution led by the aristocracy. Yet the recent riots possessed all the hallmarks of Scepter’s involvement.

“I don’t know,” Merritt muttered, half to himself. “But I’m certainly going to find out.”And stop them before any more innocent people are hurt.

Clayton turned his back to Veronica. From the bored expression on her pretty face, she didn’t care one whit what they were discussing. But both men knew she was alert and paying attention to every move they made, no matter how small.

“Are you doing this because of Scepter?” Clayton shot him a hard look, the same one he’d honed to perfection on the battlefield and now used on his agents in the Home Office. But despite the grim expression, concern laced through his voice when he asked, “Or Joanna?”

Her name hit Merritt like a gut punch. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He’d never told Clayton about his late fiancée or how she’d died, had never told anyone from his army days—

Brandon Pearce…Christ.

He’d told his best friend—once—when they were on the Continent, when he’d been so blasted drunk that he didn’t know what he was saying or how his lips had functioned enough to even form the words. Pearce must have told Clayton.Damn him.

“Pearce had no right to tell you,” Merritt growled.

“He’s worried about you.” A meaningful pause. “Quite frankly, so am I.”

“Well, you can stop worrying. My interest in the riots has nothing to do with Joanna.” That was a damned lie. He loved his friends like brothers, yet he didn’t want them intruding where they had no business being. “Her death was an accident. The carriage was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The crowd frightened the team, they bolted, and she hit her head.” If he told himself that lie enough times, perhaps he could finally come to believe it and push those horrible images of her murder from his mind. “Besides, that happened over five years ago.”