Sweet Revenge Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  He came out of the shadows…

  and slowly descended the stairs, becoming visible. Boots, black jeans, a wiry frame. His tread was slow, measured, designed to intimidate. But Victoria was not easily intimidated.

  “Why have you come here, Miss Summers?” His voice was deep, and chased a shiver across her heated skin.

  “I—I need you…your help.”

  In fascination, she watched him walk toward her, trading shadow for dusty light. He was lean and sinewy, and his hair was brown and long, thick and curling. But it was his face that was truly captivating. His intense blue-green eyes, his well-shaped mouth, the stubble on his chin and upper lip…His gaze was so steady and so penetrating that she felt as though he was touching her physically; she even felt a tingling sensation on her arms. And then she saw the scar—the slash through his eyebrow and along the curve of his cheek.

  And she had only one thought: If he was the man who could save her, she didn’t want to think about the one who was after her…

  Dear Reader,

  They’re rugged, they’re strong and they’re wanted! Whether sheriff, undercover cop or officer of the court, these men are trained to keep the peace, to uphold the law. But what happens when they meet the one woman who gets to know the man behind the badge?

  Twelve of these men are on the loose…and only Harlequin Intrigue brings them to you—one per month in the LAWMAN series. This month, meet Torbel, a dangerously enticing private investigator with unusual methods.

  Be sure you don’t miss a single LAWMAN coming to you in the months ahead…because there’s nothing sexier than the strong arms of the law!

  Regards,

  Debra Matteucci

  Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator

  Harlequin Books

  300 East 42nd Street

  New York, NY 10017

  Sweet Revenge

  Jenna Ryan

  To Kathy, sister and friend.

  To Bill and Kay, my parents.

  To Rod, who has helped me in his own special way.

  To Bonnie, Alice and Shauna.

  Thanks for everything.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Victoria Summers—A stalker’s note sent her to the mysterious Rag Man for protection.

  David Alun Torbel—Called the Rag Man, he was blamed for Robbie Hollyburn’s death.

  Judge Augustus Hollyburn—Robbie’s grandfather, bent on seeing justice served no matter what the cost.

  Robbie Hollyburn—He died two years ago on the Stepney docks

  Zoe Hollyburn—Robbie’s sister and a former cat burglar. What secrets lurk in her shadowy past?

  Clover Hollyburn—Zoe’s twin and her opposite. Her hatred for the Rag Man and Victoria is no secret.

  Sergeant Robert Peacock—The information he offered to the Rag Man cost him his life.

  Inspector Oliver Fox—He owes Judge Hollyburn a number of debts.

  Lenny Street—He spent two years in prison for the murder of Robbie Hollyburn.

  Rahn McDougall—Is one of the Rag Man’s agents hiding something from his employer?

  Sophie Hollyburn—Robbie’s late mother. Her diary is a jumble of cryptic information.

  Boots—He told Victoria about the Rag Man’s magic—then disappeared.

  Prologue

  “I’d have sold my soul to see my grandson’s murderer punished.” Augustus Hollyburn’s fists hit the polished mahogany mantel. “I said that two years ago, Scratch, and I meant it, I swear to God I did.”

  His longtime friend, Lucius Scranton, hid a smile behind the rim of his glass. “Yes, I remember. Then you should be pleased. Justice was served.”

  “The hell it was!” Augustus’s tumbler shattered against the fireplace grate. Two ounces of Napoleon brandy caused the flames to surge up, blue and angry. “Damn that Rag Man, Scratch. Damn him to hell and back. He’s as slippery as an eel, as cunning as a fox and, on top of that, he has horseshoes up his—”

  “Asperity,” Scratch interrupted smoothly, “is a very unhealthy thing.” Sipping his Scotch, he sat back in the plumpcushioned chair and stretched his leather-shod feet toward the fire. “You really shouldn’t get so worked up, Goggy. Not good for the blood pressure at our age.”

  Scowling, Augustus regarded his gnarled hands. “Eighty-one years old and look at me, shaking like I’ve been chased through Stepney by spooks. Damnation!” His head reared up. “Why did I say Stepney? You see, Scratch? You see what he’s done to me?”

  “This Rag Man, what’s his name—Torbel?”

  “More like ‘Trouble,’” Augustus muttered. He shuffled, not walked, he thought in disgust as he slid his arthritic feet across the carpet to his pipe rack. He owned a Georgian mansion in the posh Mayfair district of London. He had money in the bank, plenty of it, plus shares in collieries and shipyards. In his time, he’d been up there with the finest high-court judges in England, respected and, yes, by God, even feared by his peers.

  Grimacing, he massaged a persistent sore spot on his chest. Bloody spring fog. Thick as turtle soup, that’s how his grandson—his late grandson—Robbie would have described it.

  The pain deepened, causing Augustus to flinch and Scratch to frown in concern. “You all right, Goggy? Maybe you should sit down. You look a bit peaky.”

  Good old Scratch. He never changed. They’d been through a lot since those days at Oxford, when Augustus had been wild and unrestrained, with few cares or scruples. Then the war had come, and he’d been forced to settle down—or at least give the appearance of doing so. No Hollyburn ever truly settled down.

  A shudder strong enough to rattle his old bones ran through him. If only circumstances had been different and Robbie hadn’t gone down to the Stepney pier on that foggy night. If only he’d never heard of the notorious Rag Man. If only…

  His chest pain subsided to a dull ache.

  Leaning forward, Scratch warmed both his Scotch and his hands before the flames. “Who is this Rag Man anyway?” his old friend questioned.

  Augustus glanced sideways out of canny blue-green eyes. Scratch was always calm, of the gentry, born and bred. Distinguished, that was the word for him, not frail and wizened as Augustus had grown.

  Trembling, Augustus raised his pipe, puffed in agitation, then shuffled slowly to his chair. “He’s responsible for my grandson’s death, that’s who the Rag Man is, the son of a bloody whore.” He flapped a cranky hand. “You’re not completely unfamiliar with the seamy side of London. You must have heard of him.”

  Sufficiently warmed, Scratch sat back again. The firelight reflected off the rich amber liquid in his glass. The entire hearth area glowed golden red in the otherwise darkened parlor. “Why don’t you tell me the details, Goggy?” he suggested. “All of it, the whole story, start to finish. Of course, I know Robbie was murdered on the docks just over two years ago. The man convicted of the crime was recently released fr
om prison—I know that, too. But everything else is just bits and pieces. In any case, I can see you’re not satisfied with the outcome.”

  No, dammit, he was not satisfied.

  Augustus’s mind drifted backward as the smoke from Scratch’s slender cigar floated past his eyes. The aches in his old body faded momentarily, replaced by a stab of anger that carried with it the sour taste of spite. He was the devil, that Rag Man, and justice was his private joke.

  But the recent spate of events hadn’t started with Torbel. This latest nightmare had begun three weeks ago in West London with the beautiful American solicitor, Victoria Summers…

  Chapter One

  Late May in England…

  To Victoria Summers, it meant flowers and fog and the promise of a well-deserved vacation away from London. To her da, it would mean a change of occupations. Muffin man turned vegetable seller, or maybe trinkets for the tourists to buy. Visitors to England were hungry lately for color, and nowhere could they find more of that than in a Whitechapel market, or wherever else her father might choose to park his ancient wares cart.

  Noting a tiny sound behind her, Victoria glanced back for the tenth time in two minutes.

  The law offices of Bock, Press and Woodbury commanded the entire third floor of Talbot House, a venerable building close to St. Paul’s Cathedral in the heart of old London. The romantic in her loved the location, plus the fact that the place shouted Mary Poppins at her. With darkness and shadows spreading out in murky black pools, Talbot House could have been the bank where George Banks had paid his fateful latenight call.

  Victoria smiled faintly at the memory. The thought of George brought her back to her da. Alfred Summers was a colorful Yorkshireman, his ex-wife Lily an American singer-poet, his aunt Prudie an eccentric British-American flower seller. Which made Victoria a hodgepodge, she supposed. A solicitor prone to searching for ghosts and gremlins yet too firmly rooted in reality to invent them on a whim.

  Halfway across the polished marble floor, she halted and brought her head around again, biting her lower lip. She’d definitely heard something like a furtive footstep, discernible to her instincts more than to her ears. But who’d made it? As far as she knew, she was the only person here—except for Caffy, the seventy-three-year-old night watchman.

  Hitching her shoulder bag up a notch, Victoria studied the welter of shadows in her wake. Tendrils of fear coiled in her stomach, but she knew better than to acknowledge them right now. You couldn’t illuminate mausoleums like this properly. They always came out stark and eerie, smelling of time measured in centuries rather than decades.

  Her eyes scanned the darkness. Caffy’s name flitted briefly through her mind, but she dismissed it. He had his good points, but stealth wasn’t one of them.

  Curling her fingers around the strap of her bag, she started walking again, through shadows half the size of her apartment. The door wasn’t far. And 11:30 p.m. wasn’t overly late by London standards. There’d still be cabs going by.

  The cavernous central hall went on forever, an echoing black void. Images of masked murderers, Victorian maidens, dark coaches, fog and empty alleyways flitted through her head, but she stopped them cold. Alfred Summers’s daughter could stand up to cowardly pranksters with the best of them. On the other hand, who knew if the person back there was a coward or a prankster.

  Dammit, where was that door? It must be…there! She spied it twenty feet ahead, past a trio of Roman columns and up four marble stairs.

  The heels of her Italian shoes clicked on the polished floor. The clock ticked sonorously—like a bomb, she reflected grimly. There wasn’t much traffic on the street beyond the smokedglass panels. There was fog, though, plenty of it, thick and white and floating past the windows in freakish waves.

  Victoria controlled a strong urge to bolt as she recalled the three phone calls she’d received recently. One last Sunday and two more on Wednesday. Today was Friday.

  The brass door handle gleamed in the muted streetlight. She reached for the latch—then stifled a scream as a man’s large hand clamped down hard on hers.

  Jerking free, she spun around. Fear turned to relief and then to annoyance when she viewed Caffy’s sleepy, bearlike features.

  “I’m supposed to let you out.” His voice held an unmistakable slur. “You should have buzzed me.”

  Victoria blew out a deep breath. He was stealthier than she’d realized. “I did. You never answered.”

  “I was in the men’s room,” he explained, twisting ineffectually on the lock.

  “You were drinking. I’m not stupid. Oh, here, let me do it.”

  His hands dropped. His bleary eyes did not. “I never…”

  The stuck bolt clicked, and she pulled the door open. “Save your excuses for Bock and Press, Caffy. I’m not a rat.” She paused, her gaze straying into the darkness beyond his shoulder. It hadn’t been him she’d heard; she was sure of it. “You didn’t see anyone lurking around back there, did you?”

  He flexed his fingers one by one. “Tom and Tabby.”

  “People, Caffy, not cats.”

  “You want me to turn up the lights?”

  She started to nod, then shook her head instead. “Never mind. I’m probably imagining things.”

  “Maybe it was me you heard.”

  “Maybe.” The suggestion was preferable to the alternative that had been trying to hammer its way into her mind for the past five minutes. A crank caller might telephone once or twice, but he wouldn’t risk being apprehended after-hours in a building where high-profile barristers Edward Bock, Steven Press and Ernest Woodbury kept their offices. Not unless he was incredibly stupid. And Victoria didn’t sense stupidity. She sensed deliberation, calculation and a third emotion she could only define as malice.

  Her uncertain eyes probed the darkness one last time. Yes, it was malice she felt. It crawled over her skin like an army of ants. But what could she possibly have done to incite it?

  Jamming her left hand into her jacket pocket, she considered the question, then glanced down as her fingers brushed up against a folded piece of paper. Withdrawing them, she opened it—and felt the blood drain from her cheeks. With a momentary sense of horror, she read the words taped there in letters cut from magazine and newspaper headlines.

  Scotland Yard can’t help you.

  Even the Rag Man can’t protect you from me.

  I’m out here, Victoria.

  I’m waiting…

  I’m watching…

  “YOU SENT SOMEONE up the river you shouldn’t have,” her father said with a shrug. He was a grizzled man of sixty-four, spry and patchwork, a colorful, lovable character whom Victoria’s legal friends dubiously likened to Eliza Dolittle’s father.

  She ignored those so-called friends. Alfred Summers wore a cap and a baggy wool jacket, suspenders he called braces and work boots with holes in the soles. He was currently arranging vegetables on his cart. Ever the crafty merchant, he instinctively placed the best produce on top.

  “You send people off enough times, lass, and some of ‘em’ll come back for you. Bound to happen.”

  Perched on an empty barrow in her torn and faded jeans, her battered leather boots and the World War II army jacket Prudie had given her on her eighteenth birthday, Victoria sorted celery bunches. “I’m a solicitor for the defense, now, Da,” she reminded, snapping off the wilted ends and tossing them to his collie.

  He wrinkled his nose. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means,” she replied prosaically, “that I don’t send people off anymore. I try to keep them from going.”

  “Maybe you didn’t try hard enough.”

  “Huh.” She broke off half a stalk, holding it out for the keen-eyed dog. “In that case, anyone whose defense I messed up would still be serving time. Besides, Bock’s never let me handle anything really big.”

  “Yet,” her father finished for her. She caught the twinkle in his eyes but refused to laugh.

  “Know-it-all,” she retor
ted. “This celery’s awfully ratty, Da. You should have a chat with Mr. Bock. He adores lawsuits, even ratty veggie suits. Winning is a point of pride with him. He’s a snooty old stick-in-the mud.”

  “About law or bad celery?”

  “Both.”

  “Sounds like a proper gentleman.”

  “More like a two-faced twit, actually.”

  Snorting, her father dumped onions into one of the bins. “So why do you stay on if Bock’s a git and you never get the big cases?”

  “Because the head of almost every law firm I know in London is a git. They all hoard the big cases. Except Mr. Woodbury. We’ve gotten way off topic, though, Da. I want to know what you think of this note.”

  “What can I say? Someone’s trying to scare you.”

  “It’s working.” She hopped from the wagon, wiping her hands on the backside of her jeans. “Morning, Mrs. Grundy,” she said to a woman passing by with a cart of breadstuffs.

  “Morning to you, lass. We don’t see you hereabouts very often.”

  “She works on Bouverie Street now.” Alfred pronounced the street name with an equal measure of pride and disdain. “Near the Temple.”

  “Posh.” Setting down her cart, Mrs. Grundy thrust a large tea cake at Victoria.

  “Oh, no, really, Mrs. Grundy, I couldn’t—Thank you. Uh, tell me, do you know anyone called the Rag Man? Da thinks he’s heard the name, but he can’t place it.”

  The old woman screwed up her face. “Rag Man. Sounds familiar. Lives down Stepney way, I think. Don’t get down there much meself. The local peelers might know.”

  “That’s what Da figured. I’ll ask them. Thanks, Mrs. Grundy—for the bun, too.”