Deeper in Sin (18 page)

“What can we do?”

“Talk to people. Ask around. If anyone saw this tall, blond gentleman, I doubt they would forget him.” A wry look touched his face.

“They wouldn't.” And that was the idea. Her body would have been found. And people would have remembered seeing a man who looked like Cary. “People must have seen him because he wanted to be seen.”

“So you've thought of that too.” He looked at her with admiration.

“But how can you question anyone? People might fear you are that man. See, you do need me—they know me. They will tell me.”

 

Sophie might be impetuous. She was stubborn when it came to seducing him. But Cary admired how she was also quick-witted and clever.

He stood back and allowed her to rap on the door of the room next to hers, farther down the narrow carriage lane—more of a cart lane. An elderly woman opened the door. Her gray hair was unkempt and stuck out around her head. She held a tattered shawl over a dirt-streaked brown dress.

“Goodness, Sophie, child. You look like a right lady.”

Sophie blushed. She was beautiful when she did. It heightened the green of her eyes, made her hair look even more raven-black. “Thank you, Mrs. Mill. Now, there is something—”

But before Sophie could finish, the elderly woman stepped forward and peered at Sophie's face, squinting. “Who hit ye, dearie? Don't put up with any man who raises 'is 'and to ye! That's what I always said. And I kicked my man to the curb for doin' that. I'm right better off, I tell ye.”

If this was better off, Cary hated to think of what life had been like with the man around.

“It's nothing like that.” Quickly, Sophie told the story of a man breaking into her room, waiting, and attacking her.

Mrs. Mill clutched her heart. “Are we all to be murdered in our beds then? Oh dear!” The woman flapped her elbows and began to heave about like a demented chicken.

But Sophie soothed the woman. She spoke kindly. “I don't think he will be back. But I wanted to know if you had seen him. I want to put the law on him—”

“Don't want naught to do with the law.” Mrs. Mill backed up and closed the door until she was just peeping out at Sophie.

“You won't have to. I just need to know if you saw a gentleman with blond hair. A tall, broad-shouldered man.”

“I did.”

“Where did you see him?”

“On High Street. 'e stepped out of a black, shiny carriage drawn by four horses. 'e came down the steps as I was 'urrying by, and 'e all but shoved me to the ground. Pushed me out of the way and stalked off toward our lane.”

“Did you see him when you reached our lane?”

“No. 'e'd disappeared by then.”

Sophie asked questions about the carriage. She tried to hand Mrs. Mill a few coins, but the woman refused. “I don't take charity, dearie. Just don't go telling the law to ask me questions. And ye'd best be careful.”

Sophie told the woman she was leaving the room.

“And where might ye be going?”

“I—I have befriended a duke, and he is renting a house for me.” She blushed again.

Mrs. Mill's eyes narrowed. “Oh, dearie, I always thought you a decent lass.” She stepped back in and shut the door firmly.

Cary felt a spurt of damned guilt. But hell, Sophie was right—there were few ways for a woman to support herself. He wasn't going to hurt her. And he was going to ensure she was quite well off at the end of their relationship.

Why, then, did he feel like the villain?

After knocking on two more doors, where Sophie spoke to an elderly man, then a youngish, tired-looking woman who seemed to have children crawling over her, Sophie ventured into the upper floors of the ancient building. He followed—he didn't want to let her out of his sight, but he could not be close enough to frighten people.

Finally, she returned to him. “Three people saw the blond man. Truly, from the description they gave, it would sound as if it were you. One person also saw a woman he didn't recognize. A ladylike woman.”

Could a woman be involved? Cary doubted it. This seemed more of a man's business—violence against defenseless young women. But a strange woman on the night of Sophie's attack might be more than a coincidence. He had to find out who this woman was.

He handed Sophie up to his carriage. She turned to him. “Have we learned anything at all?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “One thing I would like to do—determine if Stratham could be responsible.”

“You think Lord Stratham murdered that other poor girl? And attacked me?”

“I don't know about the other girl, but I know he wanted you. He was humiliated when you refused him. He's an abusive man who does not take rejection well.”

Sophie was about to speak, but Cary lifted her hand to his lips. At the touch of his lips to her fingers, she made a squeaking sound and she couldn't say a word. She just gazed at him as if he were the sun.

He hadn't expected her to look quite so enthralled.

“Now we go to the races,” he said. “Stratham is a notorious fan of horse racing.”

 

Quite a few gentlemen took their mistresses to the races, Sophie discovered. She knew this because the women wore brightly colored, scandalous dresses with flounces of lace, and snug, low-cut bodices. In her modest clothing, she actually looked out of place.

The gentlemen drank copiously. Many had ladybirds sitting on their laps. With each race, some men cheered and drank more. Others moaned in despair, swore—then drank more.

“How are we going to find Lord Stratham?” Sophie stared wide-eyed at the crowd.

Men greeted Cary with reverence, begging to join them. At once, Sophie realized he was truly a war hero and was worshipped for it.

Was that why someone was trying to make him look guilty of the awful crimes? To destroy him? Was one of these men so jealous?

No, that didn't make sense. Would anyone hurt innocent women just to destroy a duke?

But sometimes, when she looked at Cary and he didn't know she was looking, she saw how haunted and haggard he looked. Was it his memories? The ones that had to have come from long before the war when he was held a prisoner?

Cary offered her the crook of his arm, and she laid her hand on his forearm and walked with him. They went to the private boxes. “This one is Stratham's,” he said.

But although the box was filled with gentlemen and females who shrieked with laughter and guzzled champagne, there was no Stratham.

“He's here,” declared a young, portly gentleman who was groping two giggling, chubby women. “Took his tart down by the paddocks, I believe. For a ride.”

The drunken crowd laughed uproariously at that.

Was this a Cyprian's life? Sophie wanted to run as far and as fast as possible. Cary wasn't like these men. . . .

But what happened after her relationship with Cary? Would she have to go to another protector? Would she have to cling to some drunken fool to survive? She hoped not. She prayed not.

Cary rested his hand on the small of her back. She felt utterly aware of him. After seeing those men, she thought:
I may never want any other man but the gorgeous, wonderful Duke of Caradon? What am I going to do?

A whinnying sound came from one of the stalls. But it hadn't come from a horse. A man had made that sound.

“What was that?” she asked.

Cary put his finger to his lips. He led her to the stall. He could stand on his toes and see over the door. She saw him bite back a laugh.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He lifted her by her waist, and she grasped the top of the stall door to steady herself.

Stratham was naked and moved around the hay-strewn paddock on all fours. She saw his black, gray-touched hair, his muscular body, his naked, hard, tight buttocks. She would have seen even more of him, except her view was mercifully blocked by a woman in a snug muslin gown who rode on top of him. He had on a leather bridle of sorts, and the woman tugged on the reins. She smartly slapped his bare bottom with a riding crop.

“Oh goodness,” Sophie said.

13

 

—From an unfinished manuscript entitled
A Courtesan Confesses
by Anonymous

 

 

Sophie stared at the sweeping row of white-stuccoed town houses that arched around a crescent in a well-do street. The carriage stopped at the last house, which had a dark red door and a tiny garden framed by a wrought-iron fence.

“This is your new house, love. Come, let's go inside.” With that, Cary stood, then went down the steps of his carriage. As he always did, he held out his hand to help her.

She just sat there. Stunned. Everything she'd dreamed of was right in front of her.

A gorgeous man—a wonderful, unimaginably powerful seductive man was waiting for her, his hand outstretched to take hers.

“Sophie, what's wrong?”

“Everything is perfect. Have you ever had everything you'd ever imagined in your heart come true?”

His mouth twisted in a jaded smile. “Not for a long time, love.”

He opened the door with a key, then handed the key to her. He took her through the house, introducing the small staff to her. There was an elderly butler, a housekeeper, maids, and a cook.

Sophie was dazzled. “How were you able to do this all in one short day?”

“I'm a duke.”

He had used his amazing power and importance as a duke to do this. It was the kindest, most generous thing anyone had ever done for her.

She couldn't wait to write to Belle—but she needed money to send to Belle so she and the children could all take a stage to London. She needed money at once.

But it would be wrong to ask Cary for money. She couldn't do that—but she had to get her family here as quickly as she could.

He walked ahead of her, through the foyer with its tiles of black-and-white marble, through a double door of paned glass, and into a lovely sitting room. Large arched windows gave out onto a small garden.

He turned, looking pleased with himself. But his smile disappeared. “Is there something wrong? You continue to frown.”

She was going to be honest. “My friend Belle and . . . her children. Can I bring them here to live?”

When he didn't answer, her heart started to pound.

He ran his hand along the back of his neck. To her surprise, he was actually blushing. “Would that be appropriate? Young children here?”

“They would stay upstairs. You would never even know they were here.” Her son would be here—wouldn't that be strange? And she didn't want him to know she had a child. If he thought it awkward now, wouldn't it be worse if he thought she had a young child here? “I can't leave them in the country. I have to know they are safe.”

“Sophie, it was my intention to install you in this house and not visit. The problem is, I don't know if I can stick by that.”

“I don't want you to!” she cried. “I want you to come here.”

“Then your friend and her children must live elsewhere. I can arrange to have them move to another place, where I can have servants to look out for them. I assure you that they will be safe. Country life would be more pleasant for children.”

He didn't want them in the house. But it was true—it would feel strange to go to bed with him, which is what she wanted to do, with her little boy upstairs.

He was right. She could not have her son and the other children here. Even Belle—Belle hated the whole idea of her being a courtesan.

And she had to convince the duke to go to bed with her. After seeing what those courtesans at the racing stables had to do, she didn't want to lose Cary.

Shyly, she asked, “Do you wish to . . . take a look at the bedroom with me?”

“Not today, angel. I have things I must do. First, I will send a note back with the carriage, instructing my secretary to secure a country house for your family.” He strode over to a writing desk—a rather feminine one situated by one large window. He looked huge and muscular when he sat on the delicate stool. “Tell me where they are located now.”

“Please find a place quickly. An obsessive man wanted me as his mistress, but I evaded him.”

“I can have them moved tomorrow. That I promise you, to set your heart at ease.” He dipped a quill in ink—someone had filled the inkwell in readiness—wrote swiftly. Paused and looked up at her. “You will have a carriage, love. You will be able to visit them.”

He was so noble. Somehow he took her every problem and made it vanish. Without questioning her.

Sophie wished she could do the same for him. She had to make him let her try.

He folded the letter. He used a candle to melt wax and seal the note with a blob. He pressed his signet ring into the wax. “Write a letter to your friend as well,” he said. “She will not recognize my man of affairs. Instruct her to trust him, to do as he says.”

“Of course.” He thought of everything.

When she finished and sealed her letter, the duke yanked on the bellpull, summoned the footman who had answered the door, and gave the man instructions to send the message via his carriage.

There. All her problems whisked away.

 

The next morning, after a night spent in a lavish and comfortable bed, Sophie made her very first visit to a fashionable London modiste, where she had carte blanche. The bell over the door gave a delicate tinkle and, holding her breath, Sophie walked into the smart Bond Street dressmaker's, Madame Bouvier.

Madame quickly came to her. “Ah, you are lovely. It shall be a delight to dress you. You need almost nothing to make you stunning.”

“Yes, if I went out in nothing, I would stun people.”

Madame, who Sophie suspected was not French, looked confused. Then she clapped her hands, and Sophie was led to a dressing room. Assistants quickly removed her gown, leaving her in her shift. Thank heaven, Cary had let her keep his sister's day gown. If she had come in her old country dress . . .

Of course, Madame must know why the Duke of Caradon was paying for her clothes. Her mother had written in her book about crushing modistes and keeping them in their places. Not allowing them to be haughty. But Sophie couldn't quite adopt a bold stance.

Standing in her shift, waiting, she got on the low, fabric-covered dais. Her heart was bursting with relief. She knew her son was safe. Belle and her children were safe.

It was a miracle.

She was so happy she barely noticed the measuring, the pinning, the chatter of Madame. She didn't really care what she wore.

As she was leaving the shop, she spotted a flash of color out of the corner of her eye. Something about it made her stop in her tracks. Made unease rush over her—

It was a color of light green. A putrid color. And she'd seen it before.

Lord Devars's silk waistcoat was that color on the last night she had seen him—when he had brought her the bracelet and gloated because he thought she would soon be in his clutches.

Sophie shoved through the crowd, ducking into the doorway of a store that was set back from the street. Pressing her back to the side of a paned glass bow window, she peeked out.

And saw him.

A towering beaver hat. A long greatcoat in the first stare of fashion. And his hair—it was actually a tawny brown, with many streaks of silver-gray, but in the sunlight it looked almost blond.

It was Lord Devars.

Could he have been the man in her room?

No, that man was wearing a wig. And he wouldn't say he was paid to kill her. She had the feeling if he wanted to rape and kill her, he would want her to know it was him and be terrified of him every moment.

He'd enjoyed her fear that time he had brought her the bracelet and made his offer. That was why she had picked up a vase and hit him. Because she thought—

She thought he was going to force himself on her. Then kill her.

His gold-handled walking stick flashed in the light. She shuddered and drew back. He had hit her with that. Struck her across her face. He'd thought that one blow would terrify her so much that she would be frozen in fear. But she hadn't been. She'd fought back.

She could not let him see her. Blindly, she turned and yanked open the door to the shop and rushed inside.

And crashed into a tall, masculine body. She gazed up into pale blue eyes.

Cary frowned at her. “Sophie?”

Heavens, he was here, of all places? She didn't want him to know about Devars. She had to bluff. Quickly. “Your Grace. I saw you and—”

“You wanted to see what I am buying for you?” He smiled the beautiful smile that made her knees weak.

“You were buying something for me?” She stared blankly at the glass display cases in front of them. Dimly aware of the sparkle.

They were in a jeweler's.

She looked at the door. Through the thick glass, she saw that sickly green color. It looked like slimy algae in a pond. But it did reflect the man Devars was.

Devars stood at the door. Facing the door.

Oh God. Devars was going to come in here. She was with Caradon. He would protect her....

Would he, when Devars accused her of stealing the bracelet? And it was true! She had been desperate. Terrified. It had been either steal food or take that wretched bracelet to get money to feed the children. So she had run, the bracelet hidden in her clenched fist—

“Take a look at this, my dear,” Cary said softly. He looked at her strangely.

Numbly, she walked to the counter. If her back were to the door, maybe she would survive this. She looked nothing like she had when Devars had cornered her in his drawing room.

She leaned over as if looking closely at the glass. But if there were jewels in there, she had no idea. She couldn't focus on anything but fear.

“Do you like that one? Rather simple, but I think elegant pieces would suit you better.”

He wanted her opinion. She made herself look at what was in the case—

“Oh God,” she whispered. Not a ladylike thing to say, but she thought he was pointing at a necklace that was made up of a kind of collar of dozens of small diamonds. In the center dangled a pink pear-shaped diamond.

“Not that one.” She could barely form words. Those three seemed to drain her wits.

“You don't like it?”

The bell above the door tinkled. It must be Devars. She muted her voice. “It's the most precious thing I have ever seen. I—I can't—”

“I would like to see you wearing it.” As she lowered her voice, he did too. He leaned close to her to speak. Her earlobe tingled as his warm breath teased it.

Her whole body tingled.

Devars!
Be on your guard.

She took a quick peek over her shoulder.

Devars had indeed come in, and he was speaking heartily to the jeweler.

“Was the bracelet satisfactory, my lord?” The jeweler asked.

“Unfortunately, that bracelet was stolen.” Devars spoke curtly. He always bit off his words and threw them at you, as if what he really wanted to do was hit you instead.

Her knees were turning to jelly. She thought she could become a courtesan and solve everything. But if Devars took one look at her and recognized her, she'd probably hang. He was a marquis.

Sophie kept her head down, her eyes downcast. The deep brim of the bonnet hid her face.

She realized Cary was purchasing the necklace. It was placed in a box, and Cary slipped it into the pocket of his greatcoat. He offered his elbow and led her outside.

As the door closed behind them with that tinkle, her legs sagged. She had to put her hand to the glass window so she did not fall down.

She had done it. Escaped.

“Sophie, are you all right?”

She didn't know why—she happened to glance into the store. Just to make sure—just to know—Devars wasn't looking at her now.

But he was.

 

He was going to catch her. Expose her. Watch her hang. Or maybe he was planning to take out his rage by killing her himself—

Sophie's heart almost exploded. Though the window she could see Devars heading toward the door. Coming for her!

He was in London. She had been attacked. But none of that mattered now. All that did matter was
escape
.

“Your carriage!” She met Cary's eyes, knowing hers must be stark with terror. “Would you take me home now? Right now?”

“What is wrong?”

She could tell him she was desperate to make love to him, but that would put his back up. Make him refuse to go. He was the most impossible man—he acted in the opposite way of all other men when it came to sex.

She was desperately seeking an answer, when she spied a tall figure with unusual silver-frosted hair. “The Duke of Saxonby! Shouldn't we talk to him? Now? Perhaps we could take him to your house and ask him questions about the Cyprian ball.”

“In the middle of Bond Street? No, angel—”

But she didn't obey. She was sure, through the fashionable people strolling, she saw Devars now on the sidewalk. She hurried toward Saxonby, which took her deeper into a larger crowd. Cary followed.