Deeper in Sin (20 page)

The door opened, and a second monk admitted them. Sophie laughed out loud. She didn't mean to; it was just exactly what she'd pictured. And she was so nervous, she giggled.

On and on they walked, then a figure stepped out—a woman, naked but for leather draped around her hips. Her large breasts hung and swayed heavily. And they were utterly bare, though the nipples were a scarlet that couldn't be natural.

The woman cracked a whip against the ground. “Halt. To pass you must answer my questions. What is your darkest fantasy, my lord?”

“My fantasies aren't dark, my dear. They are as pure as fresh snow. Innocent and sweet.” A kind of wryness dripped from his tones. “And I am a duke.”

“My apologies, Your Grace.” The raven-haired woman assessed Sophie. “Would you enjoy watching me whip your darling companion?”

“No!” Sophie said—then she tried to swallow the word as the woman's very dark brows lifted in surprise.

“Not now,” Cary said coolly. “Perhaps later.”

They were walking in a space that looked like a tunnel built of stone.

Out of earshot of the woman, farther up the tunnel, Sophie squeaked, “Later?”

“I have to make it look like we are here for fun, Sophie, love.”

“But would you . . . want her to hurt me?”

“Of course not.” He grasped her hands. He stopped and pulled her to him. “Have I ever done anything that would make you think I would hurt you?”

“No. You have rescued me.”

“Remember that. I will never hurt you. I promise you. I care about you.”

Cared about her? Her breath flew out. Was he saying . . . Could he possibly . . . be falling in love with her?

He let her go. “We're almost at the house,” he said.

Sophie gasped.

The house proved to have long corridors running front to back, with many rooms that led off the main hall. Like the other brothel, the sweaty, heavy tang of people having sex filled the air. She heard grunts. Cries. Even screams! Muted and from behind closed doors.

There were all sorts of strange contraptions. Long, slender benches made of leather and iron. Along one wide bench, four women kneeled, their bottoms bared. A tall man with huge muscles spanked each woman with a riding crop. One spank in turn, moving along the line, making all the voluptuous cheeks jiggle. The man wore no shirt, only breeches. His skin was coppery brown and slick with sweat. He wore a black mask, and dark stubble shaded his cheeks. He was handsome, if one liked big men. There was a huge bulge in the front of his breeches.

Sophie looked away, blushing.

She realized Cary was watching her. Only her. Not the naked women, the scenes of pain. All around them gentlemen watched, and while they did, they fondled half-naked women. The women fondled them. All sorts of members were exposed and being touched.

The Duke of Caradon was looking only at her.

At another contraption, a standing one, a woman was tied hand and foot. She was half naked, her shift pulled down to her waist. Her red hair hung loose, falling in a flood of bright ringlets down her back. Behind her, a handsome black-haired young man applied a whip with frightening force. The woman took each stroke. Her back was marked but not broken, which meant the whip's lash could not be very strong.

Sophie recognized the woman by her red hair. She was one of the five courtesans who had sponsored the Cyprian ball. The Fiery Rose, she was called. Obviously, because of her hair.

Women were not the only ones taking punishment. A man lay naked between a woman's spread legs while another woman whipped his derrière.

The whipping at the large frame ended. The dark-haired man gently untied the woman. Sophie was struck by the tenderness he showed after the whipping. A robe was brought by a man without a shirt—a servant, or man who worked here. The dark-haired gentleman wrapped it around the woman and led her away.

“You next.” The hooded, barrel-chested man pointed at Sophie with his riding crop.

“Not her,” Cary said.

“If she won't play, you have to leave,” grunted the dungeon master. “You are to do the honors of punishing her, my lord.”

“I'm a damned duke.”

“Your Grace,” the man corrected.

In a soft voice that only Cary could hear, she said to him, “We have to find out about Halwell and Stratham, and we can't be thrown out. I'll do it. If you are the one holding the whip, you won't hit me hard.”

“Sophie, God no. I can't do this.”

But she knew they must. They were drawing attention. And they had to find out who had attacked her. That had been far worse.

And she remembered what the man had said—he'd been paid to kill her.

He had not finished his job. Did that mean he would try again?

She stepped forward. “Do you wish to have your dress removed?” the man with the whip asked.

She hadn't thought about that part! Though he asked as if she had a choice.

“She will remain clothed,” Cary said.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

The man smelled of sweat as he got close to Sophie. She held her breath.

“Hold out your arms. Press your wrists and ankles against the pads,” he instructed.

Coarse rope slid around her wrists, then her stocking-clad ankles. He pulled them tight and knotted them. She couldn't move.

She twisted to see Cary approach, holding the whip.

It hadn't really hurt the other woman. She had nothing to fear. Except she probably looked afraid.

Cary gazed at her. There was such pain on his face. Suddenly, he shook his head abruptly as if a bee were buzzing around him.

He straightened, his face revealing absolute anguish. He threw down the whip. “I won't bloody well do it.”

The large man stepped right in front of Cary in a menacing way—

Suddenly, the man was on the floor, and Cary's boot was on his back, pinning him against the floorboards. The leather-clad man's right arm was twisted behind him, and Cary held it. The man couldn't move, and his face was pale with pain.

Sophie had barely seen Cary move. But in seconds, he'd overwhelmed the huge man.

“You won't throw us out. You will take us to the madam of this godforsaken place,” Cary said.

 

He'd been stunned when Sophie had agreed to be whipped.

More so when she revealed how much she trusted him.

Cary rubbed his temples. The memories had brought on a throbbing in his head. She had trusted him, and he had been afraid to apply the whip.

He remembered the last time he had been here and how damnably wrong everything had gone....

The next morning, he'd decided to get the hell out of England and become a soldier. But that night, he had been here, playing sex games. He'd come with the other Wicked Dukes.

While playfully whipping a nude courtesan, he'd lost control.

He'd hurt the poor woman. Fortunately, Sin had stepped in and stopped him. Cary had blamed it on his drunken state. But in his soul, something had snapped. An uncontrollable rage had gripped him. It had been illogical, but he'd wanted to hurt the woman. He'd been enraged with her; he'd reacted with her that way, believing her to be one of the people who had hurt him.

After he had been touched by his sick, perverse kidnapper, he could never lose the feeling that sex was wrong. Bad. Every time he tried to enjoy it, all he could remember was the man's sick, lustful glee. It warped everything for him. Made any desire he felt seem repugnant.

That had snapped when he was whipping the courtesan. He was furious at his desire. He wanted to punish her and himself, even though she was entirely innocent.

Despite his confused and mixed-up feelings toward sex, he'd fought to be normal. He had made love to many, many courtesans to prove to himself he was normal. But that night, he realized how much of a mess he actually was....

With Sophie at his side, he was being taken to the brothel's madam.

“There is something wrong,” Sophie said. “You looked so haunted when you held the whip.”

“I will not discuss it,” he said as they reached the madam's rooms.

The woman who ran the brothel was plump, with black hair piled in a mountain of curls, and an enormous bosom. She greeted them, then said, with glittering excitement in her eyes, “Are you a murderer, Your Grace? If so, how utterly intriguing. You must tell me all—what drove you to do it. And how it felt.”

“For Christ's sakes, I am not a killer. I came to ask about two of your patrons.” He pulled out a wad of notes and handed them to her. “The first is Lord Stratham. Was he here—?” He gave the date of Sophie's attack.

“Yes, he was here that night.”

“When did he arrive?” Sophie had been attacked close to dawn.

“It was after midnight, and he remained here until long after the sun had come up.”

“What of Lord Halwell? He is one of your regular clients.”

“Lord Halwell has not been here for several weeks, Your Grace.”

“Then where does he go to satisfy his need for the perverse?”

The madam shrugged. “I have no idea. His tastes no longer profit me, so I no longer care.” She snapped her fingers. “I dismiss him. Like so.”

“I believe you do know. He was a wealthy client. You would want to know who poached him away.”

“Why do you ask me all these questions?” Her face lit up with understanding. “You suspect Stratham or Halwell of the murder of that strumpet because they like to tie up women and whip them.”

“They are just two of a large pool of suspects,” he said casually. “Thank you for your help, Madame. My partner and I will now leave.”

“Your partner is very sweet. Very lovely. She exudes innocence.” The woman leaned toward Sophie. “When His Grace tires of you, come to me. I could make you a fortune, my dear.”

“That will not happen,” Cary said.

“I would never want to work in a brothel,” Sophie said quickly. “Never.”

“Of course. And with your beauty, if you are clever, you will never have to.”

As they left the madam, Cary said, “Before we go, I want to question some of the women here. I want to make sure the madam told us the truth.”

“But you paid her.”

“And another might have paid her more to lie for him.”

It was hard, at first, to watch while he spoke to the beautiful bevy of courtesans. But Caradon kept looking away from them. Watching Sophie. And when gentlemen approached her, Cary leveled a predatory stare at them. A warning.

He watched over her like a wild, possessive lion.

After speaking to many women, he returned to her. “Several women saw Stratham here that night. And also on the night of Sally Black's death. Other men I suspected were also here at the times of Sally's murder—when we speculate it was committed—or at the time of your attack. But as your attacker claimed to have been paid, unfortunately, we are at square one.” He groaned.

As they traveled home, she said, “I am so confused. I keep trying to sort out my thoughts. There seem to be three possibilities. It is someone who wanted to kill Sally and me, and needed someone to make a scapegoat for the crime. It is someone who wants you to look guilty because they want you to be arrested, or at least shunned. Or it's a coincidence—Oh!”

“What, love?”

“Your coachman told me you had suffered two accidents and a previous attack by footpads. What if those were also done by the murderer?”

“For what purpose? If I had been killed, I wouldn't be alive to be a scapegoat.”

“That's true,” she admitted.

“There is another solution,” Cary said.

“What's that?”

“You said there was a man you feared. A man who tried to force you to become his mistress. The attack could have been motivated by his lust for you. He likely hates me for taking you from his clutches.”

And she knew Devars was in London.

“Who is he, Sophie?”

She couldn't say. If Cary confronted him, the theft would come out and she would be arrested.

“His name, Sophie.”

There was more than she in danger. If it was Devars who had done this, he intended to hurt or destroy Cary.

But if she told him, and Cary went after Devars, she would go to prison.

“I can't tell you.” Tears came then, spilling down her cheeks.

“Damn, don't cry. All right. But I will find out,” he said.

 

Breakfast in bed. It was so decadent. Sophie supposed courtesans did that. Her lady's maid had worked before for an actress who had many male admirers who gave her gifts and “visited.” Her maid claimed the actress always took her breakfast in bed.