Deeper in Sin (9 page)

It was Saxonby who burst out with the obvious question: “What in hell happened to you last night?”

“I was attacked by footpads,” Cary answered. “Three of them. Apparently, I'm getting old, because they disarmed me, got me onto the ground, and swarmed me.” He spoke lightly, but he carefully watched each of the men. As he'd surmised, that wasn't the reason they were here.

“That must be the explanation,” Sax said, turning to the magistrate. “He was with the woman, and they were both attacked.”

“And he left her there,” sneered the dark-haired man.

“Look, my head was knocked around by a few boots last night,” Cary said. He turned one of the chairs in front of his desk to face the three men. His body ached too much to let him remain standing. “I don't have the foggiest idea what you're talking about. I was with a woman. But she accompanied me home, along with my coachman, when I passed out.”

“Passed out?” The magistrate scrubbed his jaw.

“Convenient,” muttered the other man.

“I beg your pardon,” Cary snapped, irritated. “I didn't catch your name.” Nor did he know the name of the magistrate. “Would you mind telling me why you are here?”

“Apologies, Your Grace,” the magistrate said hastily. “This is John Rycroft, one of the best Bow Street Runners. I am Sir Henry Clemont.” The magistrate made a circular motion with his hand to the Runner, obviously requesting a bow.

Rycroft still looked belligerent. He gave a fast, perfunctory bow.

“The nature of your business?” Cary prompted.

Clemont plucked out a large linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. “The body of a young woman was discovered this morning in the mews directly behind your house, Your Grace.”

Cary shoved up from his chair. A familiar feeling hit him—sickening horror, cold shock, sorrow.

“Huddled in a corner at the end of your rear wall, she is,” the Runner said, picking up the story. Hatred and accusation burned coldly in his eyes. “Given my experience with dead bodies—with bodies that came to that end violently—I would say she's been dead for a few hours.”

“There is a woman dead in my mews?” Had he heard this right, or had the blows last night knocked his brain loose?

He looked to Saxonby, who answered, “Yes, Caradon. There is.”

Cary turned back to the magistrate. “You are saying she was killed violently. That she was murdered?”

Rycroft answered. “Aye, she was killed violently. Head caved in.”

The Runner was succinct. Cary suspected his earlier, roundabout way of expressing himself had been deliberate—to make people say things that incriminated them. Because one look at the Runner's face told Cary that the man believed he had killed this woman.

“You brought a woman home for some fun,” Rycroft went on. “What happened? Did she change her mind? Charge you too much? So you lost your temper with her and smashed her head in.”

“Rycroft, His Grace is a hero of war,” the magistrate said nervously.

“Nothing stands in the way of justice for me,” the Runner responded quietly. “His Grace admits to bringing the woman here.”

“Not the one you are talking about,” Cary said. “My woman is still very much alive. And I had nothing to do with the murder of this other woman.”

Rycroft sneered. “And I suppose you sent your trollop home safely, Your Grace?”

“She is still here, and she is not a trollop. Speaking of which—the murdered girl's body is still there?”

The Runner watched his face. Intently. “It's not the prettiest of sights, Your Grace.”

“I know how horrific and pitiable the sight of a murdered young woman is. I experienced it in Ceylon during the uprising.”

Cary had dealt with a girl's murder in Ceylon. There he had known who the killer was—one of his soldiers. The man had raped and strangled a young Ceylonese woman.

“I came to you, Your Grace,” Sir Henry said, “in the hopes you might have some knowledge as to how this young woman came to be behind your house last night.”

He realized Sir Henry was nervous about accusing a duke of murder.

“I do not know anything about a young woman. I have no idea who she is or why she would be there—” He broke off. “It's possible she was a servant. At my house or at one of the others—the mews serves two streets. All the houses have many maids on staff—”

It could have been a girl who worked in his house. Damnation. His gut ached with shock and horror.

Cary strode to the bellpull and yanked it several times.

Penders arrived within moments. “Your Grace?”

“Are any of the maids or female servants missing?”

“Missing, Your Grace?”

“Yes, missing, damn it. Not accounted for.”

“The female staff are generally under the charge of Mrs. Kilpatrick.”

The housekeeper. “Send her here. At once.”

“Maybe you might be willing to trouble yourself to have a look at her,” Rycroft said. “See if you recognize her.”

“I do not know every servant in this household. Not the female ones.” Those issues used to go to his mother. Up until this winter, when she had gotten so ill.

“Don't you? Would have thought all peers knew which young, pretty girls they had in their houses.”

“So she was . . . pretty?” Cary asked.

“Assume she was. Though there's so little left of her face, it's hard to tell,” Rycroft said casually.

Mrs. Kilpatrick, a woman with graying hair who had worked for his family since starting as a maid, walked in through the open door. According to her, all the female servants were accounted for. They had shown up for their duties as expected that morning.

“Thank you,” he said. “That is all for now.”

After the housekeeper left, Cary said, “Let me see the girl. Let me see if I know her.”

“Would you admit to it if you do, Your Grace?” the Runner asked, impertinently. “Knowing how much your sort hates any kind of a scandal, you might claim you don't know her. Identifying her is an important thing. Even if just to tell her family what's happened to her.”

“I am aware of that,” Cary snapped. “You will get the truth from me.”

He saw Sax flinch at his angry tone.

“I had nothing to do with this woman's death,” he repeated. He didn't expect them to believe him, but he had to at least say it.

“It's known you went through a great deal of torture when you were held as a prisoner by the heathens in Ceylon,” Rycroft said. “Might have made you snap—”

“I did not snap. Not even while I was being tortured,” Cary said, forcing the hot anger out of his voice. Time to sound icy and autocratic, like his father. “Let us discuss some of the facts,” he continued, his voice as cold as a glacier. “You believe the woman has been dead for a few hours. When do you think she was murdered?”

“We do not yet have a definitive idea, Your Grace,” Rycroft said. “It's an estimation. Perhaps three o'clock in the morning. Or perhaps earlier.”

He had been with Sophie every moment since he had encountered her with the Marquis of Halwell at the Cyprian Ball.

Cary strode to the door. “What are you waiting for? Take me to her.”

“In your robe, Your Grace?” Rycroft asked.

“Bugger it. Yes, in my robe. I don't give a damn what I am dressed in.”

 

Rain streamed down. In London, spring rain was cold, bone-chilling, and went right through you to freeze your soul. It was a reminder he was at home in England, and not in Ceylon where the rain would be warm and sultry.

Cary grabbed umbrellas from his footmen. Even with the cover, his banyan quickly soaked up the rain. The bottom six inches of it got coated in mud as he strode down his rear lawn, then headed out through the gate to the lane of mud and horse dung along the mews. A young Runner stood there, guarding the body.

Pale didn't describe the young man of the law. The lad was even whiter than Sophie had been, his pallor tinged with green. “Go up to the house,” Cary suggested to the lad. “Go to the kitchen at the back and tell Cook the duke has asked her to make you a cup of tea.” In the army, he had dealt with many horrified young men.

The lad looked grateful, then sobered and glanced to the magistrate.

“Do as His Grace says, lad,” Sir Henry said.

Cary walked over to the body. Saxonby followed, his expression grim. Cary squatted down, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Then he knew why he was confused.

She was lying curled up, and he had been trying to locate her head. But Rycroft was right. This girl had been bludgeoned in a vicious way, and what remained of her head made him sick. Even after he'd been on a battlefield and had seen men decapitated by cannon fire.

The young woman had dark hair. Blood and dirt coated her gown, but it was a pink silk. It was hard to judge what she looked like. The gown indicated she was not one of his maids.

The dress looked familiar.

He studied her mashed face while his gut roiled.

Now he knew. She was the girl who had been at the Cyprian ball. Sally, the one who had argued with Angelique and who had run when her skirt was torn.

How had she ended up here?

He looked up at Saxonby, who had also squatted to get a better look. His friend had put his hand over his mouth and looked as if he wanted to hurl the contents of his stomach.

“I've seen worse on the battlefield,” Cary said. “Do you recognize her? She was at the Cyprian ball.”

“And what—followed you home?” Sax asked.

“The last I saw her, she was leaving in a carriage. She had a protector and had no interest in me.”

Cary straightened, and Rycroft stalked over to him. “You thought she was a maid. I didn't disabuse you of that, Your Grace,” the Runner said. “But the truth be told, that lass is no maid.”

“No, she is not. She is a courtesan.”

“You knew her. Is she the woman you left with?”

“No.” He related what little he knew about the woman—the fight between her and Angelique at the Cyprian ball. The fact that he had seen the girl leave in a carriage bought for her by Viscount Willington.

When he finished, Rycroft said, “A whore, then.”

“Perhaps. But I still want to see justice done.”

The Runner bristled. “As do I, Your Grace. Doesn't bother me what class a victim or a killer comes from. I don't pursue justice based on anyone's class or position. Just so we're clear, Your Grace. Just so you don't get your back too far up when I come to ask you more questions.”

“What sort of questions do you want me to answer?”

“Nothing that will be too troublesome,” Sir Henry put in. He had stayed far back from the body.

Rycroft wore his supercilious expression. “What about this Viscount Willington, Your Grace? Is he the sort of bloke who could do this?”

“I would say not. Willington is—he is a gentleman.”

“A toff who likes his fun with the ladies, but maybe, if his back were against the wall, he would attack and kill like an animal,” Rycroft said.

“I would not have believed him capable,” Cary said.

“Is there a Mrs. Willington?”

“There is a Viscountess Willington,” Cary answered sharply. “But she is frail and delicate, and I doubt she did this.”

“Women can be right tigresses when they feel they're losing their security, Your Grace. Now, what were you doing last night? After you left the Cyprian ball.” The Runner nodded toward Saxonby. “You say a female went with you.”

“She did. An innocent young woman who had come to London from the country to become a courtesan as her family faces starvation. I intended to take her back to her rooms, then send her back to her home today, before she ruined herself. When we left the Argyle rooms, we went to the stews. It was my intention to frighten her into returning home, by showing her where courtesans ended up—prostituting themselves in the stews. We were set upon by three ruffians. Unfortunately, they ultimately got the better of me, leaving me unconscious. The young woman brought me home, had my servants fetch a physician, then spent the night watching over me.”

“I'm sure she did,” the Runner said primly. “So this young . . . woman can vouch for you. That you didn't leave your room.”

Cary paced. “Given I did not wake up until shortly before you arrived, I definitely did not leave my room. But yes, the young woman can attest to that fact.”

“Assuming she was awake the entire time and can make any such statement with complete honesty. And with the assumption her word can be trusted.”

“This is England.” Cary's voice was raspy and dangerously low. “Where a man is innocent until proven to be guilty.”

“Have a care, Rycroft,” the magistrate warned quietly. Cary could now see his presence here, afraid Rycroft's belligerent manner would anger a duke, a duke also considered a hero of war.

“All right then,” the Runner said grudgingly. “But ye couldn't say if she left yer room, Your Grace.”

“You don't seriously think a woman was capable of this.”

“Aye, I do, Your Grace. A woman can surprise you. This young woman of yours may have had it in for a rival.”

“And met her in the mews behind my house to strangle her in the muck?” Anger coiled in him. He wasn't surprised the Runner suspected he could be a murderer—with a young woman dead behind his house. But to think Sophie did it, was madness.

“I think the question is”—Cary's voice remained raspy and cold; having to speak so much was wearing on his voice—“why was the girl in the mews? Or was she killed elsewhere and brought here? Again, why?”