Sins of a Virgin (6 page)

“No. There’s no way to explain that without explaining my work for the Foreign Office, and that I’m not willing to do. If anything arises, I’ll handle it myself.”

“Yourself? In that case, I think I’ll head down to the tavern—”

She glared at Ian. “You two don’t count.”

He winked at her. “To begin asking questions, of course.”

Clayton paused directly in front of her so she had to crane her neck to see his face. “As much as I don’t like giving in to a murderous criminal, I still say you should stop the auction.” Although his voice was cold, concern darkened his gaze.

She sighed. It would be much easier if he were really as unfeeling as he pretended to be. “We’ve been over this already.”

“If anyone else connects you with La Petit, there are many powerful men who stand to be quite embarrassed by your virginity.”

“The chances of that are slight. The only danger is if someone sees me and recognizes me as this man must have done. Even if the men from our past compared notes with each other, who would think to connect Madame Juliette with Marie the chambermaid or Sasha the royalist?”

Ian took a large gulp of tea. “Become Madeline, the happily wed mother, and there will be even less chance of them making the connection.”

“You know why that will never happen.” Or at least as much about it as she’d told another living being. The rest of her story would make the devil himself cringe. Perhaps she’d test that theory when she met him. “I choose to sell myself for the night, not for the rest of my life.”

“What if someone else makes the connection to La Petit?” Clayton asked.

She snatched the last sandwich from the tray before Ian pilfered it. “If they do, they can bid on me with the rest. I’m finishing this auction.”

T
he barmaid rubbed her heavily perfumed bosom across Gabriel’s back as she set the tankard of ale on his table, but he kept his focus on the inebriated man sitting across from him.

The man reached for the alcohol with an unsteady hand as she stalked away. “It’s right generous of you, sir. Now where was I?”

Gabriel rested his elbow on the smooth pine table. Lenton’s valet had agreed to meet him at the Irish Hag, a tavern frequented by the servants of the aristocracy. The place was moderately clean and the ale decent, although it seemed the latter characteristic was the main enticement for the valet. If Lenton’s servant kept demanding ale for each bit of information, he’d soon be useless. “Where was the viscount last Tuesday, William?”

“Well, in the morning he had me prepare his blue superfine and dove gray waistcoat. He only wanted his cravat tied in a simple mathematical, so I have to assume he was going to visit his mother. She despises anything showy.” William sniffed, his pinched nostrils flaring.

“Then later that afternoon?” Gabriel had to wait for his answer as the valet took several large gulps.

“He had me change him into his new green riding jacket with gold buttons and braiding. He didn’t specify, so I selected his yellow waistcoat with the holly embroidery.” William sat back with a sigh. “Fine piece of craftsmanship that. Although I must confess I’ve always thought that if the tailor had gone with a slightly larger leaf, the whole thing would—”

“Did he say where he was going that afternoon?”

The man’s eyes widened and he blinked blearily a few times. “Tattersall’s, perhaps?”

It would be easy enough to check with the grooms and see if that’s where he’d gone. “Then that evening, where did he dress to go?” Gabriel asked, hoping to forestall another extended discourse on fashion.

But William apparently couldn’t think in any other terms. A sappy grin slid over his face. “That was the evening I finally perfected my personal triumph—I call it the Timid Swan. The folds of the cravat feather down from the chin in graceful wings . . .” William lifted his cup for another sip, but then glared into his empty tankard and glanced up expectantly.

Gabriel motioned to the barmaid. Her face twisted in a sneer and she sat on the lap of the man she was serving, twining her arms around his neck and giggling when he pinched her backside.

William tapped his mug on the table for a few seconds, then pushed back his chair. “Well, I’ve only got a few more hours of my day off so I think I’ll find myself a drink.”

Gabriel pointed to the chair. “Sit down.” He’d perfected the tone over years of dealing with reluctant criminals.

William sat, but his face turned sullen. “There’s no call to talk to me like that. I’m helping you, remember?”

Gabriel wished once again for some of his sister’s skill with people. As twins they’d shared many of the same talents, but it was Susan who gained people’s trust and friendship with her big, honest smiles.

Gabriel, on the other hand, relied on blunter methods. “Where was Lenton on Tuesday night?”

William shrugged. “The theater.”

“Was he escorting anyone?”

“No, I think he was meeting friends in the pit.”

“Who?” Gabriel asked.

The valet swallowed nervously. “He didn’t say.”

“What time did he come home?”

William pushed his tankard with short jabs of his finger. “Sometime after three.”

“And how was he dressed?”

The valet looked up from the mug’s progress in confusion. “I just told you. My cravat—”

“I mean, was there any damage to his clothing or signs of a struggle?”

William shook his head. “Nothing like that.” Then he paused. “Actually, now that I think on it, his cravat was mussed. I called him to the carpet over it, not that he even heard me.”

“Why wouldn’t he have heard you?”

“He was too foxed.”

Gabriel stood. “If you remember anything else about that night, let me know.”

He tossed a shilling on the table, which William snatched up, his face lightening. “Why are you asking so much about His Lordship?”

Because, curse it all, he’d give anything to see Susan’s smile again. To have her tease him about his big ears even knowing hers were just the same. But instead he said, “It’s my job to see London safe.”

Gabriel paid for the drinks, then walked out into the damp evening. His breath fogged in cottony clouds as he hailed a hackney. It wasn’t until he’d climbed inside the coach that the old fear returned. Gritting his teeth, he focused his gaze on the street outside, counting pickpockets and thieves that he passed. But that couldn’t banish the gnawing centered low in his gut. The uncertainty, the fear that he’d missed something. The fear that if he were better, smarter, or more vigilant, he might have been able to catch the murderer.

His failure seven years ago had cost Molly Simm her life.

Gabriel rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He refused to let it happen again. Unlike last time, he had solid leads. He had suspects. He’d find the killer and personally see him kicking on the end of a noose.

As the coach slowed in front of Madeline’s house, Gabriel stared out the window at a light flickering in what must be her bedroom window. He told himself the anticipation he felt was because she was going to bring him closer to his killer.

In fact, she’d bring the killer to him.

Chapter Five

“H
ave you ever been to a Cyprians’ ball, Huntford?”

“No.” Gabriel frowned, hoping to quell Madeline’s chatter as the coach jolted toward her evening entertainment. He suspected she took some unholy glee in trying to provoke a response from him. And the less he looked at her in that accursedly tempting dress, the better.

“It might shock you.”

“So you said. What precisely will astound me so?”

One delicate shoulder lifted, threatening the tenuous hold her sleeve had on the pale curve of her upper arm.

He held his breath, unsure whether it was with dread or anticipation.

“You don’t strike me as a man given to carnal pleasure.”

Hell, how was he supposed to respond to that? Argue that he loved a good swiv as much as the next man? That if he gave in to his baser instincts, he’d pull her on top of him right now and pleasure her with all sorts of carnality?

Gabriel exhaled. In some regards, she was right. He’d seen the vile underbelly of London far too closely to make use of the loose women he often dealt with. He’d seen what had driven them into that life, and no matter how randy he was, the idea of making love to a woman who’d been forced into that sort of profession held no appeal.

Neither did he want to bring some bride into the ugliness that was his life. Susan was the one who wanted to marry and make a passel of little children. She’d even picked out names for her future little ones, knitted bonnets and booties, for pity’s sake.

Not that he was a saint. He’d enjoyed the occasional relationship with a well-off widow, as long as it was purely for mutual physical satisfaction.

The carriage drew to a halt outside Chatham House.

Madeline placed a hand on his knee when he would have exited. “Just so we are clear, you’re not here as my chaperone. I don’t need your interference.”

“What are my orders then?” he asked, ignoring the hand massaging his knee.

“You are to glower occasionally and follow me about.”

“So I’m to be your lapdog?”

“Do you want to be in my lap?” She grinned at the dread he felt imprinted on his face. “No, unlike a dog, I will not have you on a leash. You’re free to pursue any of the lovelies you meet. Actually, I recommend it.” Her hand inched slowly up his thigh. “We don’t want anyone to mistakenly think you might want me.”

He clamped her devilishly distracting hand in his own and removed it from his person. “Hardly likely.”

She tugged free and climbed from the carriage, assisted by a groom. “I don’t intend to stay long.”

“Good.”

She tilted her head and glanced at him over her shoulder. “You might find you’ll enjoy yourself if you allow it.”

Not bloody likely. Being crammed into a too-small space with a bunch of gentlemen with no concerns other than whom they’d next bed was not his idea of fun. But it was another chance to investigate his suspects. He jumped from the coach and followed her through the stately columned entrance.

“Enter the ballroom a few steps behind me. I need to appear eminently attainable, yet tantalizingly out of reach.”

“That makes no sense.” Yet as her softly rounded hips swayed as she preceded him into the ballroom, strangely it did.

The boisterous notes of a Scottish reel pulsed around him as he entered. As at most London balls, couples cavorted around the dance floor, but here their motions were more exuberant and carefree. Fingers stayed intertwined longer than necessary and hands wandered with unconcerned abandon during promenades. Eyes rested with blatant hunger on breasts and backsides carefully displayed in dresses that had more in common with handkerchiefs than their namesakes. Emerald, violet, and sapphire advertised the bodies beneath with reckless ferocity.

When Madeline paused, he stood next to her. A seductive smile graced her lips, but her gaze was calculating as she surveyed the crowd.

“Find your prey?” Gabriel asked.

She didn’t look at him, but the right side of her lips quirked higher. “No, the trick is to arrange myself so my prey hunts me.”

Gabriel grabbed her arm and dragged her backward as a couple fumbled past, nearly careening into them. The woman’s dress was little more than pink gauze draped over her generous form. Her dark nipples were clearly visible through the bodice.

In her ivory dress, Madeline looked positively virginal by comparison. But that, no doubt, had been her intention all along.

Despite being already occupied, the woman shot Gabriel an admiring look as she continued past.

“The improbably named Miss Victoria Vixen and Mr. George Tundell,” Madeline supplied. “She’s between protectors right now. If you want her, she appears to be interested.”

The overblown woman held little appeal. It would be like making love to the Alps.

“Hmm, so you’re not a breast man.”

She was doing it to him again. He wasn’t about to protest that he liked bosoms quite well, just not a hideous excess of them. “I prefer your breasts.” That should put an end to her teasing.

She didn’t even blink. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone with similar measurements.”

So much for the attempt. “I didn’t come here to find a mistress.”

“Most men would leap at the added benefit.”

“Most men would be oblivious to your attempts to manipulate them.”

“Madeline!” Viscount Jamison practically skipped to her side, his grin vanishing as he looked at Gabriel. “Huntford.” He spat the name.

Seven years ago, Jamison had been a prime suspect in Gabriel’s investigation into Susan’s murder, but in the end he’d proven innocent. Yet Gabriel felt no guilt about the level of his scrutiny. If Jamison had bothered to answer the questions he’d been asked and treated his maids better, there would have been no need for Gabriel to delve more deeply into his past transgressions.

Jamison’s lip curled. “I doubt you can afford a single night with one of these women let alone one as your mistress.”

Gabriel knew he was wealthier than the constantly impoverished Jamison. But since Jamison was no longer a suspect, he wasn’t worth an argument. Gabriel merely inclined his head. “I’m here as an employee of Miss Valdan.”

Jamison’s sneer shifted into a superior smirk as he tugged Madeline toward the dance floor. “Dance with me.”

She laughed. “I like boldness in a man, although most would have asked me to dance before leading me away.”

Jamison bowed his head in mock contrition. “I could hardly say what I wanted in front of your servant.” His gaze darted over his shoulder to ensure Gabriel had heard.

Madeline’s reply was lost in the sway and press of the crowd. When she appeared on the dance floor a few seconds later, she was on the arm of the Duke of Spencer. He liked to think she’d disliked Jamison’s attitude, but it was more likely that the duke was wealthier.

Dozens of perfumes and colognes vied in the damp, warm air, coating Gabriel’s throat. He edged his way toward an open window, always keeping Madeline in his line of sight.