The Lady Hellion (6 page)

“My lord.” Taylor knocked on the open door and peered in. “I thought I heard a crash. Is anything amiss?”

Quint swallowed and dug for composure. “Everything is fine. See that Lady Sophia gets home, will you, Taylor? I am going to bed.” Without a backward glance, he strode out of the study and toward the stairs. One thing he knew, sleep would be a long time coming.

 

 

Noises pulled Sophie up from the depths of sleep. She fought it, snuggling in deeper, until light spilled into the room. “Go away,” she mumbled and flipped the bolster over her head.

“My lady,” Alice said, “his lordship is requesting your presence in his study when you’ve dressed.”

Her father wanted to see her—and so early? That jolted her awake. “What time is it?”

“Nearly one.”

Sophie blinked. “It is? I cannot believe I slept so late.”

“That is what happens when you stay out all night,” Alice muttered.

“I was not out all night. I returned at a fairly reasonable hour.” Only, then, she hadn’t been able to fall asleep. The evening’s events with Quint kept turning around and around in her head.

She rolled over and then groaned. There wasn’t a part of her that did not ache. Even the tops of her toes hurt. “Do I have time for a bath?”

“His lordship is with his man of affairs. I suppose he won’t notice if you’re a few more minutes.” Alice went to the door and poked her head into the corridor.

Sophie struggled to sit up when Alice returned. “Do you think this is about The Talk?” Sophie’d heard it so many times that she could recite it.
You need a husband, Sophia. I won’t always be around to look after you. This year, I expect you to choose one.
And while she loved her father dearly, she had no intention of following his orders. Her failure would disappoint him, which she regretted, but there was no hope for it. Marriage was impossible.

Her maid went to the wardrobe. “It’s about that time, I’m thinking.”

Sophie sighed heavily as she swung her legs over the side of the mattress.

“His lordship only wants to see you settled and happy with children of your own, my lady. All fathers do.”

Guilt pressed down on her. She would be married now, if only she hadn’t been so stupid. She’d actually believed Lord Robert would offer for her.
Many betrothed couples anticipate the wedding night, Sophia. And we’ll be betrothed as soon as I can speak with your father.

Only, he hadn’t approached her father afterwards. She’d waited and waited, hope fading each day, until she’d finally cornered him a week later at a soirée.

 

 

 

 

The memory made her cringe.
Dishonor
. She’d seen the truth in his eyes, that Robert would never believe her. That something was
wrong
with her. To that point, Robert had married another girl not long after and they had moved to his family’s estate in Wales. And Sophie had vowed never to allow anyone to humiliate her ever again.

She would not inflict her shame on another man.

By the time she’d bathed, dressed, dried her hair, and entered her father’s study, it was near three. “Good afternoon, Papa.”

Her father glanced up from his desk. His secretary was there, pen scratching madly over parchment as the marquess dictated directions. Papa was an important member of Liverpool’s inner circle, and he spent his days on both government duties and estate matters. Though he was busy, however, he always made time for her.

Her father’s face softened as he rose. “Sophia! There’s the beautiful smile to brighten up my dreary day. Come here, my dear.”

She warmed under his affection, as she always did. Her father was demonstrative and loving, never afraid to show how he felt about his family. He was still handsome at fifty-eight, tall and fit, with graying brown hair and sideburns. When she drew close, he reached for her and kissed her cheek. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your busy day. Yates, would you mind giving us a moment?”

“Of course, my lord.” The secretary gathered his things and quit the room.

When the door closed, he said, “Let’s sit, shall we? I have something I need to discuss with you.”

She folded into the chair across from his desk, clasped her hands. Readied herself.

“My dear,” he said, resuming his seat. “I know what it is to be young and enjoy one’s self—believe me, I got into my fair share of scrapes in the day—but you are a lady and the rules are different. Each year I give you the same lecture, and each year you ignore it. So I fear drastic measures must now be taken.”

Sophie blinked. This was not The Talk. Drastic measures . . . whatever did he mean? “Papa, I know you wish me to marry. I will find someone this Season, I promise.”

“That has been your answer every year since your debut. Yet you remain unmarried. You discourage suitors so handily it could be considered an art. I know I am partly to blame because I’ve indulged you all these years. But after your mother . . .” He took a deep breath and her heart squeezed painfully, both for his loss of a wife and her loss of a mother. He continued, “This Season will be different. I already have someone in mind for you. Therefore, should you not make your own choice, I will be making it for you.”

Her stomach dropped as her jaw fell open. “No! You cannot mean it.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Sophie, I am nearing sixty. I should like to see you settled. Perhaps hold a grandchild or two before I go.”

The idea would’ve knocked her off her feet had she not been sitting. She’d never considered . . . Of course, she knew he would die someday, but that day always seemed so far in the future. He was all she had. Yes, she had a stepmama and a half brother, but it wasn’t the same. This was the man who’d rocked her back to sleep each time she’d had a nightmare
. . .
the man who had let her slide down the banister in her nightclothes . . . the man who let her keep a pet piglet in the house.

“And the closer you get to thirty,” he continued, “the harder it will be to form a good match.”

Her mind reeling, she wheezed, “Who . . . who is he?”

Her father shook his head. “I shan’t say for fear you’ll come up with a way to scare him off, but this gentleman meets all my requirements in a husband for my only daughter. Just know that you will be married this year, whether you choose him or I choose him for you.” He shuffled a few papers on his desk, unable to meet her eyes, and she realized how uncomfortable he seemed.

She did not believe him. Her father would never marry her off to someone she did not want. She just needed to give him time. Put forth a reasonable effort at this year’s parties. Go for a few drives in the park. Then he would relent, she was sure of it.

But a small amount of doubt stayed with her the rest of the day.

Chapter Six

The next afternoon, Quint’s mood was blacker than obsidian. The broken glass and ink spots in his study had been dealt with, but he was no closer to determining the person responsible for the break-in or what he had been looking for. From what Quint could tell, everything was in its rightful place. Nothing of value taken. His work was safely tucked away in a location no one save him would ever find.

In addition, guilt compounded his other worries. He’d lost control in front of Sophie. Acted like a child, shouting and throwing things. How could he ever face her again?

A timid knock on the study door interrupted his concentration. “Yes?” he snapped.

One of the maids—Elizabeth? Eliza?—appeared. “My lord, there’s a man at the door asking for a Sir Stephen. He seems quite adamant that the gentleman lives here. What should I tell him?”

“Where is Taylor?”

“He is downstairs, my lord. I was dusting and heard the knocker.”

“Who did he ask for—a Sir Stephen? No one by that name lives here. Tell him he has the wrong house.”

“That’s just it, sir. He says he does have the right house, that it’s one of your lordship’s guests.”

Guests? Quint rubbed his forehead. “Who is the caller?”

“Lord MacLean, your lordship.”

That gave him pause. He’d seen MacLean over the winter in the clubs and various social events, but the two of them hadn’t exchanged even ten words. Why would a Scottish earl—one he and Sophie had discussed recently—be on Quint’s stoop asking for a nonexistent houseguest? “Show him to the front drawing room, will you?”

She bobbed a curtsey and shut the door. Quint rose and lifted his coat off the chair back, shoving his arms into the sleeves. Could this have something to do with Sophie’s duel? He started around his desk and wondered if she had gone to MacLean after all.

Cursing himself a fool, he buttoned his coat and continued to the drawing room. Sophie
should
go to MacLean. Hadn’t Quint told her never to come back? He’d been purposely cruel last evening in the hopes of keeping her away. So relief should be the prevailing emotion, not this burn blossoming in his chest—a burn he suspected might be jealousy.

Lord MacLean stood when Quint entered. “Apologies for disrupting you, Quint. I was inquiring after your houseguest, Sir Stephen.”

Quint motioned for the man to sit as he lowered into a chair. “I fear someone’s bamming you, MacLean. I have no houseguest.”

The ox-sized Scotsman frowned, appearing genuinely perplexed. “I heard him say it with my own ears. Why would your cousin lie?”

“My cousin?”

“Ran into him at Madame Hartley’s two evenings past, in an argument with Lord Tolbert. Apparently Tolbert challenged the pup to a duel, wouldn’t accept an apology instead. I had to step in, and Tolbert took offense to a Scotsman involving himself in a dispute between
English
gentlemen.”

Quint’s eyebrows lifted, and MacLean nodded. “Indeed. I could not let that stand, you ken. Tolbert’s to meet me on a field of honor and Sir Stephen’s agreed to be my second.”

Familiar pieces of information slid around in Quint’s brain: Duel. Buckskin breeches. MacLean. Young pup. Cousin to the Viscount Quint—and then they fell into place. Good God.

She had truly gone too far this time.

His fingers curled around the edges of the armrests. It was all he could do to stay seated, not to jump up and . . . what? Shake his fist in impotent anger? Pen a strongly worded note? It wasn’t as if he could charge through Mayfair, demanding answers. Christ, he was pathetic. “What does Sir Stephen look like?” he forced himself to ask.

“Young. Scarcely out of the schoolroom, if you want to know the truth. A bit short, but then everyone seems short to me. Brown hair. Spectacles. Thin.”

Hiding her eyes. Smart. No,
not
smart, he corrected. Nothing about her scheme showed intelligence. Did she have any idea of how utterly ruined she would be if discovered? A litany of questions peppered his brain, but no answers emerged. He could not imagine a single reason why she would be out and about in London Society dressed as a man. At a
brothel
, no less.

Pending a tower with an impenetrable lock, there would be no stopping her—and he could do nothing. He’d never regretted his condition more than at this moment. To think of her out in London, at night, unchaperoned, dressed as a man . . . any number of unfortunate things could happen. She needed a keeper—only her keeper would
not
be London’s biggest rake. The last man Quint wanted in Sophie’s proximity was the one before him now.

MacLean watched him closely, awaiting a response. On occasion, a reputation as a madman could definitely serve as a benefit.

Quint snapped his fingers. “Of course, my
cousin
. How could I forget the lad? I mostly keep to my study and cannot keep track of his comings and goings.”

“So he does live here?”

“Yes, he has been known to knock about the place. But keep your distance from him.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s unpredictable. Raves like a lunatic some nights. Other days he cannot get out of bed.” He tapped his temple. “
Non compos mentis.
”

MacLean lifted a brow. “Well, I wanted to speak with him about Tolbert. He was supposed to call on me yesterday, yet he never showed.”

Understandable. To pass herself off as a man would be infinitely easier at night than during the day. At least she employed some restraint. “And as the boy’s appointed guardian, I am afraid I cannot allow that. His mental status would make him an unreliable second. He might suffer a fit and shoot you instead.” MacLean frowned but nodded, and Quint asked, “Do you happen to know why Tolbert challenged Sir Stephen?”

MacLean pushed his large frame out of the chair and grinned. “I dinna ken the whole story, but I heard it was over a woman at The Pretty Kitty.”

Quint choked, which he quickly covered with a cough. “Is that so? I’ll be sure and ask the lad next time I see him. So take care, for your own sake, to give Sir Stephen a wide berth. I would not even approach him, were I you.” He stood up and held MacLean’s stare. “Stay far, far away from Sir Stephen.”

MacLean held up his hands, his brows raised. “Not a problem. But he might get into less trouble if you can fatten him up. Lad’s skinnier than a fence post.”

 

 

A large carriage waited in the alley behind the tea shop. The driver jumped down at Sophie’s approach. “Greetings, my lady.”

“Good day, Biggins.” He flung the door open for her and set the step. “Thank you.” She climbed up and inside, the well-sprung vehicle creaking slightly in protest. The curtains were drawn and a lamp had been lit in the interior. Biggins closed the door behind her.

“I apologize for being late,” Sophie told the two women waiting inside as she settled on the seat.

“Not a problem, my lady,” Pearl Kelly said, smiling. “Mary and I have just been comparing tricks of the trade, as it were.” Carefully positioned chestnut curls framed Pearl’s delicate face, the style both youthful and flattering. Though it was early in the day, her jewels glittered in the dim interior. Sophie had never seen Pearl without something sparkling on her fingers and ears.

“I am indeed sorry to have missed that conversation. Perhaps—”

“No, you know that I cannot.” Pearl wagged a finger at Sophie. “Lady Winchester and the duchess both would have my hide. Not until your ladyship is married.”

Sophie bit off the retort, that she would never be married, because what was the point? No one believed her anyhow. She turned to the thin, black-haired girl next to Pearl. “Mary, thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I would have come to you at The Kitty, if it were possible, but I am afraid Sir Stephen must remain out of sight for a few days.”

Sir Stephen may have extricated himself from his dawn appointment with Tolbert, thanks to Lord MacLean’s intervention, but now he was involved in another, also thanks to Lord MacLean. Who knew the men of the
ton
were such a hotheaded bunch behind closed doors?

Mary shrugged. “No problem, milady. It’s not every day I gets a chance to chat with Pearl Kelly and the daughter of a marquess.”

“And sneaking out won’t cause any problems for you?”

“No, milady. My friend Tibby will cover for me.”

“Still, it’s best not to keep you. I wondered if you could tell me about Rose’s fancy gent, the one she believed would set her up in a house.”

“Set her up? Rose never said anythin’ to me about gettin’ a protector, your ladyship.”

“She told her sister, apparently. I thought she might have shared the news with you as well.”

“I’m afraid not, milady. She did have some regular customers, but I never heard that one of them was sweet on her.”

Sophie exchanged a quick glance with Pearl. “So these recent regulars,” Pearl said. “Any idea of their identities?”

Mary cocked her head and contemplated the question. “Well, let’s see. I only knows ’em by what she called ’em, er, their pet names. . . .” She raised her eyebrows.

“Yes, I understand.” Then Pearl said to Sophie, “They give them names based on the gentleman’s performance or preferences in the bedroom.”

“Ah,” Sophie said. “And so?”

“Let’s see. One of O’Shea’s men. She called him Sweaty. Another gent, called him
La Gauche.
” Mary put her hand in her lap, extended one finger, and swung it to the left. Pearl sniggered and Sophie blurted, “They can do that?” which caused Mary and Pearl to dissolve into a fit of giggles.

“Very well,” Sophie drawled to get back to the issue at hand. “Anyone else?”

“There was the Watcher. Never wanted to touch her, just watch her . . . you know.” Mary shifted on the seat. “One of ’em she called King George because he seemed not right in the head, God rest His Majesty’s soul.”

“Not right in the head, how?” Sophie asked, sharply.

“Erratic, I think. Not violent, just . . . strange. Talked all sorts of nonsense. But I don’t think he would have hurt her, milady. Rose had a good head on her shoulders.”

“I do not doubt it, but evil does not always show itself outright. Others you can think of?”

“Oh, there was a man who stammered when he got excited. Tangle tongue, she called him. That’s all I can remember, your ladyship.”

“Thank you, Mary. Will you send word if you encounter any of these men? I’d like to see if I can learn their identities.”

“I will, milady. More ’n likely they’ll start seeing other girls at The Kitty.”

Sophie dug in her reticule, pulled out a few coins, and handed them to Mary. “Hide these and use them for yourself.”

“Thank you, milady. I will.”

“You shall escort her back?” Sophie asked Pearl.

“Indeed, my lady. Be safe.”

“And you as well.”

 

 

A second visitor arrived not long after MacLean departed, one Quint could not turn away—no matter how much he wanted to.

“Quint, thank you for seeing me.” Lord David Hudson strode into Quint’s study, leaning slightly on the walking stick in his left hand. “Although you will need to explain why you refuse to come to me, illness or no.”

Hudson had served as Quint’s contact at the Home Office for seven years. Razor-sharp and charismatic, Hudson was undoubtedly one of the most important men in the British government, though what he actually
did
was a bit vague. He’d recruited Quint for service during the Napoleonic conflict, and Quint had enjoyed his years of developing complicated codes the French could not break. The two kept in loose contact these days. Hudson knew Quint was working on something but did not know the particulars. Quint preferred to keep his work to himself until it was completed.

“This could’ve been handled in correspondence,” Quint said. “There was no need to come all the way to Mayfair.”

“Yes, your man did attempt to turn me away at the door. And suffice it to say I did not come for the hospitality.” He glanced around for a place to sit.

Quint reluctantly cleared a chair of its contents. “What if I had contracted something contagious?”

Hudson strode to the chair, flipped up the tails of his topcoat with a flourish, and sat. He propped his walking stick against the desk. “But you have not contracted anything. You are perfectly well.”

Better not to argue
, Quint thought. He had no intention of explaining precisely how
unwell
he was. “Now that you are here, perhaps you can explain why you wanted to see me.”

Hudson rested his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers. “How much do you know about the current political status of Greece?”

Quint cocked his head and sifted through the pieces of information inside his brain. “I know that revolution has been brewing there for a number of years, and that the Filiki Eteria has begun massive initiations with the plans of launching a liberation campaign against the Ottomans. The Greeks have the support of Alexander I, who is presumably hoping to colonize after the bloodshed, and England would rather Russia not get a foothold so close to our shores.”

“Very good. Castlereagh has maintained the need for status quo on the face of it, to preserve the peace of Europe as long as we can. But I am orchestrating things quietly to make sure, whenever it begins, this skirmish goes the way we want.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, you can see where I am headed, I suppose. I know the work you did against Bonny, and I also know your penchant for solving the unsolvable puzzle. I suspect you are attempting to crack Vigenère’s cipher during your self-appointed incarceration. I do not need to tell you how valuable that solution would be to the British government when every other government in Europe uses it. We could read and decipher every coded message ever sent. So the question becomes, who else knows of this work?”