Title Sinful Tales of Desirable Ladies

by Lucinda Nelson

  Taking a rope, he fashioned a halter and reins around his stallion’s head, then led the horse from his stall. Grabbing a thick handful of black mane, Solomon vaulted aboard his bare back.

  Ducking his head low over the horse’s neck to avoid cracking his head on the top of the stable door, he struck a gallop the instant the stallion was clear.

  “Tell me everything,” Solomon ordered as Walters galloped hard at his side.

  “We saw Miss Wolcott shove Mrs. Wolcott out the door,” he replied. “We ran in, and we found Jake trying to put out the fire with a blanket. We got him out and started yelling for Miss Wolcott. She hurried the servants out as she had gone back for them, but her clothes caught fire and she stopped to get her robe off.”

  “Is that how she got burned?”

  “Partly, Your Grace,” Walters answered, his tone grim. “She got it off, then as she was running, she tripped and fell.”

  Solomon groaned through his teeth. “How bad?”

  “In truth, it could have been far worse. We picked her up and beat the fire out with a rug and she fainted shortly after. She was in the care of Mrs. Wolcott when I left to come get you, and a doctor has been summoned.”

  Riding hard through the dark and silent streets, Solomon asked, “How did you get to me so quickly?”

  The man’s teeth gleamed in a grin. “I stole a horse, Your Grace. I let it loose at your property to find its way back.”

  “I think in this case you can be forgiven for horse theft,” Solomon said. “I will make certain it is returned to its owner.”

  A crowd had gathered and men with buckets had formed a chain to throw water on the blazing townhouse. Thundering up at a fast gallop, Solomon leaped from the stallion’s back before the horse came to a halt, and threw the rope to a small lad standing by, watching the drama.

  The fire was mostly out, but smoke still poured from the shattered windows and burned Solomon’s eyes and throat.

  “Your Grace.”

  Spinning around, his eyes searching the darkness, he found Mrs. Wolcott on the steps of a neighboring home waving at him. The servants stood behind them as though on guard while one of the mercenaries stood nearby. Striking a run, he discovered Teresa sitting there as well, huddled under a blanket and shivering.

  She gazed at him from under the blanket without smiling and he scented the odor of smoke in her hair as he sat down beside her. Not knowing what to say, and not even an “Are you all right?” question would suffice. Clearly, she was far from all right. Wishing he could take her hand, hold her close to him, tell her things would be fine, Solomon could only gaze into her eyes and be miserable with her.

  “A physician is on his way,” Mrs. Wolcott said softly. “But she refuses to have me look at her. She says she is fine.”

  Teresa gazed off into the crowd without actually watching them, Solomon suspected. “Will you let a physician look at you?” he asked gently.

  Slowly, Teresa shook her head from side to side. “I am all right, Sol. This is neither the time or place for a physician.”

  He nodded slowly. “Are you certain?”

  Teresa managed a tiny smile. “They are painful I will admit, but I can deal with them until I am in privacy.”

  “You will all come back to my house with me,” he said, his gaze including the cook and the maid. “You will be safe there.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” She wept silent tears. She took her eyes from his, and continued to weep without sobbing, and neither of the servants appeared interested in comforting her. Without leaving Teresa’s side, he beckoned Anson Walters to him. The man approached and bowed.

  “Take the horse,” Solomon ordered quietly. “Tell my coachman to bring the big landau here and he is to make those horses run. Bring him back here, Mr. Walters.”

  Mr. Walters bowed. “I will, Your Grace.”

  He slipped away through the mix of people, and swung into the saddle of the waiting horse. Within moments, the sound of hoof beats faded into nothing.

  Movement caught his eye. Turning his head, he saw a small man hurrying toward them with a leather satchel over his shoulder. Assuming this was the physician, he stood up and walked down the steps to meet him. “You are the doctor?” he asked.

  “Yes.” The man suddenly recognized a lord despite Solomon’s lack of appropriate dress, and bowed. “My Lord.”

  “Do you have ointments and balms for burns?” Solomon asked. “The patient will, er, not allow herself to be examined by you at this time. She wishes for privacy and that is not to be found here on the street.”

  The doctor looked past him toward Teresa. “Miss Wolcott,” he said. “Yes, I have items that she can possibly put on herself.”

  Opening his satchel, the physician pulled out a few small jars and handed them to Solomon. “Have her put these on her burns three to four times a day.”

  Solomon accepted them. “As you see, it is the middle of the night and I have no coin. You will be compensated for these and your time tomorrow.”

  “Very good, My Lord.”

  The little man closed his satchel and bowed again, then turned back the way he had come. Solomon returned to his perch beside Teresa and set the jars beside her.

  In silence, he watched as the last buckets of water were thrown on the remaining embers of the fire, and the men began to talk of returning to their homes. A constable was among them, unseen by him until now, helping to put the fire out.

  With his little book, he asked questions and wrote answers, often glancing toward Solomon and Teresa. At last he came to the steps and bowed. “My Lord.”

  “It is ‘Your Grace’,” Solomon replied dryly.

  “My apologies, Your Grace. Is it possible to speak to the young lady?”

  “Not right now, constable. But I will have her write down everything that happened from her point of view in a day or so, and have it delivered to you. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Yes, of course. Now I understand from the men there that they saw a man on a horse throw a bottle with a flaming rag in it through the window. Your Grace, do you have any idea who could have done this?”

  “That, too, will be added to the letter. Please, do not trouble Miss Wolcott any longer. As you can see, she is distressed.”

  “Your Grace.”

  The constable departed, and the crowd of watchers gradually dispersed to their homes. His stallion was tied to a post, and his small minder taken home with his parents.

  The hired mercenaries stood in a small cluster, talking in soft voices, occasionally shooting glances toward the group on the stairs. Once again, movement from the shadows caught Solomon’s attention. It was Thomas.

  “Thomas.”

  Mrs. Wolcott ran down the steps to her husband, and in spite of the watching eyes, hurled herself into his arms, weeping. Holding her close, no doubt able to smell the smoke in the air and immediately recognize what happened, Thomas’s eyes met Solomon’s. And Solomon shivered involuntarily.

  When his wife was at last calm, Thomas walked with her toward Solomon, observing his sister huddled under her blanket. “Is she hurt?” Thomas asked, his voice odd quiet with the deepest tremors of rage within it.

  “Some burns,” Solomon replied, succinct. “I have balms here from the physician. My coach will be here soon to take you all to my home.”

  “Thank you. How did the fire start?”

  “A flaming torch thrown through your window by a horseman. The guards could do nothing to stop it.”

  “I see.”

  Keeping his wife close, Thomas sat down on the other side of Teresa, and, like Solomon, offered comfort with his presence rather than words. His voice still oddly soft, Thomas asked a few more questions, getting the story little by little from his wife, the servants and the mercenaries.

  “You saved their lives, little sister,” Thomas said, his voice light. “The cook and the maid would not be here without you. They would have died.”

  Teresa continued to stare into the
dark, seeing only what was going on in her inner thoughts. Thomas met Solomon’s gaze over her head, the flames of his rage banked for the moment. “Thank you for coming, Sol,” he said, his voice quiet.

  “It was no trouble at all.”

  At last, the big landau with Solomon’s family crest on the door charged at a full gallop down the street, and Solomon had a moment to be glad the streets were empty at that hour.

  Walters reined in the now blowing horse he rode beside the coach. The coachman pulled the sweating team in, and leaped down from the seat. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing, “I came as quickly as I could.”

  “You did very well, Charles. Now please assist these ladies inside.”

  He himself helped Teresa into the back, nestling her between her brother and sister-in-law, still in her blanket, while Charles got the servants in and closed the door. Taking a moment to walk back to the mercenaries, he said, “Two of you stand where the footmen ride and come with us. The rest of you, get yourselves to my house as quickly as you can, Anson Walters will show you the way. I am sorry I cannot wait for you.”

  The mercenaries bowed. “We will be there soon, Your Grace.”

  Untying his stallion from the ring, Solomon vaulted aboard his back. As the coachman expertly turned the team in the middle of the road, Solomon rode beside the carriage, watching Teresa and unable to halt himself from worrying. What will this incident do to her state of mind? She is tough, surely she will bounce back and become the same girl you are falling in love with.

  ***

  Miss Teresa Wolcott

  Unable to halt her shaking, her flesh burning with an agonizing pain, Teresa lay in the huge bed in Solomon’s guest quarters. The ointments and balms sat untouched on the sideboard across the room where Solomon had put them before wishing her a goodnight and departing. Amelia tried to persuade her to let her help, but Teresa shook her head. “Please, this is somewhat embarrassing. I will put it on myself.”

  Still feeling the shock of nearly dying by falling headlong into a pool of flames. Had the mercenaries not gotten to her so fast, she would be dead – or worse. Restless, she stripped herself of her soiled nightdress and washed as best she could.

  In spite of the soothing balm she carefully dabbed onto her burns, she did not sleep at all, for her inner and outer miseries would not permit it. At last, as dawn crept over the skyline, unable to stand the pain any longer, she got up to sit in a chair by the window. Watching the sun rise, she pondered how close she had come to a terrible death, and suppressed a shiver.

  While they did not ease her pain entirely, they did soothe the worst of it. Breathing easier at last, she lay back down on the bed and covered herself only with the muslin sheet. Anything else would cause her torment. Though she tried to wrap sleep around her, it still would not come. Staring at the deep green satin canopy over her head, Teresa tried to calm her inner turmoil.

  Not long after, the door opened and Amelia put her head in. Seeing Teresa awake, she entered, and closed the door behind her. Seeing the opened jar of balm, Amelia sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Her fingers smoothed Teresa’s dark hair from her face.

  “I am so sorry, my dear,” she murmured.

  “You did not do this,” Teresa whispered. “Those men did.”

  “And they will pay for what they did.” Teresa opened them at the harshness in Amelia’s voice. She saw an expression in Amelia’s gentle eyes she had never seen there before. Rage. “I was outside looking in,” she went on, her tone still hard. “You got me out, the servants out, then you ran, and fell. I saw the fire come for you, eat at your clothes. I am so very thankful those mercenaries were there to save your life. I do not know what I would do without you.”

  Amelia stroked her cheek with her fingers. “And you are alive because of them. His Grace hired them to protect you, and they did. And I also know from watching them, they burned their hands saving you.”

  Teresa looked away. “I did not know.”

  “Of course you did not. Now let me have a look at you.”

  Though she inwardly winced at the prospect, feeling humiliated, Teresa made no protest when Amelia pulled back the sheet and examined her. She closed her eyes again as Amelia peered at her injuries, her inner tension and need to be covered warring with her need for help.

  “They are not truly bad, Teresa,” Amelia declared, covering her again. “You may have some scars, but they will not be terrible. If we keep them clean and the balm on them, you will be healed quite soon.”

  Without opening her eyes, Teresa whispered, “Might I have some laudanum? I could not sleep at all last night.”

  The weight on the bed shifted as Amelia bent to kiss her brow. “I will go fetch some right now.”

  Amelia rose and quietly left her room. Her wounds burning horribly, her inner shame craving an escape, Teresa waited for her return. When Amelia held a cup to her lips, Teresa drank the noxious liquid eagerly, hoping it would take effect quickly.

  It did, and within a few moments the room spun around her in a way that made her feel sick. She listened to Amelia’s soothing humming until the laudanum took her within its deep embrace.

  ***

  Solomon Eli Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill

  Seated at the vast dining room table with Percy and Thomas, Solomon only waited for Mrs. Wolcott to return from Teresa’s room to order breakfast to be served. Jarvis Hall stood with his back to the wall, awaiting the order, even as footmen in powdered wigs and Solomon’s livery stood at attention.

  “Albert Johnson was in custody,” Solomon growled. “Who did this?”

  “Teresa had been attacked by a man with reddish hair,” Thomas replied. “Twice now. If I were to guess, either my enemy or yours still wants her dead, and threw the bomb in order to achieve that aim.”

  “It very nearly succeeded.” Solomon rubbed his eyes, sore from the lack of sleep. “Do you believe this could be the work of someone who has a grudge against you, Thomas?”

  Picking up his cup, Thomas sipped his tea. “I had wondered,” he admitted. “But no. My enemies would attack me, not Teresa specifically. My wife has not been targeted, save by the fire, which also was aimed at my sister.”

  Solomon nodded. “And I am the common denominator. So, my enemy, whoever he is, is trying to kill Teresa. Why? What are your ideas?”

  “To take her away from you,” Percy said swiftly. “To cause you pain before you yourself are killed.”

  “Thus my enemy knows of my fondness for her. How?”

  Thomas eyed him. “It has been obvious from the start you are very interested in her, Sol. Every time you take her to a party or ball, you make it clear you are attached. It is no secret among the ton anymore.”

  “That tells me a bit more, then,” Solomon went on. “My enemy is a member of the ton. While I have made many enemies with my affairs, who would be daring enough to kill Teresa, then me?”

  “The same man we have always suspected,” Thomas replied. “Beaulieu. His wife loved you, confessed it to everyone, even wrote about it in her diary. In his jealous rage, he wants you to see your love die before he kills you.”

  Solomon held up his finger. “Yes. All that may be true. But how can he direct this from an unconscious state?”

  Thomas frowned and Percy shook his head, confused.

  “There is someone else involved,” Solomon said quietly. “Beaulieu had aligned himself with someone before I shot him.”

  Groaning, Thomas leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered. “How else would Johnson have known where you would be? We assumed he followed you, but he was told where you would be and when.”

  “We still must investigate the broken boards in the warehouse,” Solomon told him. “If that was manufactured, then we know Beaulieu has been working with someone to kill both me and Teresa.”

  Percy rubbed his chin. “Could your thief have aligned himself with Beaulieu? To kill you and gain – what – from your death?”


  “All contracts die with me,” Solomon replied. “The thieves have nothing to gain by killing me. They have more to gain by keeping me alive.”

  “Then Oakshire is innocent of trying to kill you, but may still be guilty of theft from your coffers.”

  Solomon stared hard at Thomas. “You found something.”

  Nodding, Thomas sighed and pulled a paper from an inner pocket of his jacket. “I found this in Crane’s office, Sol. It is a letter, allegedly from you, ordering Crane to purchase extra shipments from Portugal.”

  “Then how do you know it came from Aldric?” Solomon asked, baffled.

  Thomas tapped the back. “The mark from the Royal Mail is from Oakshire’s home.”