Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  But when Devon arrived at Viscount Norbrook’s house in the ducal carriage and sent a footman to rap on the door, he learned that Anne’s cousin was not at home. The viscount was having a private training session in fencing at Henry Angelo’s school.

  Devon commanded his coachman to take him to Angelo’s. He had a membership there. It would feel good to pick up a sword again.

  Chapter Twenty

  NE LOOK AT Anne’s cousin, and Devon knew he was staring at a bully. And he sorely wanted to break the bastard’s nose with his fist.

  Instead, he stripped to his shirt and waistcoat, grasped a foil, and stalked over to Viscount Norbrook, who was grunting, sweating, and trying to defeat William McTurk, successor to Henry Angelo and now the master. Throughout the large practice room, gentlemen stared, nudged one another. Apparently all of London was now learning that the Duke of March had regained his sight. Even McTurk, in the middle of clashing foils with Norbrook, glanced to him in surprise.

  The viscount drove the tip against the elder swordsman’s padded tunic. “First blood,” he crowed triumphantly. Anne’s cousin had blond hair, carefully styled in tousled waves, and the typical “fair-haired boy” good looks that hid a black heart.

  “The student has defeated the master,” Norbrook shouted. Frowning, the viscount finally realized his opponent was staring over his shoulder. Anne’s cousin turned, obviously angered to have his victory diluted, then took a fast step back. “Your Grace.” Norbrook swept a bow. “I am surprised to encounter you here. I heard you had been left blinded in battle—”

  “You heard correctly. I was fortunate enough to regain my sight.”

  With an exclamation of congratulations, McTurk came forward, his foil tucked beneath his arm. “Your Grace, it is good to see you.”

  “Thank you, McTurk. I thought I would have a bout with Norbrook.” He stared down his nose at Anne’s cousin. “I have matters to discuss with you, sir, concerning one of your female relatives.”

  Norbrook’s throat moved as he swallowed. “Indeed. I wouldn’t mind engaging swords while we discuss my wayward cousin.” Norbrook dropped his voice to a harsh growl, one only Devon could hear. “I assume you speak of the fallen woman of our family, Anne Beddington? I had come to Town to rescue her, only to discover she had become a prostitute and to learn that you, Your Grace, were enjoying her favors at your hunting box. It appears my cousin is no longer respectable. She has become a disgusting whore.”

  Devon snapped the foil up instantly, pressing the tip to Norbrook’s throat. Norbrook was the blackguard here, but he felt in the wrong over this and it angered him. “Speak that way about the lady again, and we’ll meet at dawn.”

  Norbrook’s eyes blazed with fury as he was forced to retreat from the rapier’s point—fury he was too cowardly to pursue, Devon suspected. “I speak the truth, Your Grace. Surely you know of your mistress’s past. She serviced countless men in that foul Wapping Street brothel.”

  “The fault for that lies with you. You forced her out of her home.”

  “I did not. Her mother did not want her daughter to enter into a marriage with me. She took her daughter away. Her mother’s behavior was scandalous—affairs, orgies, lewd house parties. The family turned their backs on them both. I did not. I searched for Anne. Alas, I found her too late.” Blade swishing, Norbrook lunged.

  “An interesting story.” Devon parried, riposted. In a quiet, deadly voice, he said, “I was told you’d been touching your cousin in perverse ways that frightened her since she was eight.”

  Norbrook pressed again, driving the foil toward Devon’s heart. An easy blow to deflect. The viscount winced as Devon pushed his blade sharply to the left, twisting the man’s wrist.

  Bouncing on his toes, Norbrook retreated. “That, Your Grace, is an outright lie. Where in blazes did you hear such a thing?” He launched forward, as if expressing rage at a slander.

  Devon deflected the waving foil with relaxed moves of his own. He glared down at Norbrook—who was shorter and pudgy—as though he had noticed a pile of horse dung in the path of his boot. “From someone who knows the truth,” he said coldly.

  “Who? Do you mean my cousin, the woman you’ve taken on as your whore?”

  Pure venom spat out with the quiet word. Devon felt his body flinch with guilt. “No. I demanded the truth after I had to rescue her from the grip of the violent brute you sent to retrieve her. However, she kept this information from me. I assure you I had no idea who Miss Beddington truly was. Unlike you—who forced her into ruination.” Hades, what was he doing? Why was he explaining himself to this piece of garbage? True, he hadn’t known she was a viscount’s daughter, but he had suspected she came from a lady’s background. Yet that hadn’t stopped him from bedding her, from treating her like a courtesan.

  It was what she had wanted him to do. But that was still no excuse.

  Norbrook clashed his sword against Devon’s with a triumphant smirk on his face. “You were the one to help in her ruination, Your Grace.”

  “You attacked her.” He wanted to toss aside these blunted foils so he could use his fists and do some real damage. But was it Norbrook he was so furious at, or himself? Anne could never go back to the world in which she belonged. Not after being ruined at a brothel. Not after being his courtesan. “Mick Taylor told her you still intended to bed her,” Devon growled. “A generous-hearted man, aren’t you, to your destitute cousin after the way you abused her?”

  “That man was the lackey of a whore. His word cannot be believed. I will admit I hired him to search for Anne. My intent was only to help her.” The pale eyes were watchful. Norbrook flicked his tongue nervously over his lips.

  With foils colliding, Devon drove him back. “You frightened her. She sensed that your interest was sick and wrong.” She hadn’t said that, but he remembered the way she had shivered when she talked about her cousin.

  Norbrook’s flush of anger deepened. Spittle flecked his lips. “What right do you have to look down on me?” Like a typical bully, he lashed out with rage, though he kept his voice low. He was slashing madly with his weapon, but Devon had taken command of the fight. “You soiled her, Your Grace. I would provide her with a home. With a chance to live quietly and respectably.”

  The barb hit home more than he would ever admit. But he struggled to keep control, even as guilt slammed into him. If he wasn’t careful, guilt could make him seriously injure this man. “As your mistress?” he snarled.

  “Better mine than yours.” The man was shaking. “Are you going to keep her as your tart even though she’s a murderess? Did you know that? She killed her madam, smashed the woman’s head in with a fireplace poker. Do you still want her now?”

  “Yes!” He shouted the answer with such fury that silence hit the room. Foils stopped clacking. Heads turned. “I know she’s innocent,” he said quietly. He gave two swift blows with his foil. Norbrook cried out as his rapier was knocked free of his hand and clattered to the floor, leaving him unarmed.

  The man’s eyes showed a blend of fear and pure hatred. “I want to see her,” Norbrook gasped. “Regardless of the sins she has committed, she is my cousin. Where is she, Your Grace? I must know. Perhaps there is some way I can help her.”

  Devon lifted an icy ducal brow. “She has no desire to see you. And I will make it my work to crush you like the insect you are.”

  Bright spots of red bloomed on Norbrook’s cheeks. His hand shook as he swept up his fallen sword. “I can offer her the dignity of a quiet life, away from vicious rumors, away from gentlemen who will assault her because they know her to be a whore. What sort of life will she have with you? She’ll likely end up hanging for her crime. Or are you planning to buy her freedom, using your wealth and power? Then what will become of her? Someday you will discard her. If the little fool remains with you, she’ll end up abandoned on the street, a clapped-out old jade.”

  He spoke loudly enough for others to hear. Devon’s heart roared in his ears. He took a menaci
ng step toward the viscount, who scuttled away but tried to do it with his head high.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Devon saw William McTurk walking toward him. Norbrook’s reactions and behavior did not make sense. The man had spat venom at first over Anne’s ruination, and now was playing the noble relative who would offer help and rescue.

  McTurk bowed. Devon gave his tutor a nod. “Before I leave, I should thank you. Thank you for the skills you taught me over the years. They saved my life many times in battle.”

  The master bowed once more. His gaze slid to the direction in which Norbrook had skulked. “You have always been my prize pupil, Your Grace, the student who did indeed surpass his master. However, I must remind you of the rules—this place is not for you to exorcise personal battles and grudges.”

  “It won’t happen again.” No, next time he worked on his private grudge with Norbrook, he’d do it someplace where he could give the bully a good pounding. But what in hell was he going to do about the viscount? Would the man cease his pursuit of Anne?

  What he had to do first was find Anne and ensure she wasn’t arrested. The best way to do that was to find the actual murderer. After that, what would he do with her? He wanted her. But he couldn’t keep her as his mistress now that he knew who she really was.

  Number 10 Bow Street, Magistrates’ Court. Devon walked past the court entrance to the door that would take him to the offices. In mere minutes, he was seated across from Sir John Lawrence, the current magistrate. Sir John was an old friend of his father’s and, despite age and graying hair, the man was alert and astute.

  Sir John poured a small amount of brandy in two glasses and held one out. Devon took it, stared at it, turning it in his hand. He hadn’t touched the drink since Anne had commanded his servants not to bring it to him. Wryly, he recognized how much she had changed his world. He had to wonder: If it had not been for Anne, would he have stayed alone in his hunting box, drinking himself into a stupor for the rest of his life?

  “To the return of the prodigal son.” Sir John lifted his glass. “One of England’s famous heroes of battle.”

  “To my father,” Devon returned, lifting his glass. He took only a small sip to toast his father and felt the clamp of grief around his heart. To Sir John, he admitted, “I regret the fact that my father and I fought on the last night I saw him.”

  The wooden chair creaked as Sir John leaned back. “March, I can tell you your father was deeply proud of you. You were a responsible, intelligent, and beloved officer. I was told by your commanding officer, and by gentlemen who served as officers under you, that you were well respected by your men.”

  “You might be mistaken about my father’s feelings. He didn’t approve of me going to war. Since I was his heir, he accused me of being both selfish and irresponsible for doing it.”

  Sir John shook his head. “Your father loved you dearly, and he respected you.”

  Devon wished it was as easy for him to believe as it was for Sir John to say.

  The magistrate lifted his glass once more. “Another toast—this one to a medical miracle, I think. Did you regain your sight through the work of doctors here? I believe you had visited the London Dispensary for Curing Diseases of the Eye and Ear?”

  “I did, but it wasn’t the work of the doctors.” No, it was the work of a stubborn woman. “I fell and hit my head on a rock. The physicians had told me my sight could come back after a blow to the head.” It was time to get to the point. “Sir John, I came here about a woman you are searching for. I believe Bow Street thinks she is responsible for the murder of her madam.”

  The magistrate set down his glass. “What is your interest in this case, Your Grace?”

  “Devon. I believe the woman is innocent,” he said carefully. “What evidence do you have of her guilt?”

  Sir John lifted a brow but said, “Several witnesses claim she argued with the madam, a thoroughly despicable woman by the name of Mrs. Clara Meadows.”

  Devon’s lips twisted. “I believe Mrs. Meadows called herself Madame Sin. Were there witnesses to the confrontation? Anyone who will say Anne Beddington struck a killing blow?”

  Now both of Sir John’s brows were raised. “Anne Beddington? The name I was given by Mick Taylor was Annalise Black. You seem to know a great deal about what happened, Devon.”

  She hadn’t used her real name, even in the brothel. Had that been to protect her family—the family that had done nothing to protect her? Or had she done it in the hope that she could return to her old life, without anyone knowing what she’d been forced to do? “Do you have a witness or any real proof that Miss Beddington killed the woman? It’s my understanding Mrs. Meadows was struck unconscious but was not dead. Someone else killed her later that night.”

  “I didn’t assume instantly the woman was guilty. My Runners spoke with all the whores and servants, but each had an alibi.”

  “All of them?” Devon countered. “The girls would have been in bedrooms with men during the night. Easy enough for one to slip away and kill the madam. The servants would have had the same opportunity. Any of the clients at the brothel could have done it as well.”

  Sir John grimaced. “Had to tread carefully while interviewing them. All were gentlemen, and half were members of the peerage. Devon, the women gave their clients alibis, and of course the men insisted they had spent all their time in view of at least one of the whores.”

  “What whore wouldn’t give an alibi for money? Someone is lying.”

  “No doubt. The problem is trying to prove it. Devon, given the amount of information you have, I must ask you: Do you know where Miss Anne Beddington is?”

  “No. At this moment, no idea.” It was the truth.

  “Devon, you almost sacrificed your life in war to protect king and country. Do not take the law into your own hands here. If you have this girl, bring her to me. It’s better that we find the truth than that you harbor a fugitive. Your father was like a brother to me, but I cannot allow either your position or my feelings for your family to stay my hand if I have to prosecute Anne Beddington for murder and you for abetting the flight of a criminal.”

  “Kat, what are you doing here? How did you even know where to find me?” Anne firmly pushed the door closed after her friend came into her small, gloomy room. She slid the bolt across. It was so good to see Kat, but … “I told you I couldn’t see you ever again, for your safety! Mick hasn’t come back, has he? I’m so afraid he will think you know where I am now, and he’ll hurt you again.”

  “Anne, you must calm down. I am fine. As for finding you …” Kat sat down on the one wooden chair. “I thought you would return here. After all, it’s a place we both know very well.” Her friend swept her gaze around. “You have money now, Anne. You do not have to stay here.”

  “It’s only until tomorrow morning.” Compared to some of the foul lodging houses she and her mother had been forced to stay in, this was almost luxury.

  “The Duke of March came to see me today. He pursued you to Town. He rode straight here, rode like the devil. Anne, he wants to help you. Perhaps he can. Why won’t you let him try?”

  “I can’t—” She was ready to list every reason she had already given why she would not put Devon at risk of harm or scandal, but Kat lifted her hand.

  “Anne, are you running away from the charge of murder or from your heart?”

  “From my heart? What do you mean?” But she knew, didn’t she? Kat had guessed she had fallen in love with Devon. “If it was just because I’d foolishly fallen in love, I wouldn’t sail halfway across the world, Kat. I would simply recover from a broken heart.”

  “You recover only when you stop loving hopelessly. Perhaps you fear you can’t do that.”

  “I have to go, Kat.” She snatched up a page from the table. “I’ve written a letter to my cousin. I’m going to post it tomorrow morning, when I go to the docks. When it’s delivered to Sebastian, I’ll be safely at sea, where he can’t touch me. It tells him I’ve gon
e to Boston. I want him to know I’ve gone, so he will leave you alone.”

  “The duke wants to find the truth of who murdered your madam. He wants to set you free.”

  “I won’t ever be free. Not as long as my cousin wants me.”

  “I told the duke a little about what your cousin did to you.”

  Anne felt her eyes grow huge with horror. “You shouldn’t have! I don’t want him to know—”

  “Why not? It made him understand what kind of perverse beast Norbrook is.”

  “I—I’m ashamed of it. I should not have let it happen. I—”

  Kat firmly shook her head. “It was not your fault. You were a child and you did as you were told. Believe me, I understand what you endured.”

  “He didn’t do anything really … very bad. Not until the night he came into my room, and I was older then. Before that, it was just sitting on his lap, touches, kisses. He did want to marry me—”

  “Anne, stop! It was wrong of him to touch you when you did not want it. He was wrong; you were not.” Kat smiled. “And I do not believe March will break your heart—I don’t think he will ever let you go. However, I suspect you are breaking his.”

  After Bow Street, Devon had gone to the office of his investigator, Wynter. He received a report on the search for Captain Tanner’s missing wife and child. He gave Wynter a description of Anne and asked him to take some men to the docks in the morning. Then he headed to the Wapping Street brothel where Anne Beddington had been a prisoner for five years.

  Sex and opium scented the place. The walls were hung with crimson, and once he stepped out of the foyer, he was confronted with an enormous oil painting of a nude. Life-size painted breasts pointed right at his eyes.

  At least he’d never been to this place before. He would have hated to think he’d come here when Anne was a prisoner only a few feet away.