The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two

by Michele Jaffe

  “Friends you would be willing to send to the gallows for harboring a fugitive?” Crispin challenged.

  “No,” Sophie answered slowly. “Do you?”

  Crispin nodded. “I saved Lawrence’s life once, so he owes me a favor. Besides, he is quite skilled at staying out of official trouble.”

  Sophie took this information in for a moment, then asked, “Does he have a cook? A good cook?”

  Not as good as yours is supposed to be, Crispin almost responded, but caught himself in time. He did not want her to know that he had been making inquiries about her. “Yes, one of the best.”

  Sophie brightened considerably. “Very well, I will go. But I will not be a prisoner.”

  Crispin should have been relieved, but instead he felt a strange dryness in his throat and tightness in his breast at the thought of leaving Sophie with Lawrence. It was not jealousy, Crispin told himself as he worked to quash it, because he had inured himself to that years before when he learned that such emotions make one weak. Not even if Sophie Champion was the most interesting woman he could ever remembering encountering. Not even if as boys he and Lawrence had made a game of seducing each other’s female companions. Not even if Lord Pickering was considered one of the best-looking and most charming men in England. Crispin sifted through potential maladies in his mind, and then, with tremendous relief, realized the problem. It had nothing to do with Sophie or Lawrence at all. Dry throat, tight knot in his breast—clearly he was just thirsty. The fact that his thirst was redoubled when he happened to look at the back of Sophie’s head and catch the sunlight turning her hair into a thousand dancing rubies meant nothing at all. He was sure he had read somewhere that rubies made men thirsty.

  Thirst tied in well with the errand he needed to do, but the presence of Sophie did not. He had found several other entries in Tottle’s ledger that surprised him, and one name in particular, but not having had time to spill ink over the record book’s entirety, he worried that the constables would see it and eventually track it down. Before that happened, he wanted to interview Kipper Norton and find out why he had paid Richard Tottle a hundred pounds promptly on the first of every month.

  Kipper, he knew, spent the better part of his days in one of London’s more devious establishments, which pretended to be a patriotic association—even going so far as to supply entertainments in honor of the Queen’s birthday and other festivals—so that those noblemen with vigilant wives might make repeated and lengthy visits without arousing their suspicion. In reality, the Worshipful Hall Of Righteous English Statesmen was an extremely expensive house of pleasure with very comfortable benches, chairs, and private rooms. The thought of taking Sophie there made Crispin even thirstier, but he worried about the delay that getting her settled with Lawrence would entail.

  “Your friend cannot live here,” Sophie said over her shoulder as they drew into the stable yard of the Worshipful Hall. “It is a house of pleasure and—” She broke off abruptly and turned to face him, her eyes filling with suspicion again. “Unless you plan—”

  Crispin stopped her before the accusations could begin. “No. I have to see someone, someone I think will be here, and I have to do it before the constables find his name in Tottle’s ledger as well. I thought it only fair to bring you along. If you object, you may stay here.”

  “Why should I object?” Sophie challenged, sliding off his horse. “I bought the building.”

  Crispin stared down at her, momentarily dumbfounded. “You what?”

  “Well, not intentionally. Several years ago, Judith and Delilah—the Cruet Twins—came and asked me for five thousand pounds and I gave it to them. They were so eager for the money that I did not ask what it was for, and by the time I found out that I had funded a brothel, they had already paid me back. They wanted to pay me interest, but I would not accept it.”

  Crispin had climbed off the horse and relinquished the reins to the uniformed stableboy by then, but he continued to stare at her with a mixture of disbelief and, despite himself, admiration. He had never met a woman quite like Sophie Champion.

  She leaned close to him to confide shyly, “I have to admit, I have never been inside a place of this type. I am excited to see what it is like.”

  “‘Excited,’” Crispin repeated, and followed her in.

  She paused as she crossed the threshold to let her eyes adjust to the artificial darkness. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered as she surveyed the entrance hall. It was paneled in dark wood, and each wall was hung with paintings of English noblemen, which looked to have been done early in the century. “They told me when they paid me back that they made the entry look like a proper patriotic society so that if people strayed in by accident, they would never know otherwise. That painting against the far wall, the one of King Henry the Eighth, cost five hundred pounds.”

  Crispin nodded as she propounded the many merits of the entrance hall, only half listening, his mind completely absorbed with the idea that giving out interest-free loans was a very strange way for a woman, particularly a woman of questionable means, to employ her money. He was roused from this thought by the appearance of a somnambulant-looking steward. “I am looking for Kipper Norton,” Crispin announced, extending a silver coin toward the man. “He told me to meet him here.”

  The steward nodded, then slowly moved his sleepy eyes to Sophie. “There is a charge for female nonmembers,” he told Crispin, who reached into his purse and extracted another silver coin.

  “They did that so that when men choose to bring their wives or mistresses here, the other girls do not lose out,” Sophie explained as they followed the formal steward through a door. “I think it is a very wise idea.”

  Crispin was newly struck dumb by this statement, as well as her subsequent account of how Judith and Delilah had decided to cover everything in red velvet because it seemed people spent more money in such surroundings. He wondered briefly if red velvet had the same, parching effect on men as rubies, and decided it did when he noticed that passing through the main red-velvet chamber—with all those men leering at Sophie—was giving him a mammoth thirst. Fortunately, he had regained his power of speech enough to order a tankard of ale by the time the sleepwalking steward had shown them into the dark corner, plush in red velvet, where Kipper Norton was making a close study of the décolletage belonging to a brightly painted blonde.

  The steward cleared his throat, and Kipper looked up, confused. He squinted at them for a moment, an act of near impossibility given the way his eyes bulged out of his head, then recognition flashed across his face and he smiled gaily at Crispin. “Sandal, what a pleasure to meet you here.” His eyes moved to Sophie, and his smile broadened. “Glad to see you brought one of your own. I hate having to share.”

  Only Sophie’s surprise at how much Kipper looked like a flounder, despite his thin red hair, kept her from explaining that she was not there in the capacity he had assumed. Whatever the cause of her silence, Crispin was grateful for it as he slid onto the bench on the other side of the table from Kipper and the blond woman, and motioned to Sophie to slide in next to him.

  When they were seated, Kipper took them in, a sly smile spreading across his face. “She’s foreign, isn’t she?” he asked Crispin. “One of the ones that you brought back from France with you, right?”

  Crispin saw his chance to continue her blissful silence and seized it. Before Sophie could reply, he was saying, “Yes, French. She can’t speak a word of English, or understand it either.” He drained the tankard and leaned confidentially across the table toward Kipper, upsetting a dish of sugared almonds. “And you know what they say about Frenchwomen.”

  Sophie glowered at him. “Pompous caterpillar,” she gritted out under her breath. She had been having such a nice time during her first visit to the Worshipful Hall, despite his presence, but now he had ruined it.

  “What did she say?” Kipper asked immediately, his eyes bulging even more than usual with innuendo. “Di
d she propose one of those French things? You know, that ‘Men Age a Troy’?”

  Crispin was about to reply that she had actually requested a tête-à-tête with Kipper alone, when the murderous expression on Sophie’s face caught his voice. “No, not a ménage à trois. She said simply that my friend seemed nice.”

  Kipper smiled fishily. “Tell her I am nice. Very nice. And very rich. My wife has pots of money.” He pantomimed a pot of money, eliciting only a glare from Sophie, but increased interest from the blond woman next to him.

  Crispin leaned over to whisper in Sophie’s ear. “If you do not stop scowling this moment, I shall leave you alone with him. Is that clear? If it is, nod once, smile brightly, and coo something French sounding.”

  “Vous êtes un bastard,” Sophie cooed through clenched teeth with a nod and a sweet smile.

  “She says she will remember that,” Crispin translated. Then, noticing that the rekindled ministrations of the painted blonde upon hearing of Kipper’s pots of wealth threatened to occupy Kipper’s mind entirely, Crispin decided to proceed with his questions. “Kipper, I was wondering. Have you ever done any business with Dickie Tottle?”

  Kipper rolled his fish eyes, trying to think. “Dickie Tottle? Never heard of him,” he said, popping a sugared almond into his mouth. He extended the bowl toward Crispin. “Try one. They are very good. A specialty of the club.”

  “No thanks,” Crispin declined, frowning slightly. “It’s strange that you have never heard of him. He told me that you were one of his investors. Something about you giving him twelve hundred pounds for a new undertaking. That doesn’t sound like a sum to forget about easily.”

  “Tottle told you that?” Kipper asked, his eyes popping. “The bastard. I was promis—” Kipper interrupted himself. His mouth opened and closed in the air, highlighting his resemblance to a fish, before he went on. “Now I remember. It was for a subscription. You know, so every time Old Bess gives a new proclamation or law, he’d print it up and send it over. Also any news from court. Very handy. Must stay on top of such things.”

  “I can imagine. What was the latest number about?” Crispin asked casually. “Was that the one about the war with Naples?”

  Kipper nodded so furiously that Sophie feared his eyes might fall out. “Yes. Naples. He is ruthless you know. Very bad business, that Naples fellow. Sure you won’t have some almonds?”

  Crispin was relieved to see out of the corner of his eye that, despite exploding with the information that Naples was a place not a person, Sophie had her mouth clamped shut and appeared to be leaving the questions to him. “How did you find out about this patriotic service?” Crispin asked with interest.

  “How did I find out?” Kipper repeated, beginning now to arrange the almonds in a star shape on the table. “Why, I don’t remember. Must have been something the wife brought home.” He raised his eyes from his artwork to look uneasily at Crispin. “Why are you asking about all this anyway? What business of yours is it, Sandal, if I choose to educate myself a bit? Become a bit knowledgeable about the affairs of state?” Kipper, warming to his topic now, seized on Crispin’s earlier words. “It’s an Englishman’s duty, you know. It is patriotic, you said so yourself. What with this dangerous Naples fellow arrayed against us, we must all be ready to do our duty for England and for Bess, to take up arms, and shout together, ‘Death to Naples, the Ruthless Enemy of Our Queen.’”

  This was too much for Sophie. She had her mouth open to speak, unable to keep from bursting any longer, when Crispin’s hand on her thigh stopped her. The sheer surprise of feeling it there was enough to silence her even before Crispin leaned close to whisper, “The next time you open your mouth, I will give you the longest, deepest, most devastating kiss you have ever experienced.”

  Sophie swallowed hard and set her lips. She was sorely tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of his threats, particularly about the chances of him giving her the longest, deepest, and most devastating kiss she had ever experienced, but another part of her reminded her that Sophie Champion had a policy of avoiding men’s kisses with the same fervor with which she avoided death, and this was not the time to compromise.

  Kipper had moved his attention from the nuts to his companion and was wiping his brow, wet with the blessed perspiration of the patriot, on her fevered bosom during this exchange. He clearly felt confident that his speech had been successful in deflecting Crispin’s questions, and he smiled triumphantly as he raised his head from its cushion and faced Crispin again.

  But triumph turned to tragedy when Crispin remarked in a voice tinged with wonder, “You are an inspiration, Kipper. You must tell me how I can subscribe.”

  Kipper’s face darkened. “I tell you, I don’t know. And I wish you would stop hounding me, Sandal. I come here to get away from the teasing of Lady Norton and enjoy some pleasant company, for once”—here he gestured toward the painted blonde—“and you are getting in my way. Pleasant English company,” he added as an afterthought, leering at Sophie as if suspecting she was one of Naples’s generals.

  “You did not happen to see Dickie Tottle last night, did you?” Crispin asked, unimpeded by the leer.

  “I told you, I haven’t ever seen Dickie Tottle,” Kipper replied, gulping a handful of almonds. He went on with his mouth full. “Why would I spend an evening with a man when I could spend it with Angel? Last night I was sitting right here, just as I am now.”

  The blonde leaned toward him to whisper, “Not exactly as you are now.” She licked her lips slowly and moved her hand to the laces on his leggings. This potent reminder made Kipper’s eyes bulge even more, and he gulped the almonds down as he set himself anew to the task of charting the peaks and valleys on the fine specimen of English womanhood beside him. He was so absorbed in this patriotic work that he did not bother to look up as Crispin dragged Sophie from the table.

  Crispin could feel her seething next to him, but he ignored it as he guided her out of the building. Something that Kipper had said had given him an idea, and he needed a moment to assimilate it.

  But Sophie’s anger would not be contained. She did not even notice the decor of the Worshipful Hall as she and Crispin exited, too absorbed was she in resenting the disrespectful, hideous, and wholly unacceptable behavior of the Earthworm of Sandal. He had silenced her, insulted her, and threatened her, and she was not going to let him get away with it. They had barely crossed the threshold of the patriotic association and reentered the stable yard when she wrenched her elbow from Crispin’s grasp and began, “You are the mo—”

  Crispin pulled her toward him, cutting off the flow of words with his lips. “I warned you,” he whispered, not lifting his mouth from hers. “I told you this would happen.”

  Sophie willed herself to push him away or pull away or run away or melt away or even simply turn away. She ordered herself to stop acting weak and foolish, to show him how strong she was, how she did not need him. Instead, she stood there and let his lips play over hers, first gently, then with more insistence.

  As their mouths slid together with increasing pressure, Sophie felt a curl of heat begin in her stomach and spiral through her body, until she could no longer feel her legs, or arms, or hands, or nose. This was better than hot spiced wine, better even than orange cake, she thought sacrilegiously, and she wanted to taste more. Sophie lost herself in his kiss as she had not lost herself in anything for years, gave herself up to it completely, achingly, overwhelmingly. It was not frightening, not weakening, just devastatingly marvelous. Unable to stop herself, she let out a short moan as his tongue wrapped itself around hers.

  Crispin was gone. He wanted to lap the moan off her lips, lips that moved deliciously under his, opening to let him explore them, parting so that he could run the tip of his tongue over them, trembling in response. Lips that moaned again into his, the sweetest sound he had ever heard, lips that parted more fully to let his tongue slip between them, circling slowly, tasting and licking and savor
ing the sweetness of her mouth, of her.

  His tongue slid against hers, dancing around it delicately, gliding off its tip, embracing it in its warmth. Sophie was ravenous, for him, for his touch, for his flavor, starving for the feel of his tongue not only in her mouth and on her lips but everywhere, over all of her. Her body was filled with wave after wave of the intoxicating heat, washing over her, making her feel like she was spinning, like she was all powerful, and like she was going to collapse. She had never kissed anyone before, and she never wanted it to end. Pressing her body against his, she reached up and ran her hand through his soft, thick hair, urging his lips against hers, demanding them, begging them to cover her with their kisses.

  Her hand moved from his hair, along his cheek, and toward his neck with a softness that contrasted with the heat of her kiss, a tentativeness that made Crispin gasp for breath. She really must have been some sort of Siren to have this effect on him, to take his wellgoverned body and make it completely ungovernable. His only thought was to get her out of the stable yard and her devilishly cut dress so he could feel her bare thighs against his, so he could touch her and taste her and lick her all over, so he could learn what it would take to get her eyes to open all the way, learn if they were blue or green, learn how she would react when she reached her climax, learn how his name would sound on her lips, learn how she would change his life.

  Crispin pulled away, inhaling sharply. When he looked at her, she did not see the pain he was feeling, or the desire, or the awe, or the anger at himself, anger, bordering on fury, that he had allowed such a thing to happen, such thoughts to pass through his mind. He felt as though he had been a traitor to himself, as if he were undermining his own strength, his own power, his own survival. What if she had been sent by his enemies? What if her presence was a clever trap to weaken him, unhinge him, make him set aside the valiant, solitary strength that had served him so long, a devious weapon to make him vulnerable? Everything he knew about her, he reminded himself, made it seem possible. Everything he knew about her suggested he should put as much distance between them as he could if he was going to survive.