by Sharon Page
When he finished, Rycroft said, “A whore, then.”
“Perhaps. But I still want to see justice done.”
The Runner bristled. “As do I, Your Grace. Doesn’t bother me what class a victim or a killer comes from. I don’t pursue justice based on anyone’s class or position. Just so we’re clear, Your Grace. Just so you don’t get your back too far up when I come to ask you more questions.”
“What sort of questions do you want me to answer?”
“Nothing that will be too troublesome,” Sir Henry put in. He had stayed far back from the body.
Rycroft wore his supercilious expression. “What about this Viscount Willington, Your Grace? Is he the sort of bloke who could do this?”
“I would say not. Willington is—he is a gentleman.”
“A toff who likes his fun with the ladies, but maybe, if his back were against the wall, he would attack and kill like an animal,” Rycroft said.
“I would not have believed him capable,” Cary said.
“Is there a Mrs. Willington?”
“There is a Viscountess Willington,” Cary answered sharply. “But she is frail and delicate, and I doubt she did this.”
“Women can be right tigresses when they feel they’re losing their security, Your Grace. Now, what were you doing last night? After you left the Cyprian ball.” The Runner nodded toward Saxonby. “You say a female went with you.”
“She did. An innocent young woman who had come to London from the country to become a courtesan as her family faces starvation. I intended to take her back to her rooms, then send her back to her home today, before she ruined herself. When we left the Argyle rooms, we went to the stews. It was my intention to frighten her into returning home, by showing her where courtesans ended up—prostituting themselves in the stews. We were set upon by three ruffians. Unfortunately, they ultimately got the better of me, leaving me unconscious. The young woman brought me home, had my servants fetch a physician, then spent the night watching over me.”
“I’m sure she did,” the Runner said primly. “So this young . . . woman can vouch for you. That you didn’t leave your room.”
Cary paced. “Given I did not wake up until shortly before you arrived, I definitely did not leave my room. But yes, the young woman can attest to that fact.”
“Assuming she was awake the entire time and can make any such statement with complete honesty. And with the assumption her word can be trusted.”
“This is England.” Cary’s voice was raspy and dangerously low. “Where a man is innocent until proven to be guilty.”
“Have a care, Rycroft,” the magistrate warned quietly. Cary could now see his presence here, afraid Rycroft’s belligerent manner would anger a duke, a duke also considered a hero of war.
“All right then,” the Runner said grudgingly. “But ye couldn’t say if she left yer room, Your Grace.”
“You don’t seriously think a woman was capable of this.”
“Aye, I do, Your Grace. A woman can surprise you. This young woman of yours may have had it in for a rival.”
“And met her in the mews behind my house to strangle her in the muck?” Anger coiled in him. He wasn’t surprised the Runner suspected he could be a murderer—with a young woman dead behind his house. But to think Sophie did it, was madness.
“I think the question is”—Cary’s voice remained raspy and cold; having to speak so much was wearing on his voice—“why was the girl in the mews? Or was she killed elsewhere and brought here? Again, why?”
“You seem remarkably calm, Your Grace,” the Runner observed. “I didn’t expect you to be so composed.”
“I went through battle in Ceylon. The Uva Rebellion of the Kandyan Wars. I’ve dealt with death on the battlefield, and I’ve dealt with investigation of improper things that happen during war.” He glanced at the victim. “She can be moved now, can she not? We can at least give the poor young woman some dignity now.”
“Yes. Yes, indeed,” Sir Henry said. “I will have that taken care of at once.”
Cary took one last look at the scene. From battle, when there had been questionable conduct, he had learned to quickly absorb details. In this scene, he saw no clues.
He also realized something else. There was little blood. He walked closer to the poor victim. Walked around her. There was blood on her clothes, matted into her hair, on the ravaged face. But there was very little on the ground. Surely, there should be more—
He sensed Rycroft beside him. “I will get to the truth, Your Grace,” the Runner said. “You can be sure of that.”
Sophie pulled on her gown without putting on her corset. In vain, she tried to arrange it to fit, but the bodice gaped and the skirt was long. It would have to do.
Crushing the skirts in her hands to hold them up, she crept around on the main floor. She hated to eavesdrop, but she had to know whether the magistrate was here for her.
When she heard footsteps, she would dart into a room, praying it was empty.
Then she heard masculine voices coming up the corridor ahead of her, and she darted into another empty room—this one contained a gleaming black pianoforte and a large, graceful white harp.
Sophie held the paneled white door so it was open an inch. She peeked out.
The men stopped in the hallway—there were four of them. Tall, blond, and dressed in his exquisitely embroidered robe, Cary had his back to her. Across from him, with an uneasy, troubled expression stood his friend with the unusual silver hair, the Duke of Saxonby. The other two men she didn’t recognize. One of them must be the magistrate. But why were there two?
The shorter one must be the magistrate—he wore a silk waistcoat with a lavish pattern, a huge cravat, and he carried a gold-topped walking stick. He kept dabbing at his face with a silk handkerchief. The other man was black haired, taller. He wore much less gentlemanlike clothes. And he watched the duke with dark, angry eyes.
“I want this fiend caught,” Cary said shortly. “Don’t fixate on me. I’m not your murderer.”
Murderer? She sucked in a sharp breath.
“And I do not believe Miss Ashley is your killer either.”
Her? They thought she was a murderer? But she had left Lord Devars alive.
“I want this woman to look at the body,” the dark-haired man said curtly. “See if she recognizes the dead girl.”
A dead girl? Who? At once, her thoughts went to Belle. That Devars had taken out his rage on Belle . . .
Belle was in the country with the children. She must be safe. She must be.
What was the duke saying? Sophie strained to hear.
“Sophie cannot look at the body. It would be horrifying,” Cary growled.
“I’m more concerned about finding a killer than protecting a whore’s sensibilities,” snapped the black-haired man.
“She is not a whore, Mr. Rycroft. She is a decent young woman who has to come to London to support her family. I will speak to her.”
Her heart soared as the duke defended her. The tone of his voice brooked no opposition.
But who had been killed? A girl—but what girl? Why on earth would she or the duke be suspected? They had been together last night.
Mr. Rycroft, whoever he was, glowered. “Not alone if it pleases you, Your Grace. I would like to ask the lass some questions. By your own admission, you were under the influence of laudanum and slept for much of the night. The female could be in this up to her pretty neck.”
Sophie froze.
This man—this dark, angry-looking man seemed to want her to be guilty.
Of murder.
She felt sick. Did this have something to do with Devars?
But what?
Then Sophie heard the duke speaking, his voice lethally low. “She is not.”
At least. The duke believed her.
“You seem very certain, Your Grace? Do you know this girl well?”
“I made her acquaintance only recently.” The duke stalked over to stand in front o
f Rycroft. They glared at each other, eye to eye.
In the country, Sophie had seen male animals fight, circling each other and posturing before an attack. She expected these two to grapple at any moment.
Over her? She couldn’t believe it. Why was the duke so protective of her?
He was defending her, and he really did not know anything about her. What she’d told him had been lies. She had never married, and she had borne a child out of wedlock. And she had committed a crime already, one she’d had to commit to try desperately to save her family.
He was a good, noble man, standing up for her.
And she’d done nothing but lie to him.
“She could be as guilty as sin,” Rycroft sneered.
“I can tell she is innocent. As the commanding officer of thousands of soldiers, I learned to read people.”
She swallowed hard. Had he seen behind her stories?
No—if he had seen all her sins, he would never want to rescue her.
The duke cocked his head toward the doorway where she hid. She had pressed tight into the wall beside the door and was peeping out through a mere inch crack between the door and its frame. And she stood in shadow. He couldn’t see her. That would be impossible.
Yet he studied the door quietly for a few moments. Then said, in his deep, soft tones, “Sophie, would you please come out here?”
8
It was reported that the Prince of Wales witnessed the display I made on St. James’s Street. He leapt up from his seat and waddled to the window, where he became infatuated by the “veil-clad Venus.” I received a letter the next day from Prinny himself, requesting that I come for an interview. I told him that I would not bestir myself to see him—that if he wished to make me in love with him, he would have to do much more than merely issue a command for an interview.
To my surprise, a modest diamond necklace arrived with a note signed HRH. I returned it. I had decided I would now eschew achievement and select a gentleman I desired—one as young and delicious as my viscount.
—From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous
Sophie sat on the very edge of a huge wing chair in Cary’s study, staring helplessly up at the four men as she explained again that she had never seen the woman before last night. It was the black-haired man Rycroft who did the questioning. He was a Bow Street Runner—an investigator of crime. The magistrate, Sir Henry Clemont, appeared to be playing the role of master attempting to rope in a snarling dog when it came to Rycroft.
She noticed that the Duke of Saxonby kept taking worried glances at Cary.
“The Duke of Caradon is absolutely innocent,” she insisted. “I was in his room because I wanted to watch over him after the doctor left him.”
Rycroft paced in front of her. He stopped, then turned on her, looking so suspicious, she cringed in the chair.
“Did you go to sleep at all? Maybe after the two of you made love?”
“We didn’t.” She was blushing.
What did her reputation matter? She had come to London to surrender any shred of propriety she might still have. “I waited until the duke was sleeping, then I do admit I drifted off. I did sleep for part of the night. But the duke was badly battered. How could he have snuck out of bed, gone down to his mews, and attacked a woman?”
“He could be less injured than he made it appear.”
“I assure you he wasn’t,” she cried. “I know he is innocent!”
“And your word alone is not enough,” Rycroft said. “To me, your word is meaningless.”
Cary made an angry growl. She looked up at him, and then, swallowing hard, she faced the magistrate. “But the truth should matter!”
It appeared the magistrate knew nothing about her attack on Devars to protect herself. Or about Devars’s accusation that she had stolen from him. Thank heaven.
“Indeed, it will, miss,” the magistrate said. “Rycroft, rein yourself in. Questions must be asked, but you will be civil in your conduct.”
“All right. We will speak about the victim then. Do you know her? You were at the Cyprian ball together.”
“There were many women at the Cyprian ball,” Cary pointed out.
She wanted to say that she had just arrived in London. She had been here for only three days. But that would lead to questions about where she came from. Questions she didn’t want to answer to this man who kept peering in a shrewd, unsettling way into her eyes.
“I snuck in. I had never met any of the Cyprians before.”
“The balls are by invitation. The Cyprians do not invite many other women—they do not like to invite their competition,” Cary said dryly.
“The first time I saw this woman, she was arguing with another Cyprian whose name was Angelique.” She related the fight, then the fact that the girl had run away. “Angelique called the girl Sally.”
“And the Duke of Caradon went after her,” Rycroft observed.
She gave him a withering glance. “Yes, but he returned very quickly. And this was much earlier in the night. The Duke of Saxonby can attest to that. And so can any other gentleman who witnessed the fight. Several were watching.”
“I am sure they were. But His Grace could have arranged to meet the young woman later in the night, when he pursued her.”
“But I am certain he did not leave his bed. The duke is innocent,” she declared for the umpteenth time.
“You could have left the bedroom,” Rycroft said to Sophie. “You could have met this woman in the mews. You could have caved in her head with a weapon.”
“But I didn’t!”
Rycroft leaned close to her. “If I were you, I would make certain I told everything I knew. There would be those happier to see a courtesan arrested for a crime than a duke.”
Panic gripped her, and she gasped in fear. Would they try to make her appear guilty?
Suddenly, Cary was at her side, tall, towering over her, his face was livid with anger. “No one is going to wrongfully accuse Miss Ashley. If you are looking for a scapegoat, not justice, you can get out of my house.”
The magistrate got to his feet, sweating, trying to placate the duke.
“I am looking for justice. I would never put an innocent person in prison, Your Grace. I will pursue the truth. You can rest assured of that.”
Saxonby also got to his feet. He murmured something to the magistrate.
Sir Henry, the magistrate, said hurriedly, “That will be enough for this morning.”
Then the three men left them.
Alone, in the duke’s study, Sophie felt strange. Both cold and hot at the same time. She’d intended to convince the duke to keep her.
Yet a woman was dead....
He couldn’t have done it! Not only was it impossible, how could this man be a killer? He’d risked his life to rescue her.
Cary walked slowly over to a tall narrow table that held a carafe and glasses on a silver try. He poured two small glasses of an amber liquid.
He cupped one glass in his hand, then gave it to her. “Brandy. You’re pale, Sophie.”
“I don’t understand what has happened. Who killed the girl? Why was she there, in the mews behind your house?”
Rycroft had insisted she see the body. She had looked for one moment, almost collapsed, and then Cary had brought her back into the house.
“I have no idea as to the answers, but I intend to find out,” Cary said grimly.
“But the Bow Street Runners are investigating. Aren’t we supposed to let the law take care of such things?”
“That Runner does not like the aristocracy. That may blind him to the truth. But that is not relevant to the task at hand. Today, I have to deal with you, Sophie.”
She jerked her head up. “Deal with me?”
“Send you home.”
She remembered how he had stopped her this morning when she had tried to pleasure him with her mouth, just before they’d been told of the magistrate’s visit. She touched his forearm. Panic ma
de her heart pound at a dizzying speed.
“You want to overcome your past and your nightmares. Couldn’t you try with me?” she begged. “Maybe if you told me what these awful memories are, I can help.”
“No.” His face was like stone. “You cannot help. I have reached that conclusion.”
How could he do this—give her hope, then crush it in front of her? She couldn’t go back home, impoverished. She either had to let Devars do what he liked, or she would be transported, or even hanged, and the children would starve. “What are you so afraid of? It’s as if you are scared to tell me about your memories.”
He flinched.
She hadn’t meant to say any of that. Her emotions had gotten the better of her.
His eyes narrowed. “I can turn that question back on you, Sophie. What are you afraid of? I saw how you behaved around the magistrate. I don’t believe you are a murderess, but you are afraid of something.”
Suddenly, she saw he was right.
She had to get away from him. He was suspicious of her.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.” She put the brandy glass down so quickly, it fell over. But it was empty. She surged to her feet. “But I am not going home.”
She began to hurry toward the door.
“Where in Hades are you going?” he snapped.
But she didn’t answer. She gathered up her skirts, and she ran.
He would have caught her, except a hackney was trundling down the road, having dropped off a passenger at one of the other houses.
She leapt inside. “I’ll give you twice the fare if you take me away from here as quickly as you can!”
9
A marquis pursued me, but again I refused. He did not take well to my rejection. At a soiree given by a famous London courtesan, the marquis waited while I visited the retiring room. He grabbed me like a common footpad, and dragged me into an empty bedchamber.
“I will have you,” he crowed. And he tore my silk skirts.
“No man takes this from me. It is my gift to bestow.” I shoved at his chest to no avail. I tried to lift my knee and slam it into his sensitive parts, but he was too quick. He ripped my bodice at the neckline. He took my nipple into his mouth and scraped it roughly with his teeth.
