Deeper in Sin (24 page)

“Poor—the poor child. How awful.” There weren't words to express the horror. It was so much like what had happened to her with Devars. But Cary had been a child!

“He was afraid he would be hanged. For killing the monster who had kidnapped him.”

“But he wasn't.”

“No. It was covered up. Hushed up. He had already been through hell. There was a girl there too. The daughter of this monstrous man. She was sixteen years of age. Caradon had hoped she would help him. But she—she beat him terribly. Burned him on his legs with hot sticks. And she would make tiny cuts on his arms. Nothing to badly wound him, but it was awful torture to a child. He endured hell. And when he came back, my husband learned what happened to him. . . . The duke was terrified his son had been made into something monstrous too. He was so cold and fearful, because he believed he must straighten Fitzwilliam out. We were all so afraid, and instead of embracing our son and showing him great love, we retreated.” Tears spilled onto the duchess's cheeks. “We ruined him as much as that monster. That's what I fear. Can he ever be made right?”

The woman shuddered with tears. She was so thin and fragile.

Impulsively, Sophie hugged her. “I do believe he can. I am going to fight to try.” Then she blushed. “I mean . . . oh . . . er . . .”

“I never dreamed I would be saying this, but I need your help, my dear,” the duchess said. “If anyone can heal his heart, I believe it is you.”

Sophie helped the duchess outside, both women wearing cloaks with their hoods up. Sophie realized she had never felt accepted or respectable in her life, yet Cary had tried to make her that way by rescuing her and protecting her. Her heart was filled with sorrow for him as she helped his mother into the duchess's carriage. Sophie climbed up the carriage steps. The duchess had fallen into several coughing fits after she had told the story, and Sophie wanted to watch over the duchess until she reached her home.

“I will have the carriage return you home,” the duchess said.

They sat in silence as the carriage started off. Then the duchess gave her a look—the sort of look her son would give her when he'd done something naughty.

“I do have a terrible admission to make,” Cary's mother said. “I sent Caradon to London to find a bride. He was visiting me in the country, and I told him he had to come back for the Season and get married and produce a grandchild. I told him I was dying.”

“Oh goodness, I am so sorry.”

“You see, it wasn't true. I felt very sick after the winter, and I feared it could happen. But I was feeling better. Yet I lied, and I used that lie to blackmail my son. For that, I feel awful. But I was so desperate.”

“You must tell him the truth, because he will be very worried about you,” Sophie said passionately. “I think he will forgive you. He loves you and his family very much.” Of course he did. He knew what it was like to be torn away from them. Was that why he had come to her rescue and offered to give her the house and allowance of a mistress while demanding nothing in return?

“I want to see him be happy,” Sophie said. “And I know he will understand why you told him what you did.”

“It was wrong. I, who knew what he suffered, had no right to manipulate him.”

Sophie patted the duchess's hand. “You want him to have a partner in his life, and the joy of children.” But what had Cary suffered? It sounded as if . . . as if he had been abused in perverse ways. No wonder he had said he indulged in lots of sex with courtesans to prove himself.

How did one erase memories like that?

All along she had been confident.

Now, she realized she didn't know what to do.

She also thought of the terror of a five-year-old boy, afraid he would be punished for defending himself. “The man who took him was killed. Who was he?”

“He had been a footman. He had been dismissed, as my husband believed he had stolen some valuable snuffboxes. It turned out he had gotten a village girl into trouble, and after she had the baby, he had turned to theft. However, he used very little of his ill-gotten gains to support the young woman and his daughter. That was the female who was so horrible and so vicious to Fitzwilliam. The villain's daughter. After Cary was saved, the magistrate looked for her, but she had vanished. She left a note though, threatening revenge for her father. In the letter, she said he'd been falsely condemned for the theft. Of course that was not true. He was quite guilty.”

“She threatened revenge?” Sophie repeated. “All these terrible things have happened. Accidents to the duke. And these murders—”

“It was years and years ago. Why would she have waited until now? She would be more than forty years old.”

“I don't know why she would have waited,” Sophie admitted. “Maybe she wasn't able to exact her revenge until now.” Cary had never mentioned this, but then, he had not told her about the kidnapping. He had wanted to keep that ordeal a secret. So of course he could not have told her about this girl.

There were two courtesans who would be the right age. Nell. And the haughty one, Angelique, who had fought with Sally Black on the night she had died.

She must go to Cary and tell him. As soon as the duchess's carriage took her home, she would rush to the Cyprian ball. At least Sophie knew where it was—from their discussion during the council of war.

 

Sophie knew they had reached the Cyprian ball by the large number of discreet black carriages on the street, and the enormous number of well-dressed men streaming through the open doors. Street flares illuminated them, and the moon was out.

Once the duchess's carriage had brought her home, she had hastily commanded her carriage take her to the ball.

Suddenly, her carriage stopped. She leaned out and saw they could get no closer. “Let me out here.”

She wished she could bring her coachman in, but someone must stay with the horses and the carriage. She had raced there hastily, and of course had not thought to bring a footman to take in with her. All she had thought of was Cary—warning him.

And she supposed she had been embarrassed to drag a footman into a courtesan's ball with her.

She would just watch at all times. Stay with the crowd. She flipped up the hood of her cloak and accepted her coachman's help down from the carriage.

Pushing her way through the gentlemen, she reached the doors and was stopped by a young servant, resplendent in red-and-gold livery and a powdered wig. But she wasn't going to be thwarted now.

“Your invitation, madam?”

She needed a distraction. “My God, that gentleman has collapsed! Someone fetch help!” she shrieked. Several men, including the servant, turned. She raced past, only to collide with men who were coming
back
to see what the commotion was.

Useless men!

“No, you don't.” The servant grabbed her cloak.

She ripped open the ties and ran right out of it, elbowing her way through. The man at the door was left with a look of shock and her empty cloak.

She was inside. Now where was Cary?

Desperately, she looked around.

In the center of the crowd, at the end of the ballroom, stood a bevy of women in brilliant dresses. The Cyprian hostesses.

Sophie spotted the two sisters. The Black Swan was dressed entirely in black silk decorated with glittering jet, and her pale blond hair was decorated with a black comb tipped with diamonds. Her sister, the White Swan, wore white and pink with many flounces.

And there was the courtesan famed for her voluptuous bottom. She wore a clinging gown that revealed its large curvature.

Angelique stood there, dressed in bronze silk with a gold overlay.

Of course, there was no Fiery Rose in brilliant scarlet. And she didn't see Nell, as Nell must still be recuperating.

She was praying the culprit was not Nell. That it was Angelique. Though why kill innocent women if it was Cary she hated? Why not attack him? There had been attempts on his life. Why had she turned away from that and started to have women attacked instead? Who was the man who had helped her?

And how could she blame a five-year-old child for having to do whatever he could to save himself? Angelique should blame her horrible father!

Of course it might be neither of them. The man's daughter may not have become a courtesan at all. But it was a possibility, and she had to tell Cary.

Again, Sophie searched the crowd. She strained up on her tiptoes. Cary and the rest of the Wicked Dukes were tall. Surely, she would see Cary's beautiful pale gold hair—

Stratham passed by her field of view. At once she sank down, praying he didn't see her. He was heading toward the Cyprians, fortunately.

Blond hair! In a small gap in the crowd, she glimpsed a shock of light blond hair. That had to be Cary.

Something hard jammed into her back. She half turned, ready to protest.

She didn't recognize the man leering at her. Sandy brown hair was pulled back in a queue, and pockmarks made a mess of his cheeks. His eyes were cold and hard. From behind her, he reached out and grabbed her hip. The hard thing pushed more painfully against her back.

“Where do ye think ye're going, my dear?” He sneered. “I've got unfinished business with you.”

That voice.

It was the man who had attacked her.

“Don't scream or do anything stupid. I've got a pistol against your back.”

“You wouldn't sh-shoot me here. In front of all these people.”

“Because I'd hang? But you'd still be dead, sweetheart.” His arrogant smirk froze her blood. “I've been following you. First you were riding with the Duchess of Caradon, then on to here. Busy, interfering little whore, aren't you?”

So that was how he'd known who she was. He must have been watching her house, waiting for her.

She didn't know what to do. What if he did shoot her? She should shout or warn Cary or do something. Roughly, the man pushed her toward the side of the room. She saw a dark entrance.

No. No. She opened her mouth to scream, when a cloth was pushed over her face and half of it was shoved into her mouth, almost choking her.

She struggled.

A hand came through the air in a ferocious arc. She couldn't move, and the palm slapped her hard on the face. The force sent her head snapping to the side.

“You will do what you are told. Stop moving, you stupid little bitch.”

Sophie blinked against the pain as Angelique stepped forward. Angelique also held a pistol. Sophie had no chance—not against two weapons.

“You will come with me,” Angelique snapped.

She would die for sure! “No, I won't.” She could be shot here, but they might hesitate to do it right beside a crowded ballroom.

“Yes, you will. With Caradon here, his mother and his sisters are unprotected in his house. I've paid two ruffians to watch his house. If they do not get word from me in another half an hour, telling them to abort, they will sneak into the house and slit the throats of Caradon's mother and sisters.”

Sophie gasped, ice-cold with horror. “How could you?”

“He took my family from me. But if you come with me without a fight, I will call off those men.”

“How can I trust you?”

Another slap. Sophie gritted her teeth to keep from screaming or crying.

“You have no choice but to trust me,” Angelique snapped. “If you do not move now, they will definitely die. Wait long enough, and I won't have time to stop the men.”

“All right,” Sophie said. “I will go with you.”

19

 

—From an unfinished manuscript entitled
A Courtesan Confesses
by Anonymous

 

 

“I need to see you stop the attack with my own eyes,” Sophie insisted. Angelique had hauled her to a black carriage. The hard muzzle of the pistol pressed into Sophie's back.

She couldn't give in to fear. Fear that the pistol would go off by accident. She stopped, lifted her chin, and spun to face Angelique. She wasn't going to cry. Or give in to vapors. She was going to have courage—as Cary had when he had been a prisoner of war, when he had confronted a kidnapper. “Do you have to shove that thing into my back? I fear it will go off.”

Angelique, swathed in a rich black cloak, looked startled. She must have expected sobbing. Then a twisted, mad smile curved the courtesan's painted lips. “That hardly matters, my dear. You will soon be dead. But I did want the pleasure of torturing Caradon. I do think it would destroy him to watch you die.”

But the horrid witch moved the pistol away from her back, still smirking.

There, Sophie thought, she had won a small victory. But she wished she could understand. Surely, even a madwoman could be made to see sense, to have empathy, to care, if only Sophie could understand why she was doing this. But first, she must ensure Cary's family was safe.

Angelique motioned with the pistol for her to mount into the carriage, but Sophie went on. “Please,” she begged. “I want to know they will not be harmed. You can make haste with the carriage and call off your men. These are innocents. Please do this.”

“You think you will be able to escape. You won't. You will not escape your death this time.”

Don't believe that. Don't. Don't.
“I just don't want anyone else to be hurt.”

“By the end of tonight, my dear, many people will be hurt. But if you obey me, the victims may not include the duchess and her daughters. Perhaps.” Angelique laughed.

How she obviously loved having this power.

“Get into the carriage, you stupid girl.”

Sophie scrambled in. The man who had attacked her was acting as the coachman, and he had jumped up into the driving box.

Angelique had killed two innocent women—and had tried to kill her. The woman wanted to destroy Cary—and she was willing to do any ruthless thing to do it.

Two defenseless young women were gone, all because the woman sitting beside her in the carriage was obviously mad.

All her life, people had told Sophie she had a remarkably optimistic disposition. She had not hated her adoptive mother for treating her badly—she'd been happy to have a home. Even when she'd lost Samuel and had been thrown out, she'd been grateful for her son. She had looked at the bright side of becoming a courtesan—and she had found a wonderful man who she could love passionately.

She wasn't going to die. She had too much to live for. Somehow she would escape. She would survive. And she would make certain Cary's family wasn't hurt.

Was there any way she could get a message to him?

The carriage stopped. Sophie looked out and saw the top of Cary's beautiful house above the wall surrounding it. Angelique opened the window, leaned out, and made a strange whistling noise.

Two shadows, tall and lean, slunk out of the dark. Their caps were pulled low, so the street flare barely illuminated their faces. Sophie glimpsed stubble-covered cheeks. One had a scar that slashed through his upper and lower lips.

“Your business is done for the night,” Angelique said. “You are not to attack.”

“Why not?” one whined. “Would have been right fun.”

“Aye,” said the other. “I was hoping to fondle a noble tit.”

“Be off with you,” Angelique snapped. “Disobey me, and you will both die.” She threw down some coins to them. “For your trouble tonight.”

“Enough for a few rounds and a few tarts,” the first one said as they both scrambled to pick up the coins, bumping each other.

“And if you do not hear from me again tomorrow morning, you are to carry out the original plan and kill the duchess and her daughters. That will be insurance for all of us.”

Then they tipped their caps to Angelique and ran off down the road, away from Cary's house.

At least Cary's family was safe for now.

“Now we have the long part of our journey,” Angelique said. “And soon Caradon will receive a note at the ball, telling him where you are. I have no doubt he will come to rescue you.”

“Why are you doing this? How could you hurt so many innocents? How can you hate Caradon so much?”

“He took something from me. Something very, very dear to me.”

“Do you mean your father?”

The inside lights of the carriage were off. They passed another street flare on the lane. The light painted Angelique with harsh precision. Her face had changed. Raw anger and gloating triumph had transformed it. Every line and wrinkle showed. Her age was apparent. “Your father kidnapped Caradon when he was just a child, and you were there.”

Angelique did not answer Sophie's accusation, but Sophie saw the flash of surprise. “Where are we going?” Sophie demanded.

“To the house he was kept in as a child. I do not see how you knew this.”

“I figured it out,” Sophie answered. “But I still don't see why!”

“We were poor, terribly poor. A footman's wages could not support a family. The Duke of Caradon was fabulously wealthy, and my father saw a way to get his hands on some of that money. All we had to do was keep the child until the ransom was paid. But that was not to be. The horrible young brat escaped. After bludgeoning my father to death with a poker.”

“And you blame him for that?” Sophie cried. “A terrified five-year-old? He was fighting for his very life, and your father did terrible things to him. What did you think would happen? You committed a crime!”

Would Angelique shoot her now? Her heart thundered, but Sophie squared her shoulders. If she was going to be shot, she would face it bravely.

“Shut up, you wretched tart!” Angelique snapped. “Think you are so high and mighty? You are naught but a jade yourself. I had to scrape and fight for everything I had. I had to survive. And I learned early that the way for a female to survive is to allow a man to have sex with her. It's the only way to guarantee a roof over your head. Then I realized I could get much more than just a roof! What was I to do? I knew I'd be thrown out of my house by my father if I didn't do what he asked—” She stopped. Her hand stroked the muzzle of the pistol.

“Goodness.” Sophie had grown up in a doctor's home. She had overheard tales of the worst kinds of abuse. “You are saying your father forced you”—she could not actually say it—“into his bed?”

“He came to my bed. Or cornered me in various places of our grotty little cottage.”

Pity and horror blended in her. “That is awful! Oh my goodness, what horror you lived through.”

“Oh, shut up. I don't want your pity.”

“Well, you have it. I cannot imagine how horrible that must have been.” She remembered having been punished at times, though being locked in her room had seemed severe for simple, childish mistakes. Now she knew her adoptive mother had been punishing her for what she was, not what she'd done. She remembered how sad she had felt. How she had wanted to please. What about when love and the hope to please parents was all warped in a perverse way?

Then she thought. “But surely you would empathize with the duke! You should feel sorry for him. How could you hurt him this way? And those two women were innocent. You must have understood them too. You must have understood the need to survive.”

“They were hardly innocent. Sally Black, who thought she was so young and lovely, so arrogant. And you—you snuck in, defying the ruling queens of the Cyprian world. What loyalty should I have shown to the Fiery Rose? She was going to give my name to Caradon. You were all young and pretty. It is hardly any tragedy for me if a few lovely, young courtesans are no longer competing with me.”

“Well, that was not justification to take their lives,” Sophie said. “And this cannot be Caradon's fault.”

“You argue with me? I'm holding a pistol.”

“Well, you are in the wrong. I must make you see that.”

“For what purpose, you stupid chit? You are going to die. You want to know why this is Caradon's fault? I knew what my father did to him was wrong. I would have simply continued on, keeping the secret. But then Caradon did something to me. . . . He took the last thing I had in the whole world. He had my son court-martialed and shot in Ceylon.”

“Your
son?
” Never had she seen such pain on a woman's fact. Raw, agonized longing. “Your son was a soldier in Ceylon? But he—he attacked and strangled a woman.”

“He was a young man, barely more than a boy. Caradon should have understood why he snapped after the terrifying battles. And the girl was only a filthy member of the enemy. One of the wretched, horrid native people who were attacking British soldiers. She tried to sneak up and kill my son. Of course he had to defend himself! His friend returned from Ceylon in 1819, and he told me the truth about my son's death. I knew I wanted to make Caradon pay. He'd stolen everything from me. My entire family. My son was my world!” Angelique cried with passion. “At first I thought I just wanted to kill him. But those attempts failed. Then I knew I wanted him to
suffer
. I wanted to do more than kill him. I wanted to destroy his name. I wanted it to be spoken with disgust for all time!”

Angelique was insane, but she was a woman who had lost her child. “I know you loved him, but he did something terribly wrong and bad. As his mother, you must still love him. Your loss was terrible, but you can't hurt Cary.”

“Caradon cares about you so deeply, it is sickening,” Angelique spat. “But he is also getting too close. I wanted to tighten a noose around his neck little by little. I wanted to make him suffer, and I shall. For he is going to watch you die. Then I shall shoot him in the head and put the pistol in his hand. The poor, mad Duke of Caradon finally takes his own life, because he has been warped by the horrors of war and has become a monster. He will leave a note, explaining everything he has done. Not only will he die, but his name will be infamous!”

Angelique had not even listened to her. Spittle formed on the woman's lips in her excitement. She was too far gone in her plan to be reasoned with.

Sophie's hope wavered. But she knew, to survive, she could not give up. She had to cling to hope. Hope had landed her Cary, after all.

Hope—and keeping her wits and fighting to survive—might get her through this.

Then she understood what Angelique was doing. “You are luring Caradon to the place he was imprisoned, where he suffered hell.”

“That should hurt him deeply. Destroy his mind. Then I will kill him. I will kill both of you.”

 

Sophie stood at one of the two small front windows that looked out onto the lane leading from the highway to the cottage. The lane wound around shrubs and bushes, so the building was well hidden from the road. Her hands were bound in front of her, tied at the wrists with rough rope.

Cary had set a trap—but he would be the one walking into one.

She must warn him. She must protect him. Angelique thought it would be hell for him to watch Sophie die, but Sophie was already in hell—knowing Cary, who had done nothing wrong, was going to walk into Angelique's clutches.

To save her.

Unless . . . perhaps he wouldn't come.

Sophie remembered how he had so brutally beaten up the man who had attacked her—Angelique's man who was acting as her coachman now. The man had been armed with a knife and was huge, and Cary had beaten him to save her without any thought to his own safety.

He would come. Because he was noble.

In her mind's eye, she could see a small child being carried in here in the arms of his evil, horrible captor. Had Cary been blindfolded, perhaps even drugged? Did he see the cottage, a low structure with a rotting roof and walls of piled stones?