Deeper in Sin (22 page)

“What on earth do you mean?” The duchess's voice became sharp.

How could she explain it? “He is tormented by something that happened to him. For some reason, it interferes with his ability to . . . I mean . . .” She tried again. “He told me he won't marry because he is haunted by these memories. I want to make him better. I want to make them go away. I have tried, but it isn't working yet, and I don't know what to do.”

The duchess was scarlet.

“It was from before he went to war, Your Grace. I'm sure of it. It must have been something that happened when he was young. Before he was old enough to—”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” the duchess interrupted. “There is nothing in his past. Being a prisoner of war almost destroyed him. He never told me what happened to him in Ceylon—he said he could not speak of any of it. But he was in a terrible state when he returned home. So thin, he was almost skeletal. I feared he would be like that forever. I was not well. I had fallen ill. I have never had a great deal of strength. But my son believed he had to look after me. Caradon fought to recuperate so he could take care of me. But whatever haunts him must be related to the time he was a prisoner. That is what it must be!” Her voice had risen in a panic.

The maid came in then. “Your Grace, the magistrate is here, and Mr. Rycroft, a Bow Street Runner, with His Grace, the duke. They must speak with you.”

Before the duchess could agree or refuse, a tall dark man slid past the maid and stepped into the room.

It was that suspicious Bow Street Runner, Rycroft, accompanied by Sir Henry, the magistrate. And Cary came in after them.

 

To Sophie's surprise Rycroft was gentle with the duchess. Rycroft poured her tea and handed it to her. Then he took a seat opposite her.

“If you find this in any way upsetting, Your Grace, please advise me. I want to spare you the details—and spare your sensibilities—but I have to tell you that your son, the Duke of Caradon, had arranged to meet a woman in Hyde Park to acquire some information. That woman was murdered, ostensibly before His Grace arrived.”

Rycroft consulted a notebook on which he had written with a pencil. He asked the duchess several questions. Had she seen her son that morning? Had she seen him leave the house?

The duchess claimed she took an early breakfast with her son rather than have it in bed. She had felt the desire to go downstairs. Cary had then told her he intended to ride in the Park, which so many gentlemen did early in the morning.

“You were with His Grace from what time to what time, Your Grace?” Rycroft asked it bluntly, but with tones filled with respect.

Sophie was quite startled. It appeared there was more to the Runner than just belligerence. He had been harsh and suspicious when questioning her and Cary about Sally Black, but he was quite gentle with the duchess.

“I believe it was from half past six until just before seven o'clock,” the duchess answered.

Then Rycroft turned to Sophie. “I must ask you questions, Miss Ashley, as you found the body in the park. Do you want me to question you here?”

She shook her head, afraid upsetting details might come out. She went with the men to Cary's study, though Sir Henry spent much time fussing over the duchess before they went, and he left the duchess in the morning room.

She told them about the visit of the Fiery Rose and her demand. “I don't think the duke would have killed her, since she was going to reveal the identity of the real murderer.”

“Perhaps not. If the duke were the killer, she might have been demanding money to keep quiet. But she didn't want you to know that, Miss Ashley.”

“This is ridiculous. Instead of bothering the duke, why don't you investigate? Why aren't you questioning the men riding in the park? Perhaps they saw someone! You saw the note the woman was holding, didn't you?”

“We did. The one that confirmed the duke would be there—at about the time of the murder.”

“If he had done this, why would he let you find the letter? Wouldn't he have taken it? Of course he is innocent. He was only just leaving his house when I went running to find him and summon the magistrate.”

“And why were you there, Miss?”

“I was attacked by this person, as His Grace told you. I wanted to find out who the killer is.”

They asked more questions—asking her to go over every detail she saw.

She learned that two gentlemen riding saw a woman in a cloak near the Serpentine, but they claimed they saw her later, leaving the park.

Once the Runner had left, Cary said thoughtfully, “I assume the person they saw was the killer leaving. A person in the cloak.”

“They thought it was the woman in the cloak.” Sophie frowned. “Do you think it could be a woman? Or they just saw a figure?”

“It was a man who attacked you.”

“Yes, but witnesses also mentioned seeing a strange woman.” Her heart pounded with fear. “Rycroft thinks you did it. He was kind with the duchess, but he is so determined not to show favoritism to a duke that I fear he would like to see
you
convicted just because you are a duke.”

“That won't happen,” Cary said softly. “We are going to solve this. And I think Rycroft does want justice.”

We. He spoke of them together.

“The Fiery Rose was a Cyprian, and she said she knew who the killer was. If that was true, maybe one of the other Cyprians knows too. She was at the Cyprian ball the night Sally Black was killed. I think we should question the other Cyprians. Maybe she confided in one of them—oh! Maybe one of them is the mysterious woman seen near my room. Or this woman in the park.”

“You have a remarkable, clever mind, Sophie. That makes sense. I will question the Cyprians.”

“We could do it together?”

“They want to seduce me, love. I think it's best if I do it alone. Now, I'm going to take you home. I want to ensure my mother is all right.”

Sophie went with him, but stayed outside the morning room, near the door. He crouched down beside his mother. He touched her hand, but she moved it away.

He straightened. “I am going to take Miss Ashley to her home, Mother. She should have some breakfast. And rest after this ordeal.”

His mother's eyes stayed on him as he took Sophie's hand and lifted her to her feet. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

“Is there anyone to look after her?” the duchess asked.

Sophie was startled that the duchess would be concerned.

“There are servants—maids, a cook, a butler,” Cary said. “They will be able to take care of her on my instructions.”

“Yes,” his mother said softly so he didn't hear, but Sophie did. “You seem to have thought of everything. You seem very concerned about this young woman. And that will have to stop.”

 

Cary took Sophie up to her bedroom in her town house, intending to tuck her back into bed and send her maid upstairs with a breakfast tray.

But the moment he saw her draw up the covers in her new shift, her black hair loose, he realized—he could have lost her.

“You shouldn't have gone there this morning.”

She lifted her chin, looking stubborn, but he growled. “If you had been there a little earlier, you might have witnessed the murderer, and he might have attacked you. He'd failed in his mission to take your life, Sophie. You might have handed him a second chance.”

She went very white. “But I had to go—”

“Don't ever take such a chance again.”

How easy it would have been for the fiend to have killed Sophie by the lake with no one there to protect her. He wouldn't have known until he found her.

“I want to savor you,” he said softly.

He needed to touch her. It was as if he had to do it to convince himself she was really safe.

With his fingertip, he traced her lower lip. When the sensation made Sophie tremble, he drew her forward, kissing her slowly.

“That was so beautiful,” she whispered. “I'm sorry. I never thought there would be any risk. I was going to hide.”

“Don't talk about that. Don't think about that.”

She was so pale and shaky. He had used sexual pleasure to make himself forget hellish memories and events. Sophie needed that.

He nuzzled her neck, making her moan. Her skin tasted so sweet. He skimmed his tongue along the length of her throat. He could have applauded when her fingers clutched his shoulder and she clung to him.

He broke away from her. His body felt so hot. The way it did with her—only Sophie. She was the only woman to make him feel on the brink of control. To make him get steamy with desire. He had always been too distant before Sophie.

He yanked open his cravat, tore off his coat, and tossed them aside. Damn all the clothing, but he finally got to his bare chest. He had to sit on the edge of the bed to haul off his boots.

Sophie ran her hands over his back.

He let his head drop back, let himself enjoy her touch. It set his skin on fire.

She pressed to him. In the past, he could only endure intimacy if it was leading right to sex. Tonight, he realized how beautiful it was to have her warm body pressed against him. She moved, and her hair spilled over his skin. That silky mass was like being caressed all over at once.

She kissed his neck, which tickled but felt good. Sank her teeth lightly into his shoulders. Nibbled his ears.

Her hands ran all over him. Just her panting alone had him rock hard, aroused beyond belief.

Then she whispered, “I love being able to touch your warm body all over. I love tasting your skin. Won't you let me kiss you down there?”

Her voice was so throaty, so sensual. He wanted to howl with need.

His hard cock strained against the placket of his trousers. It was so hard, pushing so eagerly.

“Give me a moment, love.” He stood to push down his trousers and linens. She watched. On her knees in just her shift, her lovely legs folded beneath her. Her hair a gleaming, raven river. The shift clung to her full breasts, hinting at them.

He couldn't make love to her, but he could make her come until she screamed.

“You are so beautiful,” she said.

“I'm not. I'm a man—hairy, smelly in places, scarred up. You're the lovely one, Sophie. Soft, sweet-smelling, beautifully curved.”

“I think every inch of you is gorgeous, Cary,” Sophie said, and she whisked off her shift.

Cary eased her back, both of them falling onto her large soft bed. He had it all decorated in white—embroidered white counterpane, silky sheets, white bedposts, white bed-curtains, tied with white tassels.

He had her down, naked on the bed. Her arms over her head, her breasts jiggling. He lay between her legs, his weeping erection pressed to her. Silken skin. Heat.

To make her giggle, he nuzzled her neck again. To make her squeal, he stroked between her long, slender legs.

He breathed in the smell of her. So rich and sweetly juicy.

Gently parted her dewy nether lips. He wet his fingers, then rubbed her clit, massaging her own creaminess into her soft, satin skin.

“Where are your toys, love?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I want you. Not toys, as fun as they are. I want you.”

Delicately, her fingers wrapped around his prick. She squeezed and ran her hand up and down. He caught his breath at the tug on his skin. She caressed his ballocks with her left hand. She was so good. So innocently wanting to please him.

This was what sex should be about. Joy. Pleasure.

Love.

That realization hit him—

Then Sophie kissed him hard on the mouth, sighing against him as she did. She lifted and pressed her hot cunny against his shaft. It trapped his hand against her pussy, and he played with her.

She broke the kiss to moan. He teased and rubbed her, making her moan harder, louder.

He pressed his cock against her lips. Closed his eyes—

Damn, that was a mistake. He lost touch with her lovely, blissful face.

It started to happen again. He wanted to make love to her, but all he could see around him were gloating, leering faces. Like monsters.

He wanted to run. To scream. To flail out at them, until he could get free—

Cary backed off, drawing away. “I'm sorry. I am so damn sorry, Sophie. I can't do this.”

She was panting. “It's all right.”

“I need to make you come. To make you forget. Let me do that.”

17

 

—From an unfinished manuscript entitled
A Courtesan Confesses
by Anonymous

 

 

“Spread your legs, angel.”

Lying on her bed, Sophie did as Cary commanded. She spread her legs wide. His hand was wrapped around one of the large phallus-shaped gewgaws. He had brought out the vial of oil, had warmed it over a candle, and now he made the phallus slick and shiny and slippery.

She could barely draw breath, watching his hand stroke along the thick shaft.

It was so erotic.

She wanted him inside her. His thick, heavy cock buried deep in her.

She couldn't have that—yet. But he was with her. And she needed him. She wanted to be with him, to think only of this—of sex and pleasure—and not of fear and death and killers.

He touched the tip of the thick fake cock to her nether lips. Looked deeply into her eyes, his fiery with lust, as he worked the cock inside her.

So full!

He thrust it in and out, and she moved with him. She moaned. Licked her lips. Touched her nipples. Tried everything she could to entice him.

He smiled. He pushed the phallus deeply in her, and Sophie let out a long, fierce cry of sexual agony. The emeralds in its base sparkled in the morning light. She began to rock on the phallus. As he'd shown her, she reached down and caressed her clit.

His eyes glowed. Then he shook his head and stopped her. “Not yet, angel. Roll onto your tummy.”

He helped her. Sophie lay on her silky sheets.

“I'll do this slowly. But I want to introduce you to the pleasures of double penetration.”

She twisted, met his gaze.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“You've done nothing but protect me. Of course I do.”

He held up the vial of oil, and she watched the warm golden fluid spill onto his fingers. Then his long, elegant finger stroked between the cheeks of her bottom.

“What are you doing?”

“You can feel the most incredible pleasure through your derrière, Sophie.”

She remembered that from the display at Sinclair's party. She held her breath. And nodded to say:
Yes, she wanted it
.

“I'll be gentle,” he promised

She felt a tug on her anus. Felt his finger push against her. It was slick with oil, and he was massaging her. Slowly.

“It feels good.” Stunningly good. She'd had no idea.

She felt pressure, and she gasped.

The movement stopped. “Relax, Sophie. I'll let you get used to the feel of my finger. You can take this, and it will feel good. I promise you.”

“I like it,” she whispered. “Do more.”

She rocked with the slow thrusts of his finger. Being filled back there made her cunny feel more full.

“My finger is all the way inside you.” His deep voice sounded almost reverent.

“Would you like to make love to me back there?” she asked breathlessly.

“I would, but I can't, darling. But I can fill you with one of the dildos.”

“All right.”

She held her breath, watched as he oiled the shaft of a more slender phallus. She kept her head half turned so she could watch him introduce the long, slender thing between her cheeks.

He gripped the hilt with his hand, thrusting with long, slow motions.

“Play with yourself,” he urged. “I want to make you come, angel.”

Her fingers went down, and she touched her clit, stroking it. She wriggled on the phallus filling her cunny, and he thrust the other deeper and deeper into her derrière.

“Oh yes,” she cried.

She was working harder and faster. Begging for him. Gasping his name—

Her fingers pressed hard and fast, and pleasure simply crashed into her.

She was coming. So hard, she had to scream with the sheer intensity. She squealed. And cried his name.

Then she opened her eyes. He was roughly jerking his cock, watching as she writhed and spasmed with her pleasure. “Oh yes,” she cried. “Jerk yourself hard.”

He let out a growl like a bear, then his hand clenched tight, his hips rocked forward, and his come jetted out. It shot to the bed. It shot over her belly. It dripped over his hand.

Then he let go of his cock and fell on his back beside her.

“Someday, I'm going to make love to you,” he growled. “I want to so badly. It has to happen.”

This was the first time he'd spoken as if he would fight to make it possible!

“It will,” she said.

Then he got up, slid the toys from her, and put them in a basin. He cleaned her with his handkerchief. Then he lay beside her on the bed, but he frowned and cocked his head.

He had remarkable senses—he'd explained he had honed them during battle. Though he said he was surprised the cannon fire hadn't deafened him.

There seemed to be some kind of commotion outside. Sophie got out of her bed, curious, and went to her window. People had walked out of their houses. They stood on the sidewalk, looking up the street.

Four white horses pranced down the lane, pulling a carriage painted a deep blue. The blue of precious sapphires, or of a deep, clear lake. The coachman wore elegant attire, along with a tricorne and a wig.

The carriage stopped in front of her house.

“For some reason, I think royalty is visiting us. Or your mother.” It looked like a carriage fit for a duchess. Sophie clapped her hand to her mouth. “Why would your—”

“My mother? What the—?” Cary had jumped out of bed, and he moved her to the side so he could look out the window too.

Then he grinned. “That's not my mother's carriage. That's yours. Finally, they are delivering it.”

“Today of all days,” she whispered. On a day where a desperate courtesan had lost her life.

“You're safe and sound. And I plan to keep you that way. Do you like the carriage?”

“It's lovely beyond compare. A fairy-tale carriage.”

Cary put his arms around her. His hands cupped her naked breasts.

This was an intimacy he would have refused mere days ago. “Why don't you take the carriage and visit your friend and her children? I'm going to question the Cyprians. I'll do it this afternoon—none of them will have stirred from bed before noon. Now that you have the carriage, why not travel and reassure them all they will now be safe?”

“But I was going to question the courtesans with you.”

“No, you are not. This morning, it was sheer good luck that kept you safe. I need you to stay out of this. I can't think straight when I'm worrying about you. Sophie, I couldn't bear losing you. I feel like I want to hold you forever. So I know you're safe.”

“I will be safe. I promise.”

He kissed her then. Cupping her cheek, he bent down to her from behind her and gave her a long, deep kiss. But when he drew back, his mouth was bracketed with harsh lines. “I know what it's like to be too late.”

“What do you mean?” Sophie asked, her eyes wide and surprised. “You weren't too late for me. You saved me!”

Cary closed his eyes. He had to make her understand how afraid he was—so she did not disobey him again.

“I haven't told anyone about this.” His voice was a hoarse rasp. With his eyes shut, he remembered every detail of the way the Fiery Rose had looked, lying on the ground by the Serpentine.

And that reminded him of the uprising . . . of what happened in Ceylon....

“No one. You can't speak of it either, but you need to understand.”

“I will keep it secret,” she said softly. “Please tell me.”

In his mind, Cary could hear the rushing stream beside their camp in the jungle. “It was in Ceylon. We had been ambushed by the rebels the day before, but we had fought off the attack. However, many of our men were injured. I was helping our doctor with the wounded. When I was done, I needed to take a walk. I needed time to think and strategize. Some of the men wanted a violent retaliation. I didn't want to lose more lives for some rabid, blind desire for revenge. But when I was walking, I heard a woman scream. . . .”

He opened his eyes and looked at Sophie's lovely green ones. “I heard a man shout at her. He called her filthy. Told her to ‘shut it' or he'd make her shut her mouth. The man was obviously English, and I ran toward the sounds. When I reached a clearing in the jungle, I saw one of my soldiers bent over a young, slim Ceylonese girl. The girl's garment was torn off. The soldier had his hands wrapped around her throat, cutting off the air so she couldn't scream.”

Sophie's hand rested on his biceps. Stroking him. Giving him comfort.

“I barked at him to stop, but he wouldn't. I hauled him off the poor girl. But her limp body fell to the ground. Her eyes were wide open and blank. I checked in vain for a pulse, but I knew I was too late. She was dead. I took out my pistol and put the soldier under arrest. He had been a disciplinary problem from the beginning, and he always fought my orders. Corporal Yew was his name. He had to be court-martialed, and I was speaking about that with my superior officer, when we were ambushed again. That was when I was taken prisoner. Months later, when I was rescued and released, the corporal had been killed and buried. But to this day, I still hate the fact that I was too late.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Sophie cried.

“Sophie, this is why I need you to stay safe. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.”

“I will stay here. Just as you asked.”

She kissed him. A sweet and tender kiss. Then he moved to his clothing and began to get dressed. “I have to go and put an end to this.”

 

As soon as Cary had gone, Sophie dressed and summoned her brand-new carriage. He had told her she couldn't question courtesans, but she was going to see Nell.

She should tell Nell that she had the duke as a protector, shouldn't she? She hadn't spoken to Nell since the night of the orgy.

And with her new carriage and her coachman, there would be no danger in going to Nell's.

 

With Sophie settled safe and sound at her town house, Cary took his carriage home. His mother knew about the murders, but his sisters didn't. Would he have to explain it to them? They were younger than him by ten and fifteen years. Now he saw that it must have taken a long time for his parents to recover from his abduction and to try for more children.

His mother had been weakened by his kidnapping for a very long time. She had him watched incessantly. His father had retreated from him.

Still, how in hell did he explain this to girls who were not yet twenty? His sisters should not even know what a Cyprian was; surely they had no idea women traded sex for money. He wanted to keep them far away from this.

While he had just taken Sophie to bed. He was a damned hypocrite, he realized.

But Sophie had been glowing after he'd pleasured her. She had no longer looked pale and afraid.

He'd done a good thing.

At home, he went straight to his study, avoiding his family.

In his drawer were two lists. The guest list for the Cyprian ball he had obtained from Nell. She was willing to do anything for money—give tickets to balls or sell private guest lists.

The other, for the orgy, he had gotten from Sin.

There were twenty gentlemen who had attended both events.

Sophie was correct. Questioning the Cyprians was the best way to start. At the top of his list were the two sisters—the Black Swan and the White Swan. They were close in age to the Fiery Rose, whose real name was Gwendolyn Longbottom. He could see why she'd taken a nickname.

But there was something that bothered him.

Both Sax and Sin had been at the Cyprian Ball and the orgy. He believed his friends couldn't be involved. Sax was wild—but not wild enough to hurt a woman. Sin's sexual appetites were notoriously inventive, and he reputedly never had sex in a scenario that involved less than four people.