Deeper in Sin (23 page)

They weren't guilty. The four dukes had all grown up together—he, Greybrooke, Saxonby, and Sinclair. First at Eton, then at Oxford. He knew Sin and Sax had secrets in their pasts. But they were men. They didn't talk about that, didn't ask questions. So he did not know what those secrets were.

Still, he could not see Sax or Sin capable of murder. Not of the cowardly murders of defenseless women.

And there was the watch with the initials “Y.Y.” His story about Corporal Yew had made him wonder . . . Yew had reason to hate him, but the man had died in Ceylon.

His best line of action was to question the Cyprians.

He had been just in time to save Sophie when she was attacked. This morning . . . God, he could have lost her.

He was realizing how much he knew he wanted to be with her.

He was supposed to marry. He couldn't make love to Sophie today, but pleasuring her had fought off his demons, had made him forget everything but her.

But when he married, he wanted to have a loving relationship with his wife. He couldn't keep a mistress.

When he could marry, he would have to let Sophie go.

 

On her way, Sophie reviewed what she knew of the Cyprians. Angelique had fought with Sally Black. The girl had insulted Angelique, and Sophie knew that had angered Angelique. But bold Sally might have argued with other Cyprians.

Angelique hadn't been at the orgy, but Sophie had recognized four other Cyprians—Nell had given her their names. The Fiery Rose, but she was now dead. The Venus Callipgye, known for her beautiful, full, round bottom (the nickname actually meant “Venus of the beautiful buttocks”). The Black Swan and her sister, the White Swan.

And Nell—Nell had been at both events.

She rapped on the door at Nell's town house, and the door whipped open. The young maid peered at her.

This time, Sophie wore a pelisse of dark green velvet and an elegant day gown.

“Cor, I thought you'd be the doctor, mum.”

“The doctor?” Sophie pushed in. “What's wrong?” Another murder? Was she too late, too late for Nell?

“She took laudanum last night. She does sometimes, when she can't sleep. She must have taken too much. I can't wake her up.”

“Let me see her. Where is her bedroom?” Sophie demanded.

The girl never questioned Sophie; she just pointed up the stairs and said, “The first room on the left, past the glass doors. At the back, with the best view of the garden and the roses. There's no early sun on those windows. That's what my mistress liked best.” The girl was babbling and was almost pure white with shock.

Sophie pushed the girl toward the drawing room door. “Have a sherry for your shock. Wait for the doctor to come, and then send him up at once.”

She raced up the stairs. Was it murder?

Another maid was in the hall, wringing her hands. “I don't know what to do,” she cried.

Sophie rushed past her. Nell's bedroom was fit for a duchess. The bed was oval, with a tall silk canopy. Nell's form looked tiny amidst the large bed, with sheets and a counterpane of pink pulled up to her chin.

This woman had helped her. Had saved her life—and her son's life, and those of Belle and the children—by intervening with Cary. She couldn't be dead just because Sophie was too late.

Sophie reached the bed. “Nell? Can you hear me?”

Desperately, she searched for a pulse. She couldn't tell if it was actually a pulse she was feeling. She bent close to Nell's lips. Felt the lightest flutter of air. Heard the soft sound of air going inside Nell's mouth.

Nell was still breathing. Faintly, but she was still drawing breath, and that was all that mattered. But Sophie felt like the maid—what should she do?

“She is in here, Dr. Grace!”

Sophie stood as a tall, thin man strode in. “She is still breathing. She's still alive.”

He didn't ask who she was. The doctor curtly told her to “stand aside.” Sophie did, retreating to the mantel by the fire. “If you need anything, doctor, ask, and I will fetch it at once.”

All her life, she had been much like a servant. Here, that was all she wanted to be. A servant to help the doctor save Nell.

She put her hand on the mantel because she was shaking—

Something fell. It was a gold locket, and it had fallen open. It contained a miniature picture of a man. Obviously, a gentleman. Sophie picked it up. The tiny painting depicted a dark-haired man with green eyes. On the other side, a paper had been tucked in. It read:

The journal—in her mother's journal, she had used the initials X. Q. to describe the man she had been deeply in love with.

Perhaps Nell had been in love with him too. Or—

It was hard to tell on such a small picture, but X. Q. had Sophie's color of eyes, and his chin looked like hers. So did his nose. This man was her father.

And Nell, with her dark hair, could be her mother.

But her mother was dead. Mrs. Tucker, her adoptive mother, had told her that. Or had that been a lie? Maybe to hurt her, or maybe Mrs. Tucker did believe her mother was dead.

But she wasn't.

Sophie took a hesitant step forward, but the doctor was hunched over Nell. He was using a brusque voice on Nell as if he could bully her awake.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked impetuously. “I must help her.”

“You can keep out of my way, miss,” the doctor said curtly.

Sophie retreated. She was quite sure Nell was her mother— but it could still be that the Viscount Mowbray was Sophie's father and her mother could be dead.

She wanted Nell to be her mother.

She walked around the room, pacing, praying Nell would live. Had this been an accident, and she had just taken too much laudanum? Had someone tried to silence Nell, the same way the Fiery Rose had been killed before she could talk?

There was another possibility. Nell could have done this deliberately.

Sophie walked over to a small writing desk. Then she knew the truth. A small book sat on the desk blotter—a book with a red leather binding, just like the journals Sophie had. The ones that contained her mother's manuscript.

The book was in her hand and open before she realized what she was doing.

It wasn't right to read it, but she had to know.

The handwriting was the same. It had been so small on the miniature, and it had not been a flowing script, so she hadn't noticed that fact. But here she did.

She began at the last entries. They were all about a handsome viscount. Nell used a code for the names, but there was a folded piece of paper tucked in the book. Sophie unfolded it. It was a charcoal sketch of a handsome, dark-haired man.

Sophie had seen him before.

He was the same man Sophie had seen whipping the Fiery Rose at the brothel on Horton Street. In Nell's journal, there were catty remarks about all the famous Cyprians. And Nell wrote about being furious because a young upstart stole the Viscount Willington out from under her nose. He was the peer who was Sally Black's protector.

Nell was furious with both Sally and the Fiery Rose.

Nell wrote about her desire to win the Duke of Caradon. To prove she was still the superior courtesan.

Sophie looked at the date where she had come to see Nell. There was no mention of her, beyond a small note about acquiring a new protégé. Nell didn't mention her as her daughter. But Nell had written several paragraphs about how much she desired Caradon.

Three women who were involved with men Nell wanted had been murdered, or almost murdered.

But Nell must have recognized Sophie's story. She must have
known
Sophie was her daughter. Nell had, Sophie assumed, invited Caradon to the orgy. She thought it was because Nell had been kind and was giving her the chance for a good match—well, a good match with a protector.

If Nell wanted Cary for herself, why do that?

From the bed, she heard a soft groan. Some babbling. Sophie turned around.

“Have some black coffee sent up. We must keep her awake now,” the doctor ordered.

Sophie looked back at the bed. Did Nell know who she was? Was her mother—who she had dreamed of meeting—responsible for two murders and the attack on her?

Who was the man who had been paid to kill her?

When the coffee arrived, she held out a cup for Nell. Carefully put it in the woman's hands. After Nell had drunk some, she looked weakly at Sophie.

The doctor was packing his bag.

Sophie said, “I need to know if you are innocent, Nell.”

“Innocent? Hardly that,” she said weakly.

“I mean of the deaths of Sally Black. And the Fiery Rose. Someone killed her. And then you—you took too much laudanum.”

“I did that . . . in the night. I knew you were safe now. How beautiful you turned out. I saw what I'd lost. I'd lost you. . . .”

“You took too much laudanum because of me?”

“I gave you up. I am so sorry.”

“I know you are my mother. And I must know if you hired someone to kill me so you could have Caradon.”

Nell struggled to sit up, but Sophie touched her shoulder. Weakly, Nell put her hand on Sophie's. “No. No, I would never hurt you.”

“Do you know who did? Someone broke into my room to murder me.”

“I don't know. Oh my dear, I don't know. But you are all right—?”

“The Duke of Caradon rescued me.”

Nell smiled. She settled back against the pillows that Sophie had arranged to prop her up to drink coffee. “Thank heavens,” she said.

18

“Caradon, please. It is time you began to seriously search for a bride.”

Cary looked up. His mother stood in the doorway of his study. He had been reviewing what he had learned from the Cyprians—mainly that each and every one despised other females. They were all ruthless. They had clawed their way to their positions over other women. When it came to claiming a rich protector, they would fight any other woman to the death.

All of them had been at both events, except for Angelique. She had not attended the orgy.

He had offered each woman a generous bribe. Either they knew nothing about the murders, or they weren't willing to sell their secrets.

What it came down to was that all this was directed at him. He was the common thread between the three women—between Sally and Gwen Longbottom who were dead, and Sophie who had been attacked. If Corporal Yew had still been alive, he would have been Cary's main suspect, since the man had strangled a woman and blamed Cary for court-martialing him. But Yew had been killed and buried in Ceylon.

“Caradon, are you listening? I am very tired, and you are not even answering me!”

He got to his feet, hastened over to his mother, and led her to a seat by the fire. “I'm sorry, Mother. I can't search for a bride until I solve these murders.”

“Why on earth is it your job to do that? You are a duke.”

“One of the victims was found close to my house. I was supposed to meet the other. Sophie was attacked. I am innocent, but someone seems to be trying to make me look guilty.”

His mother paled. He quickly poured her brandy. “I don't want to worry you with any of this. Let me deal with it—let me find the blackguard and put an end to this.”

“And after that, you promise you will marry? I want to know there is an heir. I fear—I don't understand why you won't marry. Sophie told me that you have terrible memories, that you are unable to do your duty in the bedroom.”

It was his turn to be stunned. “You discussed that.”

“She told me that you made her your mistress to rescue her, not sleep with her.”

“She is better than that world.” But he was using her for pleasure. He was bringing her into that world, damn it.

“Tell me what's wrong.”

“What she said is true. I can't—I can't do my husbandly duty.” Christ, he never dreamed he would have this conversation with his mother.

“But you were a thorough rake as a young man. Before you went to Ceylon—”

“You know what happened to me when I was a boy. You and Father forbid me from speaking of it, but you know what I experienced. I had to prove myself. That was why I was a rake. But after Ceylon—after I was held prisoner, all the memories came back. When I even kiss a woman, that's what floods my mind. The memories. So I can't marry.”

“But all you have to do is your duty, Caradon.”

“A hell of a sorry life for the bride, don't you think?” he asked bitterly. “Sophie believes I can be healed somehow. That I can forget. It's not possible.”

“It must be,” his mother said. “I think—I think I must rest, Caradon.”

 

Sophie hurried through her dining room. Was everything in readiness? Flowers graced the table. The silverware shone. The dinner service and elegant crystal glasses provide by Cary sparkled under the glow of the hundred candles in the chandelier.

Cary had sent her a note. He intended to visit her that evening, but not for the reason she would have thought. It was not to be a night of pleasure and seduction.

It was a council of war.

She straightened some forks and adjusted a few plates. She was fussing, she knew, but she had never entertained before.

When she'd lived with the Tuckers and they had had guests, she'd helped in the kitchen, doing a kitchen maid's work. This time, she had been in charge. She had created the menu, had instructed her cook, had ordered sherry and brandy put out.

She had spent the morning with Nell, fetching Nell coffee while she was recovering. And talking.

“I wish I hadn't had to give you up,” Nell had said. “Your father, who I called X. Q. in my memoirs as his name was Xavier Quentin, was a viscount, and I was madly in love with him. But he had to marry—and certainly not me. Some men marry their courtesans—even Prinny tried, making an unrecognized marriage to Catholic Mrs. Fitzherbert. But Quentin needed his allowance. He was heir to a dukedom, and of course his father threatened to cut him off. He could have waited, but I learned that Quentin was not willing to live solely on love. He ended our relationship that very night. Ironically, after his father died, he was the duke for all of two years. His father lived to a ripe old age, and Quentin died quite young, killed in a dueling accident. He came back to me once, before he became the duke. It was two weeks after he had married a duke's daughter who had a huge dowry, a long nose, and bulging eyes. He was drunk and insisted he could not live without me. When he sobered up, he threw me over again. I swore I would never, ever, be fooled by him again, but it was already too late. The last night we had together left me enceinte. I knew I had to give you away. You would be a reminder of my folly. Selfish, wasn't it? But back then I believed I couldn't bear to look at you. What an absolute fool I was.”

Then Nell had asked Sophie whether her life had been good with her adoptive family. Nell had looked so hopeful. “You turned out so well. So lovely, and you look like a lady,” she said.

Sophie realized her mother had meant well. Nell had hoped that being raised by a doctor would give Sophie more respectability. Sophie hadn't the heart to tell her the truth. Besides, she had grown up with a roof over her head and she had never been really abused. Being treated like a servant had taught her how lovely it was to be treated well.

Nell had expected her to be resentful and unforgiving. But Sophie understood. Sophie worried about her son. Maybe she would be willing to give him up so he could have a good future, if she couldn't provide one for him. . . .

Now, everything in the dining room was in readiness. She knew no one truly cared what they were eating and drinking. They were here to solve the mystery. But she wanted her first attempt at playing hostess to be successful.

The guests began to arrive, and Sophie greeted them as they were announced and filed into the drawing room. First, the Duke of Greybrooke. To Sophie's surprise, Greybrooke approached her. “My wife wished to be here, to help Cary, but she decided she must stay at home with our newborn son. She did ask me to tell you that she will be happy to receive you when our son is a little older, and she is less tied to feeding the wee mite.”

“Receiving me? But—”

“My lovely wife was a governess before I saw sense and married her,” Grey said softly. “I would like Cary to do the same. See sense.”

Before she could think of an answer, the silver-haired Duke of Saxonby was announced. A few minutes later, the Duke of Sinclair arrived

“I have all the Wicked Dukes in my drawing room,” she whispered to Cary, awed. “I think there are women who would give anything to be me right now.”

“Many would aspire to be as good and loyal and noble as you, Sophie.”

Her footman stepped in. “Mrs. Carlyle,” he announced.

Who could this be? Sophie looked to Caradon, and he grinned. “A special guest. A very special woman.”

Sophie had no idea who this special woman was. The softest fragrance filled the room, mixing with the scent of the orchids that had appeared this morning (apparently, Caradon had arranged for fresh flowers to be delivered for her each morning). It was a subtle, sinful kind of fragrance. Sophie even thought of a tumbled bed when she smelled it.

Mrs. Carlyle wore white—all white. A column of a satin gown clung lovingly to her generous bosom, then fell in an endless sweep of gleaming fabric. For the gown to fall like that, the woman's figure had to be very slim, her legs incredibly long. Her hair was raven-black, braided and curled and decorated with diamonds that winked like stars. She wore paint, but in a way that made her eyes large and slanted and seductive. Her lips were two plump, red curves.

She was the most beautiful woman Sophie had ever seen.

“Good evening, Miss Ashley,” she said to Sophie. “So, you are the woman who has wrapped the Duke of Caradon around her finger.”

“Oh! Hardly.”

Cary said, “Mrs. Carlyle worked as a British spy during the war.”

“A spy? Really? That must have been thrilling. And dangerous.”

“We need a woman for this who can use a pistol and take care of herself.”

“Well, that certainly describes me.” Mrs. Carlyle's laugh was enchanting.

Sophie noticed Greybrooke was looking at the beautiful spy but without the look of avid interest and desire she saw on the faces of Saxonby and Sinclair. As for Cary—

He was looking at her, Sophie.

“You got nothing from the Cyprians. So, what is the plan, Cary?” Sin asked.

“There is another Cyprian ball tonight. It's my plan to lure the killer out. To give him bait by showing special attention to a particular woman, even have her offer to sell me the name of the killer, like the Fiery Rose did. Then we catch him when he makes his move.”

“I could do that,” Sophie said.

Cary turned to her, frowning. “Absolutely not. There is a villain out there who attacked you, Sophie. I am not going to hand you over to him on a silver platter.”

“You could watch me every minute—”

“In that crowd I could lose sight of you. It's a risk I'm not willing to take. The woman will be armed, and she will be a woman who knows how to look after herself.”

“But she will be in danger. I should do this,” Sophie said.

“Sophie, I need a woman willing to kill her attacker if she must. Are you willing to take a man's life?”

“I—” She wanted to say that of course she would if he were a villain. But—“I don't know. I think I could. I think I would have the courage.”

“Killing a man doesn't take courage. It takes a hefty streak of self-preservation. The willingness to do anything to anyone else to save your own life.”

She remembered hitting Devars, and she flinched. She had been sick at first, fearing she'd killed him. Even though he was willing to hurt her, she didn't have the heart to take his life. She realized he must be speaking of his time in the war. “You are right,” she said softly. “I couldn't do it.”

“I want you to stay out of this completely.”

“But I want to at least be there—”

“I want to make sure this madman does not have any opportunity to go after you. You will stay here.”

She sighed. “All right. But please, please, please, be careful.”

 

In Sophie's drawing room, after the men and Mrs. Carlyle had left, Sophie paced in front of the fireplace. “Ma'am.” Sophie's footman entered and stood with perfect correctness. “The Duchess of Caradon, ma'am.”

The duchess? Here? Sophie whirled around, stunned. Slender, swathed in a fur-trimmed cloak, the duchess walked in. Stammering, Sophie offered tea or sherry, but the duchess quickly said, “I must speak to you about my son, Miss Ashley. This is unconventional, but I do not know where to turn. You were correct, dear, with what you said. There is something I must tell you—”

Sophie approached the duchess. “You are terribly pale. Let me pour you sherry.”

She gave Cary's mother a small crystal glass, led her to the settee, and sat beside her.

The duchess sipped and sipped, then found her courage. “I fear what troubles my son is more than what happened in Ceylon. I've never spoken of this to anyone else. Almost no one knows about it—with the greatest care, we were able to cover it up. Only certain members of the law and our most loyal servants know.”

The duchess hesitated. Curiosity consumed Sophie, but she knew she must wait for the duchess to find the courage to talk. Then the older woman gently touched Sophie's hand. “There has been no one else, outside of our immediate family, who is as close to him as you. He has not allowed anyone to be so close to him.”

Was that really true? How could she be the only other very close person to him? But then, in her mother's book, sometimes mistresses were. A man might live a separate life from his wife, but he needed someone to confide in, someone to believe in him, flatter him, care about him. So he did it with his mistress.

“When he was only five years of age,” the duchess said, “he was kidnapped for ransom.”

Sophie's blood went ice cold. Five years old! The same age as her son. Pain at that thought twisted inside her. “But—but what happened?”

The duchess eyed her warily. “I trust you not to tell Caradon that I told you of this. Or anyone.”

“Of course. I would never tell anyone. I can keep secrets.” She'd kept so many of her own. “What happened to him? He was freed, obviously.” Thank God. Thank God! “But was he hurt?”

“In terrible ways. Unspeakable things happened to him.”

“Unspeakable? I don't understand.”

The duchess put a lacy handkerchief to her mouth. “He was chained up so he could not escape. And hit. But he was also . . .” The woman was white as a ghost and shaking.

“You needn't go on,” Sophie said.

“I must. He has said he won't marry. And I fear it must be because of what happened to him. This man—this monster who took him—touched him. In ways that should only be between a husband and a wife. A man and a woman. And he was but a child.”

The duchess hurried on. “He had to kill the man to escape. He created a trap and sent a brick hurtling down onto the man's head. That only enraged this monster, and he grabbed up a kitchen knife. Fitzwilliam—he was not the duke then, of course—ran and took up a fireplace poker. The man tried to stab him, but fell, and my son hit him in the head with the poker.”