Engaged in Sin (28 page)

He heard the clink of glass. It had to be Tristan setting down the brandy bottle after refilling his tumbler. Devon had to clamp his hands into fists to fight the urge to reach for a glass. He yearned to take just one drink. But if he began with one, he feared he wouldn’t stop until he was unconscious on the floor.

Cerise’s story sounded like the truth. Should it matter that she’d lied to him when she first arrived? It was obvious she wasn’t here to con him or steal from him—she would have done that already. She had done nothing but
take care of him. She had been wonderful in the way she had helped his sister and taken charge after the baby’s birth.

Why was he plagued with this damned pervasive sense of doubt? Was it simply the uneasiness he now carried with him? The constant wait for a disaster to fall, the way he would wait for the command of
Charge
or the first explosion of a cannon before a battle?

But as much sense as her story made, if he attacked it from a different direction, he could pull it to pieces. If she had a friend in London, she had a safe place to stay, and Kat was a famed London incognita who had the wherewithal to introduce Cerise to the wealthiest of England’s peers. Wouldn’t it make more sense to stay with Kat and find a protector in London, rather than travel north on the faint hope of seducing a blind and reluctant duke?

“You’re lost in thought,” Tris observed.

Devon hesitated, then told his friend his concerns. “I don’t know what to believe. If I take her tale at face value—that she was anxious to leave London and saw me as the perfect chance for escape—then I can understand why she made up the story. But …” He tried to put his doubts into words. “Her motives don’t appear strong enough to justify a mad flight up here. Under Kat’s tutelage, she would have had the opportunity to find a lover in Town. Once she was a peer’s mistress, she would have been safe from her madam’s vengeance.”

“Your arguments are sound, Dev. But the only one who knows the truth is Cerise.”

A faint knock came on the door. Devon lurched around, expecting Cerise to walk into the room. He expected to hear the firm tread of her steps, to smell her soft, natural scent, and hear her lush voice ask him if he required a nighttime story.

Instead, the heavy smell of perfume hit him, almost
making him gag. Miss Lacy said, in an exaggerated purr, “Your Grace, My Lord, how delicious to find you both together.”

Devon groaned. He remembered Cerise playing the saucy courtesan, but there had been a sweet awkwardness in her performance. She hadn’t sounded jaded and hard like this woman.

“Sorry, love, but His Grace is committed to his pretty mistress,” Tristan said.

“How disappointing.” Miss Lacy’s skirts swished slowly. No doubt she was trying to seductively cross the room. “But the reason I came searching for you wasn’t just to suggest some naughty fun between the three of us. After I had repaired myself in the bedchamber, I came downstairs and overheard the last things your mistress said, Your Grace. I apologize, but I must warn you. She claimed she helped innocents escape her madam. There have been stories all over London about a madam who was murdered in her brothel by one of her whores. The tart—whose name was Annalise, I think—helped young girls escape and then struck her madam with a fireplace poker. Annalise ran away. Bow Street has been searching all over London for her but can’t find her.”

Devon could hear the triumph in Miss Lacy’s sultry voice. “When did this happen?”

“The woman was murdered about three weeks ago, Your Grace.”

Devon suddenly couldn’t find his voice.
Christ
.

“Dev, have you got newspapers in the house?”

“Hades, I don’t know. They might have been delivered, but I can’t read them.”

“Treadwell,” Tris called. Boots struck the floor harshly, and almost instantly Devon heard his butler’s distinctive walk. “Treadwell, have you got news sheets for the last few weeks?”

“Aye, me lord,” his butler answered. “I kept them after
the valet left. I put them in a pile in the library, so ye could have them read to ye. Sorry, Yer Grace. I forgot to tell ye.”

Anne shrank back into the shadows of the corridor, her heart jumping madly in her chest.

Though Devon had sent her to bed while he spoke with Lord Ashton, she’d been unable to stay in her room. Instead of undressing, she had padded back downstairs, planning to see if Devon wished to have her read to him later.

But when she’d reached the mouth of the hallway that led to the drawing room, she glimpsed a group of retreating figures. Silently, she’d hurried forward. She’d crept close enough to see Devon and Lord Ashton striding at the front, with Treadwell and the voluptuous Miss Lacy hurrying behind. She followed them all to the library.

Anne quickly realized someone had remembered the news sheets. She heard Lord Ashton say, “There are no stories in these about a madam’s death or a missing whore. However, there are about a half dozen issues missing.”

“God,” Devon muttered. “No wonder she ran from London. She killed her madam.”

“Cold-bloodedly too,” Miss Lacy added. “You must have her
arrested
.”

They knew. Somehow they—Oh, dear heaven, Miss Lacy wore a self-satisfied smirk. The courtesan must have read the stories, or heard gossip in London, and guessed the truth. And told Devon at once, so she could eliminate her competition.

Oh, God. How long did she have before Devon came for her?

Probably only moments. It wasn’t long enough to go
back to the bedroom and take anything—not any of her other clothes, not even a bonnet.

Anne backed away. Then she turned and bolted. When she reached the drawing room, her lungs were already heaving. She raced across the room to the glass-paned doors that led outside. With shaky hands, she turned one handle, praying Treadwell had not bothered yet to lock it.

Her prayers were answered. The door swung wide. She’d shoved so hard that she lost her balance and stumbled out onto the flagstone terrace. Hauling up her skirts, she raced across the gray stones toward the dark lawn. What was she going to do? Where could she go?

It didn’t matter. All she could do was run.

NNE CROSSED THE
lawns by staying crouched—at least, as low as she could manage in a wretched corset. Clouds shrouded the moon and the velvety dark hid her perfectly, but it made the lawn a treacherous sea of rolling blue-black waves, uneven and ridged, peppered with unexpected holes. Twice she put her foot in a void and went flying to her knees. Each time, she scrambled back up and raced desperately onward.

Deep in her heart, she wanted to believe that if she told Devon the truth, he would forgive what she’d done because it had been an accident, because she’d struck Madame in desperation to protect a young girl, because she had never intended to kill. She wanted to imagine he would shield her, protect her, help her. But would Devon knowingly harbor a murderess? Even though she’d acted to defend those girls, she had committed a crime, and she feared that was how he would see it. Her heart clenched. It wouldn’t matter that they’d been intimate. It wouldn’t matter that she’d helped him cope with his blindness. Heavens, he’d risked his life and given his
sight for king and country. He wouldn’t help her escape the law. How could he?

She raced around a clump of lilac bushes and made a mad dash for the woods. She hazarded a glance behind her. Lights now blazed in many of the rooms on the second floor. Devon must be looking for her. Any moment he would guess—

Bobbing lights appeared on the terrace. Lanterns, carried by the footmen. Devon had
already
guessed, and he’d sent his servants to find her. The lights suddenly parted, streaming in different directions.

Letting out a whimper of fear, Anne sprinted on burning, shaky legs. When she was young, she could run as fast as a boy, but years spent trapped in the brothel had sapped her strength.

When she’d fled from Madame’s brothel, she had bolted through the twisting streets off the London docks, dragging the three young girls with her. She gripped the wrists of Violet and Mary so tightly they were sobbing. She carried Lottie, the smallest, on her back, with the child’s arms clamped around her neck.

But rescuing the frightened girls had given her more strength than her body could dredge up to save herself. Either she was going to throw up or her lungs would burst into flame. She sobbed with relief as she finally reached the woods. Her momentum carried her in a wild, zigzag course among the trees. She stumbled over every possible root, smacked her toes against stones, and wrenched her ankles a dozen times. Twigs snapped beneath her feet, the sounds as loud as gunshots fired in warning. Every servant chasing her must have heard them.

She plunged forward, stumbling over the treacherous ground, falling against dark trees, then finally she had to stop. Not because she felt safe, but because her legs were
shaking so hard she was certain they would break off at her knees.

It was no good. She couldn’t push herself any more. Chest heaving, she sucked in as much air as she could. It was dark here—the canopy of dense leaves blotted out the moonlight, and if she stayed still and kept quiet, no one would spot her. Though it also meant she couldn’t see anything. The woods contained dozens of sounds—shivering leaves, the bubbling stream, branches that clacked like bones—but she was sure she heard men shouting in the distance behind her. Anne forced her quivering muscles to move again, and she ran.

The splashing of the stream grew louder. She had described these woods to Devon, but now she had no idea where she was. Slipping through a grove of tightly spaced trees, she emerged to find she had reached the water. A stone bridge lay ahead of her. A
collapsed
bridge—the center had fallen into the stream. The only way across was to pick her way over the remaining stones and jump the chasm in the middle. Could she make it? She wasn’t sure. But it was also unlikely anyone else would. It might be her best chance of escape.

Wishing she’d worn anything other than a gown, she put her foot on one of the stones. Of course, her boot slid crazily. She clutched the remaining piece of the wooden railing and took wobbly steps over the stones, which jutted up from the water in a jumbled mass.

Heavens, she was shaky, but panic gave her the courage to blindly throw her weight. Poised on the last stable stone on her side, Anne jumped. Her feet landed on a stone on the other side, but it was slimy, and her right foot skidded wildly. She fell, her left leg splashing into the water. But she managed to grasp the railing and pull herself out.

Her skirts hung around her, wet and heavy. Her left knee throbbed with pain.
Keep moving. Imagine the
pain of hanging
. She struck ahead, leaving the bridge behind her, but she was limping and moving far too slowly. Devon’s servants must be in the woods by now, and someone had probably heard the splash—

Behind her, footsteps crunched on fallen leaves.

Her heart plunged so fast, it sucked all her air with it. For some foolish, instinctive reason, she slowed down. The footsteps quickened, and a low, hard masculine laugh sounded a few yards behind her. The evil delight in it made her blood turn to icy slush.

She
knew
that laugh. It was a sound she would never forget. But it
couldn’t
be real. She must have conjured it out of her fear-fogged brain.

She couldn’t turn. For some reason, her body refused to twist so she could see. Her heart hammered and her jumbled thoughts coalesced into one command:
Run. You must run!

Despite a throat so dry she couldn’t draw in air, Anne yanked up her skirts and ran like the wind. It had to be her imagination haunting her. It had to be one of Devon’s servants—

No. A servant wouldn’t
laugh
.

She needed a weapon. Anything. A fallen branch. A rock—but she couldn’t see one she could lift. The heavy footsteps behind her drew closer.

She gave a surge of desperate speed, but it wasn’t enough. A black shape swept in front of her eyes. She tried to dart away, but her feet tangled in her hems, and her momentum carried her headlong into a leather-clad hand. Her attacker clamped his palm over her mouth. She was dragged off her feet, hauled through the air, and slammed back against a tree. Her breath flew out as her spine banged against unyielding bark. Pain shot from her head to her toes.

She screamed, but the gloved hand turned her shriek into a muffled squawk.

A hulking body loomed over her. “Hello, Annie love,” the voice said cheerfully. “You caused me a lot of bother.”

She gazed up at a familiar leering grin. She saw a bald head, a beak of a nose, a huge body. It
couldn’t
be possible. By some nightmare, it was. Shaking, she met the narrow black eyes of Mick Taylor, Madame Sin’s bodyguard.

“Don’t you think you now have the truth?” Tristan demanded. “She’s wanted for murder and she’s bolted. It must mean she’s guilty.”

Devon scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He was carrying his damned cane, and he chucked it to the floor. His gut instincts told him Cerise was the murderess—it would explain her fear, her reluctance to speak of her past, her lies, her flight out into the night. And her story of the rescued innocents matched the motive for the madam’s murder, according to Miss Lacy. “I think she did kill the woman, but I suspect she did it in self-defense.” He could not picture Cerise, who had been so careful cutting his hair, so sweet when she read to him, so gentle with his nephew, as a cold-blooded murderess.