The Lady Hellion (12 page)

“I . . . had no idea you did this sort of work for our government.”

He glanced at her sharply. She wore an odd expression. “Why would you? No one knows, except the man I work for. And I trust you won’t tell anyone.” Sophie shook her head. “Good. Now, shall we discuss your investigation?”

“Oh, of course,” she said quickly, reaching into the pocket of her dress to produce a folded piece of paper. “I wrote everything down, as you asked.”

“Excellent.” He unfolded the parchment and read her very neat handwriting.

“
La Gauche?
” he asked. “Because he favored his left hand?”

Sophie’s face turned crimson and she pressed her lips together. “N-not exactly,” she stammered. “It has to do with his . . . his . . .” She gestured vaguely in the direction of her waist.

He chuckled. “I understand. This has been quite an education for you, has it not?”

He resumed his perusal:

“This was the reason for your visit to The Black Queen? To see if you could draw a correlation between the two women?”

“Yes. I had hoped one of the other girls there would confirm her identity and her regulars.”

“And?”

“They were too frightened—fearing O’Shea far more than our hand-collecting murderer.” Likely with good cause. O’Shea did not have a reputation as a fair employer—especially to women. “But one clearly knew the missing girl,” Sophie continued. “It was obvious by her reaction. I could go back and try to speak with—”

“No,” Quint stated emphatically. “Sir Stephen’s presence was noted and clearly not appreciated, considering what happened when you left.”

She stretched her shoulders, and the flickering light danced across the nape of her neck. He tried not to notice. “Not necessarily,” she said. “That could have been a random occurrence.”

“Unlikely. The chance of a random attack is very low, especially when you factor in your visit to the Thames police. There very well may’ve been a corrupt officer or two who would not appreciate someone asking questions. I believe you attracted the wrong kind of attention with both visits.”

“I fail to see how you can be certain.”

“I am not certain. No one can be certain. But I’ve weighed the various factors mathematically using Bayes’ rule and believe there is a high probability that the attempt on your life was intentional.”

He could tell that news upset her. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”

Quint held up the paper with her notes. “The answer lies somewhere in this.”

Chapter Twelve

Sophie was in trouble—not nearly as much trouble as someone trying to kill her on a street in Whitechapel, of course. But a different sort of trouble, and one no less disconcerting to her well-being.

Fact: She was alone with Quint in his bedchamber.

Fact: He was talking of theorems, secret messages, and mathematical probability.

Fact: She was incredibly, distractingly aroused.

The warmth in her belly slid south, a sharp tingle that resulted in a distinctive throb between her legs. How she could be so attracted to one man and not melt into a puddle at his feet was a testament to her sheer strength of will.

She cleared her throat. “So how do we find the answer?”

“By looking for patterns, which you have already begun by visiting The Black Queen. We need to carry it a bit further. What do we know about the four girls pulled from the river, other than they were each missing a right hand?”

“They were all suspected prostitutes. Each fairly young.”

“Estimated to be between nineteen and twenty-two,” he elaborated. “Which is not significant in itself. Most women in prostitution are young.” He sat on the edge of the bed and folded his arms. “What else?” he asked, waving his hand as if to hurry her along.

Sophie shut her eyes for a moment, concentrating on the bits she’d heard. “Each girl washed up along different spots on the river—”

“Unsurprising, considering the unpredictable currents. Variations in weather and detritus in the water would also factor as to how far a floating body may travel. And?”

“Um, mudlarks discovered the first. Dockworkers numbers two and three. River police found the fourth.”

“So we discount method of discovery. What about the bodies?”

“Each was missing her right hand. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“Hard to say.” Quint stroked his jaw. “Is it the sense of touch he’s trying to prevent? As most people favor their right hands, is it symbolic of robbing her strength? Also, it’s a unit of measurement; is the murderer using them to ‘measure’ the crimes figuratively? Or, does he make them use that particular hand for some perverse physical act, and retain it as a keepsake?”

“I can see you’ve given it some thought,” she said, astonished.

“There is little else to do when trapped inside your own home.” He shrugged. “Have you looked into the other two girls pulled from the river? Where they worked and anyone who might be able to identify them?”

“No, not yet. They were badly decomposed by the time the surgeon saw them. He could not tell me much.”

He cocked his head. “Any other girls missing from The Kitty or The Queen?”

“One from The Kitty. Her sister is the one who originally hired me. I haven’t been able to find out what happened to her. She disappeared without a trace, so I strongly suspect she’s another victim.”

“Careful,” Quint warned. “You may be right in your assumption. But when you look for coincidences, you’re bound to find them. You must stick with facts.”

“Makes perfect sense to me. Two girls, both prostitutes for O’Shea, and both go missing in such a short period of time. Is that not a strong indicator?”

“There is no causal relationship with coincidence. Meaning there is no cause and effect. Just because two brothers die on the exact same day ten years apart does not mean there is anything sinister afoot. Merely because this other woman disappeared does not mean she’s been killed by the same man—or even killed. She may be visiting her aunt in Shropshire.”

She sighed unhappily, and Quint chuckled. “No one said this would be easy.”

“It might be for you, if you were willing to leave your house.”

He frowned. “It’s not a matter of being willing. I would like to leave. I am
unable
to leave.”

A pang of sympathy streaked through her.

“Do not give me that look,” he snapped, getting to his feet and pointing a finger at her. “Do not
pity
me. God, I’d rather you did anything but that.”

“I do not pity you, Damien,” she said. “I believe you are being stubborn and childish.”

His lip curled. “Is that so? Was my father being stubborn and childish when he started pulling his own hair out of his head in giant clumps? Raving and shouting at all hours? Knocking his head into the wall?”

How terrible it must have been for him, a small boy, to witness such madness in a loved one. But she did not see how it mattered. “And you believe your fate to soon be the same?”

He jerked his chin, avoided her eyes, and remained silent.

So, yes. That was what he believed. It was beginning to all make sense.

“Were you not just lecturing me on drawing inferences where causal relationships may not exist? Yes, your father might have been insane. But it doesn’t guarantee that you will follow the same, precise path.”

“Perhaps. Yet prevailing medical theory certainly favors that exact outcome.”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you not think I’ve turned this over in my mind countless times? That I haven’t looked for even the faintest glimmer of hope that this is a physical ailment rather than one of mental acuity? Spent hours and hours searching for a cure? I’ve tried tens of remedies, I’ve experimented with nearly everything I’ve thought—”

He snapped his jaw shut and spun away. After a few seconds, he dragged a shaking hand through his unruly brown hair. Her heart constricted. To Quint, this must be absolutely terrifying, and she hadn’t meant to upset him.

“I am sorry,” she said after a long moment. “I should not have pushed.”

“No, you did nothing wrong. I am . . .” He blew out a long breath and placed his hands on his hips. “I find myself at my worst around you.”

She drew near and saw the emotion in his golden-brown depths, a reflection of the hurt and confusion inside him. “Your worst is still better than my best. Probably better than most anyone in London, in fact.”

He shook his head. “You are only flattering me because I know your secret.”

He was wrong, but she did not correct him. “Your experiments, have any of them helped? Or at least shown progress?”

“Only that one time, on the terrace. With you. When we were kissing.”

“Well, good thing you still owe me payment this evening. Come with me.”

 

 

Quint stared outside, then cut his gaze to Sophie. “This is a terrible idea.”

“I think it’s a perfectly sound idea.” They had now returned down to the ground floor. She stepped out of the open terrace door and turned to face him. “You kiss me and at some point, I’ll lead you outside. As long as you keep your eyes closed and allow me to do all the work, you’ll be fine.”

“But how does that solve the problem? It’s a temporary fix, based on my remaining oblivious.”

“It’s a start, Quint. Perhaps if we do it often enough, you won’t worry about doing it on your own.”

“Sophie—”

“What is the worst that could happen?”

“You called me Damien,” he blurted.

She blinked up at him, her impish smile reflected in the soft light coming from the room behind him. “Did I?”

He nodded. “Yes. In my chamber. I’ve never heard you say it before.”

Even in the dim surroundings, he saw the flush steal over her cheekbones. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“No, I liked it. I haven’t been called by that name for a very long time.” Lifting his hand, he brushed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek. Then he tucked a short brown wisp of hair behind her ear. “And to answer your question, the worst that could happen is that I have another fit.”

“Which I’ve already seen,” she said matter-of-factly. “So you have nothing to fear.”

Merely because she’d seen one did not mean he relished repeating the experience. And that was not his only concern. “Lest you forget, our kiss last evening got a bit out of hand.” An understatement. He’d rushed her out of his house, fearing what he might do if she stayed. He’d wanted to take her hard and fast, bury himself inside her until they both exploded. “For the sake of your innocence, I think it best if we skip tonight’s venture.”

“Allow me to worry about my innocence. And I hardly think you’re going to ravish me on the terrace, for heaven’s sake.”

He was not so sure—not with Sophie involved. Each time he touched her, he forgot what little reason he still possessed.

She placed her hand on his chest, stepped closer. His heart pounded beneath her palm while his mind warred with itself. On one side of his brain, logic was standing on a chair, waving its arms to get his attention. On the other side, lust and yearning rubbed their hands together in unholy anticipation.

When she tilted her head to meet his eyes, the determination and desire in her glittering gaze had him admitting defeat.

Bending, he took her mouth. Her lips were soft and ready, and they responded to him eagerly. He clasped her tight, so tight he could feel every curve pressed against him. The night wove a dark, protective cocoon around them and he soon forgot about everything else but Sophie’s lips and tongue.

Her arms wound around his neck, breasts flattened to his chest. Taller than most women he’d known, she fit him perfectly, their hips nearly aligned. Therefore, he didn’t have to reach far in order to place his hands on her deliciously round backside.

He deepened the kiss, demanding more. She did not disappoint, her tongue twining with his. Blood rushed in his veins and pooled in his groin, his penis rapidly engorging. Everything in him begged for friction, for the ability to drive and thrust. To root and mark. To devour and conquer.

He rolled his hips into her pelvic bone, and Sophie whimpered, her nails digging into his scalp. He loved her responses. She held nothing back, a woman completely without artifice when it came to her desire. A rarity among ladies, especially unmarried ones.

“Quint, please,” she breathed when he broke off to kiss the slim column of her throat.

“Who?” He slid a hand to her breast, plumped it, and found the nipple through the thin layers of cloth. Pinched it.

“Damien,” she gasped. “Oh, God. Don’t stop.”

“What do you want,
delicia?
” His lips trailed the bare skin along the edge of her bodice.

“Is that . . . Italian?”

“Latin. But I shall use Italian, if you prefer,
cara mia
.”

She shivered. “What about Greek or Russian?”

“
Psihi mou.
”
My soul.

Her breath hitched.

He kissed the plump mounds of her décolletage. “
Lyubov moya.
”
My love.

Another kiss.

“Or German.
Ohne dich kann ich nicht leben.
”
I cannot live without you.

She was panting now. She must not understand what he was saying, or she’d have run screaming. And he meant every word, he suddenly realized.

Grabbing his head in her hands, she dragged him back for a frantic, scorching kiss. He rapidly lost the ability to speak—in any language.

Damnation, he wanted . . . he needed . . . a
wall
. There was a wall behind her. Never breaking from her mouth, he backed her up until her spine met the surface. He clutched fistfuls of her skirts and hitched them to her waist. He cupped her mons through her drawers. So hot. And the cloth was wet.

“Yes,” she hissed. “Oh, yes. More.”

His fingers parted the cloth. Touched her slick crease. He groaned. If there was a heaven, it would feel like this. He slipped one finger into that tight sheath. Only, it wasn’t enough this time. He needed to taste her.

He dropped to his knees. “Hold these up for me,” he said, shoving up the various skirts.

Her eyes, glazed with lust, stared down at him in the near darkness as she gathered the cloth in her hands. “Why? What—”

“Throw your left leg over my shoulder.”

Without waiting, he positioned her leg where he wanted. Then he slid his hands up her thighs, parted her drawers, and licked her. His erection throbbed, but he ignored it. Nothing mattered but Sophie. The way she trembled. The way she gasped when his tongue flicked her clitoris. The mewling noises when he applied gentle suction with his mouth. The moans when he speared the opening to her vagina with his tongue.

And when she peaked—her body tightening and then convulsing—he held on, riding her through it. Finally she stopped shaking and he released her. He tried to regain his composure by taking a few deep breaths, his forehead resting on her thigh. His own body was aroused to the point of mind-numbing pain.

Knees aching, he placed his hands on the floor to push up. The hard stone under his palms caught his attention and his eyes flew open. He was out on the terrace. Outside.

He’d just lifted Sophie’s skirts and pleasured her with his mouth
outside.
Against a wall. Where anyone might happen to see. Granted the terrace was mostly dark and the hedges near the mews were taller than he. And it was the middle of the night. But . . . still. Sophie did not deserve to be treated like a two-penny tart on payday.

Bloody hell, he’d done it again.

She had trusted him not to ravish her on the terrace, and that’s precisely what he’d done. He’d have to apologize. Again.

Sighing, he rose to find her slouched against the wall, breathing hard. She clutched his shoulder. “That was . . .” Wonder broke out on her face. “Unlike anything I’d ever imagined. And did you see? You’re outside.” She grinned. “I told you we could do it.”

His chest ached, but location had little to do with it. “Sophie,” he started and then licked his lips. The tantalizing taste of her was still on his skin, taunting him with his loss of self-control. “I must apolog—”

“Do not dare.” She put her hands on her hips. “Do not apologize, Quint.”

So they were back to Quint. He shook his head. “I must. This is entirely improper and highly disrespectful. I should not be touching you in such a manner. Even if you do not push me away, I should have more restraint. It’s just that . . .”