The Lady Hellion (17 page)

A door farther down the terrace opened and she froze. Expecting to find Robert, she whirled—then sagged in relief. A man she did not recognize had emerged from one of the lower rooms to take some air. “Excuse me,” she said and made to return to the ballroom.

“A moment, if you please, Lady Sophia.”

His cultured, smooth voice stopped her. “Have we met?”

“We have not, so forgive my impertinence. But since we are alone and you are the person I’ve been waiting to see, I think it prudent to step over one of Society’s little ridiculous boundaries.” He bowed. “I am Lord Hudson.” He had very dark hair, cut close to the skull. A walking stick in his left hand, he came forward with a noticeable limp.

“You were looking for me? Why?”

He cocked his head to study her. “Does a man need a reason to seek out an attractive young woman on a beautiful night such as this?”

“I suppose not, but I really should be—”

“Yes, I know. You are anxious to return to the ballroom. Busy, always so very busy. Just like your father. But I wonder if anyone knows how truly busy you are, Lady Sophia.”

That gave her pause. She felt at a distinct disadvantage in this conversation. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I am a man who makes it my business to know things. After all, that is the real power in the world. Knowledge—and the ability to wield it.”

Her heart began a steady thumping in her chest. He was talking in riddles. If he knew something, she wished he’d just spit it out. “Blackmail, you mean.”

His head fell back as he laughed. “God, you are bold. I admire that. Little wonder he’s so enamored of you.” He drew closer. “I do not blackmail people, dear girl. It’s . . .” He waved his hand, as if searching to find the right word. “Common.”

“So what do you want with me?”

“We have a mutual friend, Lady Sophia. One who does a good deal of sensitive work for me. Right now he is completing a project that will do some people I know quite a lot of good. But we’re on a bit of a schedule. And you’re . . . distracting him.”

So this was about Quint? It must be the cipher he had told her about a few evenings ago. The papers he hid in his bedpost. Did this man work for the government? She relaxed a little. For a minute or two, she’d been worried he might be dangerous.

“You want me to stay away from Quint.”

“There are many things I want.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “And I suspect there are things you want. Am I correct?”

Her annoyance grew and she opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “For example, I know you are building a reputation for yourself with your investigations. Quite clever, dressing as a man.”

Her stomach plummeted. “How did you . . . ?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I told you, it is my business to know things. And I must admit, I did not expect you to succeed. But you did, over and over again. Clever, clever girl.”

Her stays dug into her skin as her ribs rapidly expanded, her breath quickening.

“Those who help me are rewarded handsomely,” he continued. “There are things I can provide. Wealth, power . . . respectability. Even for a woman investigator. The Home Office, in fact, has many uses for clever women. I am a very good friend to have. Very good indeed.”

Sophie’s head was spinning. Would he not say it already? What did he want from her? The Home Office. Why on earth were they watching
her?
And what would Hudson do with the information he’d learned? She did not want to embarrass her family. If anyone found out she and Sir Stephen were one in the same, she would be ruined. “I do not need a position.”

“But we haven’t talked about what happens to those who do not help me.”

Mouth dry, she tried to swallow. “Are you threatening me, sir?”

“My dear, I never threaten. I present facts and allow you to choose your own path. But I think I have taken up enough of your time this evening. In truth, I merely wanted to introduce myself.” He bowed. “I just hadn’t counted on how charming I would find you. Good evening, Lady Sophia.”

Hands trembling, she did not wait for him to disappear, merely spun on her heel and fled to the ballroom. Once inside, she rubbed her arms, chilled to the bone. Though it had not been freezing on the terrace, she could not seem to get warm. A glass of brandy would not go amiss at this point.

“My dear, I’ve been looking for you.” Her father, brows drawn in concern, appeared in front of her. He glanced at the terrace and then back at her. “Were you outside? Alone?”

She straightened her shoulders, determined not to worry him. “Only for the briefest of moments. Never fear, no one else was about.”

“Too bad,” he muttered. “If you were compromised, at least I would have a grandchild soon.”

“Papa! You do not mean that.”

He bent and kissed her forehead. “Of course I do not mean it. But I am anxious for a grandchild. Your stepmama as well. Furthermore, marriage would allow you a greater amount of freedom, Sophie.”

God help the citizens of London in such a case,
she thought wryly. “I suppose that is true, though I am quite happy with my life.”

“Are you?” He cocked his head, his gaze shrewd. “I’m not so certain. It’s been quite some time since you’ve been the carefree girl I used to know. Three or four years, I’d say.”

She struggled not to react, though she knew precisely the period to which he referred. The first time she and Quint had kissed and his request to court her. Her refusal. His betrothal. That had been a very dark time, yet she’d recovered. Hadn’t she?

“I am fine, Papa. Shall I slide down the banister tomorrow to prove it to you?”

He chuckled. “I would love to see your stepmama’s face if you did.”

Sophie grinned at the mental picture. The marchioness would never approve. “I can scarcely believe she married you all those years ago, knowing you had such a hoyden for a daughter.”

“Love trumps many things, Sophie. We are willing to overlook much in those to whom we lose our hearts.”

She threaded her arm through his, locked their elbows, and rested her head on his shoulder. “How did you get to be so wise?”

“Nearly twenty-eight years of fatherhood to the smartest, bravest girl in all of England, I suppose.” He patted her hand. “Which is how I know you think I’ll change my mind about your marrying this Season.”

She stiffened and tried to pull away, but he held her tight. “No, do not run away. You do that each time I try to discuss it. You need to face whatever fears you’re harboring about marriage and get beyond them.”

“And you believe giving me a time limit will accomplish that?”

“Yes, I do.” He gestured to the crowd of well-dressed lords moving about. “You can have your pick of all the eligible men here. So choose one and be done with it, my dear. Then you may get on with your life.”

The parade of overly starched, perfectly coiffed men in the room did nothing for her, however. There was only one man she wanted—a rumpled, distracted, intelligent, handsome man.

The one man who’d already said he would never marry her.

Chapter Seventeen

Colton and Winchester arrived before ten the next morning.

Quint was in his study, drinking tea and working, Canis curled up at his feet, when his two friends strode in. They carried épées—the long, thin, heavier blades used for fencing. Quint put down his pen and rubbed his forehead. Could he not get a minute’s peace?

“Ready to lose?” Winchester asked, he and Colton staring down at Quint expectantly.

“What is this all about?” he asked.

“Exercise, Quint. Remember?” Winchester lifted the épée and lunged at a nonexistent opponent.

“Yes, I know what exercise means. But why now? Why here?”

“Would you rather meet at Angelo’s?” Colton asked. “I could make some time this afternoon.”

“As could I,” Winchester added. “Perhaps that would be better because—”

“I do not want to go to Angelo’s,” Quint snapped. “And I do not require exercise. Not today.”

“Everyone requires exercise. Even stubborn polymaths. Come along, Quint,” Colton chided.

Quint sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. The two men had a clear purpose and Quint hated to disappoint them. But he was beyond fixing. “I do not know what you hope to accomplish, but you are both wasting your time.”

Colton elbowed Winchester. “I like to waste my time. You?”

“Bloody love it. Cannot think of anything else I’d rather do today.” Then the two of them grinned, the idiots.

Quint dropped his head against the chair back. “You are both children.”

“True. And don’t forget what happens when children don’t get their way.”

“Are you going to throw a tantrum, Colton?”

The duke shrugged. “I might. God knows I’ve seen Olivia do it often enough. Now get up, you lazy viscount. We’re going to the ballroom.”

“It’s closed up,” Quint sighed. “It hasn’t been used—”

“Since Lady Sophia challenged you to a fencing match?” Winchester raised his brows. “Your staff talk, Quint. Now let’s go.”

Quint had no choice but to lock up his work and follow the two men up the stairs to the ballroom. Taylor had opened the curtains to let in the morning light and a few of the windows had even been cracked to allow for fresh air. All three of them began stripping off topcoats, waistcoats, and cravats, until they wore only shirtsleeves. Quint rolled the shirt cuffs up to his forearms.

Colton handed Quint an épée and dropped into one of the chairs that had been brought in. Quint stretched out his shoulders and knees, thinking. The three of them had fenced so often over the years that Quint knew exactly how the match would go. Winchester had nearly four inches on him in height, but the earl lost patience easily. Quint merely needed to remain calm and wear him down.

Winchester lunged first and a steady stream of parries and thrusts began. Quint defended him easily, barely breathing hard. Which was precisely his plan, to reserve his strength.

“How was the Portland event last evening, Colt?” Winchester asked, slashing downward with his blade.

“Uneventful. I did chat with Lady Sophia for a few moments.”

Quint’s feet faltered a bit, throwing him off balance, and he had to shift to keep Winchester’s weapon from landing a blow.

“Indeed?” Winchester continued. “Did she have anything of interest to say?”

“No. We were interrupted, and then she left with MacLean and his aunt not long after.”

Quint felt himself frown. Why would Sophie let MacLean escort her home? Did she care nothing for her reputation?

As he tried to process this, Winchester said, “She left the ball with MacLean? Are you certain?”

“Saw it myself. What, do you suppose, is that about?”

Quint grit his teeth. Drove forward. First she went riding with MacLean, now he escorted her home. The Scot was obviously courting her. So the question was, had Sophie encouraged him?

“I could not say,” Winchester answered. “Quint, you and Sophia are friends. Has she set her cap on MacLean, then?”

“No,” he snarled. He feinted left and then charged right. Winchester countered with a parry, so Quint returned with a riposte his friend was not expecting.

“Jesus, Quint,” Winchester muttered, dropping back a step as he countered.

“I hope she knows what she’s about,” Colton said. “MacLean has a string of innocents trailing behind him if the rumors are to be believed.”

Sweat rolled off Quint’s forehead. He continued to change up his attack to keep Winchester guessing. “She is not interested in MacLean,” he said, though no one had asked.

“Most likely you’re right, though I’m still confused why he did not take her directly home.”

Quint froze and Winchester’s blade nearly nicked his shoulder. Quint spun to pin Colton with a hard stare. “Where, precisely, did MacLean take her?”

“Odd, that.” Colton’s face revealed nothing. “They drove to The Pretty Kitty. MacLean went inside for a few moments, leaving Sophia and his aunt in the carriage.”

Heat suffused Quint’s entire body, as if he’d swallowed a flame. Rage burned his belly, up his throat, to the roots of his hair. “Left her in the carriage? Outside The Pretty Kitty?”

“I thought it was strange as well. I mean, what errand would MacLean have at one of O’Shea’s gaming hells that a proper lady would ride along for?”

Growling, Quint whirled and renewed his attack on Winchester. He was more furious than he’d ever been in his life. They’d had this discussion. He’d told her no more recklessness. That she was to come to him for whatever help she required—not MacLean. No one else but
him
, damn it.

Both men grunted, dripping with perspiration, as the blades clashed and clanged. Quint could not stop. He felt possessed, as if his body and mind had completely separated.

It was one thing to follow Tolbert, with Jenkins keeping watch. But to cavort about Town with MacLean? And what had she told MacLean about her reasons for visiting The Pretty Kitty?

The next time he saw her . . . he had no idea what he might do, but she best be prepared for anything.

“Quint!”

He paused, the shout registering in his brain. When the fog cleared, he saw that he had backed Winchester up against the wall and Colton had grabbed Quint’s arm. Panting, he lowered his weapon.

“For God’s sake, man,” Winchester breathed, leaning over to put his hands on his knees. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

Colton gently, yet forcibly, removed the épée from Quint’s fist. “That is quite enough exercise for today.”

 

 

The moon had just disappeared behind a group of clouds when Sophie entered Quint’s gardens.

She’d had a frustrating few days. Losing Tolbert last evening at The Pretty Kitty had been a disaster. The earl had entered and snuck out the back, apparently. Which made him appear ever guiltier, in Sophie’s estimation. Had he known he was being followed? She and MacLean had kept hidden, well out of sight, so it seemed unlikely.

She planned to follow Tolbert again tonight but wanted to see Quint first. He always made her feel better. She wouldn’t stay long, just long enough to shake some of the gloom hanging over her.

Canis lumbered from around a bush, happy to see her. She reached down and scratched behind his scruffy ears. “Have you been taking care of him?” she whispered as he licked her hand. “That’s a good boy.”

No light shone through any window of the house. If it were not for the dog’s appearance outside, she might worry Quint was abed. An image flashed in her brain, of Quint, naked on his crisp white bed linens, and warmth spread from her belly up to the tips of her breasts. She’d thought about their last evening together many times. It had been . . . incredible. But it always was, every time he kissed her.

When she reached the terrace steps, she nearly tripped. Quint was there, arms folded and sitting on the balustrade, his eyes boring into her. His expression was shadowed, and the hard angle of his jaw did not move or twitch. She could feel the weight of his gaze as she climbed toward him.

“Good evening,” she said tentatively. He sat unmoving, silent. Was he upset? Angry? Ill? “Shall I come back? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“No, you should stay,” he said, his voice oddly tight. “So we may catch up on your investigation. I want to hear every last detail of what you’ve been doing to prove Tolbert’s guilt.”

“That should not take but a minute. Finding him has proven more difficult than I imagined.”

“Really? Even when you have so much
help?
” He stressed the last word, and she frowned.

“I learned last evening that he would be at Portland’s affair. I followed him from there to The Pretty Kitty, but lost him. He went out the back door.”

“Just you followed him?”

“No. Lord MacLean accompanied me.”

The silence was deafening, and it suddenly dawned on Sophie. “My God, you are jealous of MacLean.”

“Do not be absurd. What I am is
furious
you took such a risk. Letting MacLean take you to The Pretty Kitty, staying in the carriage while he went inside. Why would that seem a good idea?”

“I had to follow Tolbert, and yet MacLean insisted on seeing me home. I had no choice but to ask MacLean to help me. And did you not say that it was unwise for me to travel into these parts of Town alone? I finally have an escort along and now you’re upset over that. Make a decision, Quint.”

“Did MacLean try anything?”

She blinked and it took a second to follow the jump in logic. “Try—oh.” She put her hands on her hips. “No, he did not try anything. We had a chaperone, you ridiculous man.”

Quint sneered. “Oh, yes. His aunt, who no doubt is elderly, quite deaf, and likely remained asleep through the entire endeavor. A superb choice.”

How had he known? Nevertheless, she had no intention of admitting it. “It hardly matters because he is not interested in me. In fact, he tells me I remind him of his sisters.”

“You do not honestly believe that drivel, do you?”

“I do happen to believe it, yes. Though it hardly matters because I am not interested in
him.
” She strode to the terrace steps, ready to leave and put this entire conversation behind her. “I’ll return after you’ve calmed down.”
Like next month, perhaps.

When she reached the gardens, a hand on her arm spun her around. Quint’s face, hard and unyielding, glared down at her. “Do not walk away, Sophie. Not this time. You want an escort on your nighttime errands? Fine, let us go.” He gestured to the rear of the property.

“You will accompany me? In the carriage?”

“Yes,” he gritted out.

She could feel Quint vibrating, see his pulse racing at the base of his neck. He was breathing rapidly, but she wasn’t sure if that was from anger or trepidation over being out of the house. Perhaps both.

Part of her wanted to force his hand, to get him in the carriage to see what happened. But was he ready? Was she pushing him too far, too fast?

“Does the idea of me riding with Lord MacLean upset you so much?”

Instead of answering, he took a brown bottle from his waistcoat pocket. He removed the cork, brought the bottle to his lips, and swallowed the contents. As he replaced the vial to his pocket, she asked, “What was that?”

“A tincture of valerian root. I sent a footman out to procure some this afternoon.”

“I had an aunt use it once for sleeplessness. It would put her right under. Are you certain that’s wise?”

“I’m certain. Let’s go.”

 

 

Quint kept his eyes closed, his head resting on the seat back, as the carriage bounced through London. He felt little, if any, anxiety—at least not yet. Heart rate appeared to be normal. His breathing regular. He felt muddled, however, as if there were a tangle of spiderwebs in his brain.

“Are you feeling ill?”

“No,” he answered. “The tincture is working.”

“Or perhaps you do not need it.”

“We shall see.” He had wanted to ride without ingesting the herb first. It was imperative to find a long-term solution that did not rely on valerian root, orange water, laudanum, alcohol, or anything else that would dull his senses over time. He needed to find a way to calm his mind without herbs or spirits.

He’d just been . . . desperate. The idea of her and MacLean out about Town had been more than he could handle. So he’d latched on to a temporary cure in order to accompany her. He just hoped he wouldn’t be required to do any calculations or answer deep philosophical questions along the way.

Sophie, in Sir Stephen’s attire, shifted in her seat, the sound of her clothing whispering over Quint’s skin. Fortunate he had his eyes closed; the sight of her in trousers—showing off her long legs and taut buttocks—never failed to stir his blood. He was anxiously awaiting the ride home. The effects of the tincture would wear off by then, he hoped.

“Why are we going to Covent Garden?” he asked her. Though he couldn’t see, he’d been tracking the turns. By his estimation, they had just left Piccadilly.

“Word from Tolbert’s valet is the man planned to visit White’s, then Madame Hartley’s. I plan to get to Madame’s first and wait inside. That way, I’ll not lose him again.”

“You are wasting your time. As I said, based on my observation of him, I cannot see how Tolbert is your killer.”

“I believe you are wrong,” she said. He could imagine her lifting her chin as she continued. “He was the last person to see Pamela alive. Did he force her to sneak out and meet him? Did he drug her and slip her out the back, then walk out the front door as if nothing happened?”

Quint snorted. “The latter would require a heavy dose of luck. The upper floor at Madame’s is well-trafficked and there is a guard at the back door. The chance that Tolbert could accomplish a kidnapping and not be seen is extraordinary.”

“I did not realize you were so well acquainted with the inner workings of Madame’s establishment.”