The Water Nymph (19 page)

“Ah. That explains it then. For while I flatter myself that my good-looking face is unique, the fact is that there are hundreds of men in England who look like me from the back.”

Sophie disagreed entirely, but did not say anything. Instead, she studied him in what was left of the moonlight. “Can I trust you, Crispin?”

“Of course.”

Sophie closed her eyes for several seconds, then opened them slowly. “I have guarded what I am about to tell you as an inviolable secret for ten years. It is not my secret, not really, but it is mine to protect. If I share it with you, will you keep it?”

The dreamy nymph of earlier had become a powerful, mesmerizing goddess. Crispin nodded reverently, completely awed by her solemnity.

“I know exactly how much money Lord Grosgrain had,” Sophie began, “because I gave it to him.”

Crispin snapped out of his trance. “What do you mean you ‘gave it to him’? I thought he owned coal mines all over the country.”

“No.” Sophie shook her head. “He did not own coal mines. I did. I do.”

“You own coal mines?”

“Yes. And waterworks. And windmills. And four shipping canals. And half a dozen sheep farms. I started buying them just before I turned sixteen, but I needed a man to act as the titular head. That was why I hired Lord Grosgrain.”

“You
hired
him? Your godfather?”

Sophie realized she had misspoken, had almost revealed too much. “Sort of. No one would deal with a sixteen-year-old girl, you see,” she explained, rushing past her mistake, “but they were more than happy to work with Lord Grosgrain, even though he did not have a single notion of how to run a business.”

What she had said was completely incredible, Crispin thought. And yet, given what he knew of Sophie Champion, entirely possible. “The thousand pounds a month Lord Grosgrain paid you,” Crispin interjected. “You said it was an allowance, but clearly, if you held all his money, you did not need one. Why was he paying you?”

“He claimed he was trying to reimburse me.” Sophie looked wistful as she remembered. “When we bought our first coal mine, he was destitute. He had spent his entire fortune on his alchemical experiments until there was literally nothing left. He was so poor that he had been forced to send Basil to live with relatives just to make sure the boy got enough to eat. I knew a bit about alchemy, enough to enable him to make a name for himself at it and earn some of his money back, and I had some money of my own. We pooled what we had and invested it, and later, when our enterprises were doing well and Lord Grosgrain was rich again, he wanted to pay me back for the prosperity I brought him. But I never accepted it. I always found a way to return it to him without his knowing.”

“Of course.” Crispin nodded as if this were all perfectly normal, as if sixteen-year-old girls with the price of a coal mine in their purse and a little knowledge of alchemy joined forces with penniless elderly noblemen to orchestrate large-scale business transactions every day of the week. He went on slowly, as though he was explaining something to himself. “Then Lord Grosgrain left you the business and all his property in his will not because you were blackmailing him but because you actually owned it already.”

“Yes,” Sophie confirmed. “We never wanted it to get out that he was not the real owner, it would have been a crushing blow to his reputation. That was why we kept it a secret. Indeed, I purposely circulated rumors suggesting I might be blackmailing him whenever anyone started asking us about our relationship. As a result, Lord Grosgrain was always afraid that if he died without directly addressing the question of ownership in his will, someone would challenge me, challenge my authority over the business.”

“Your authority,” Crispin went on. “So you made the business decisions behind the scenes and then he executed them up front?”

“Something like that,” Sophie agreed. “Of course, now everything has changed.”

“I can imagine,” Crispin said positively. He could guess just how she felt, because everything had changed for him as well. He had, at long last, gotten all his questions answered. He did not have to wonder what Sophie’s relationship with her godfather was. Nor whether she was a blackmailer. Nor where she got the piles of money she gave away.

Nor whether he was harboring any feelings for her. He reached out his hand to catch her cheek.

“You will not tell anyone, will you, my lord?” She asked nervously, rubbing her face against his palm. “His reputation was the most important thing to Lord Grosgrain, and if anyone ever found out that he had accepted money from me, if Constantia ever found out—” Sophie just shook her head.

“I won’t tell anyone.” Crispin moved forward, cupping her cheek in his hand, and bent to kiss her.

“Good,” Sophie whispered just before their lips touched, “because if you do, I shall have to disembowel you.”

“I believe,” Crispin said as he kissed her mouth, “you threatened me”—he kissed her chin—“the same way”—he kissed the line of her jaw—“once before.” His lips trailed along her neck until he reached her ear. “I would not want to call you a braggart, but…” He left the sentence unfinished, using his tongue rather than words to make his point.

“You will not be so lucky twice,” Sophie assured him breathlessly. “This time—oh, my lord—I—
oh
, Crispin—will not be—” The sentence ended in a series of moans.

Crispin had turned her around and was kissing her back, his hands resting lightly on her breasts, his thumbs on her nipples. His lips coasted over each of her vertebrae, then skimmed along the sides of the delicious valley between the globes of her bottom. When she began moaning, he had just coaxed her legs apart and settled himself between them. He moved his hands down from her breasts, and all at once Sophie felt his cheek on her thigh from below and his hands on her now tingling nub, from above. Crispin used his fingers to caress her as his tongue slipped between her wet folds, plunging into her passage. When Sophie’s legs began to tremble, he slowed his fingers and pulled slightly away. He held his mouth under her, letting the liquor of her arousal drip onto his lips, then used the flat of his tongue to lick her full length, lapping from underneath up to where his fingers were teasing her.

“Oh, Crispin,” she moaned and sighed simultaneously. She gripped his shoulders to support herself as the pressure built within her until, with a seemingly endless kiss on her tender bud, Crispin sent her over the edge. Wave after wave of intoxicating pleasure flooded Sophie’s body, crashing over her, leaving her gasping, panting, and moaning, “Crispin, I love you.”

It took them both a moment to realize what she had said.

“I mean,” she rushed to correct as Crispin pulled himself up between her legs. “I mean, I love being uncomfortable with you.”

Crispin stood before her looking serious. “I love being uncomfortable with you too.”

“You do?” Sophie was genuinely surprised. “You, you
love
it?”

“Well, I find I am quite partial to it, yes.”

“Crispin?”

“Yes, Sophie.”

“Crispin, there is something I must tell you.”

“First there is something I must tell—What is it, Thurston?”

“Good morning, my lord,” Thurston said, as if there were nothing the least bit unusual about finding his master and a naked goddess chatting intimately on the river steps at dawn. “I did not like to interrupt, my lord, but there are men here.”

“Men?”

“Men with a warrant, my lord. To search Sandal Hall and all properties pertaining thereunto.”

“A warrant to search Sandal Hall?” Crispin glared at him in disbelief. “What the devil are they looking for?”

“I believe, my lord, that their object is Miss Champion.”

In his outrage, Crispin did not notice Basil Grosgrain standing behind two of the others, but his blond head came into view now.

“As justice of the peace for this parish, it is my regrettable duty to serve this to you.” Basil held a piece of paper toward Crispin, but kept his distance. The expression on his face made clear what he thought of Crispin’s rumpled and dirty clothes. As Crispin looked over the warrant, Basil went on smarmily, “I apologize for the early hour, Lord Sandal. I hope we have not taken you from any important labors.”

Crispin tilted his head up, briefly, to glare at Basil with one eye. “I was working in my garden,” he said, then returned to the paper. It was a warrant, a completely legitimate looking warrant, authorized by the Queen’s secretary, for Lord Basil Grosgrain, Justice of the Peace and Knight of the Garter, to search the premises of Sandal Hall, including all corridors, storehouses, outbuildings, secret passages, priest holes, and byways, for the person or effects of one Sophie Champion, wanted for the murder of Richard Tottle and a notoriously dangerous criminal destined for the gallows. During the search, no one would be allowed to enter or leave the building without permission, and the grounds would be encircled with guards.

“On what basis was this issued?” Crispin asked when he finally looked up.

“Anonymous tip. Several of them.” Basil got a gleam in his eye. “Sorry to do this to you, Lord Sandal, but I could not shirk my duty.”

“Duty, the finest alibi of all,” Crispin agreed, laying particular emphasis on the word “alibi.” He did not allow himself time to grin over the way Basil flinched, but went on. “I cannot imagine why you think this”—Crispin looked down at the paper—“this ‘Sophie Champion’ woman is hiding here. Why would she take refuge in my house?”

“You can’t guess, can you?” Basil asked, smiling sickly.

“No,” Crispin confirmed. “I imagine you have a better idea. After all, I learned most of what I know about her from you the day the constable came to question you about your—I mean Miss Champion’s—whereabouts at the time of the murder. By the way, what was the name of that painter whose picture you helped your stepmother select the night Richard Tottle was killed? Liar? Lies?”

“Lyle.” Basil’s lips, indeed his whole face, had gone very white. “Why?”

“I just thought I would ask him a few questions,” Crispin replied idly. “About paintings, of course. What do you think of his work? Is he any good at
trompe l’oeil?
You know, those paintings that present a false picture?”

“I would not know, Lord Sandal. I have only seen his figurative compositions.”

“Ah, well. All painting is a deceit, an illusion really, if you think about it. Painters are our best dissemblers. Lucky for you, isn’t it?” Crispin’s expression was open, candid, even friendly as he regarded Basil.

“I do not understand your meaning, my lord.”

“I did not mean anything, really. Just that there is so much ugliness in the world and if you really are a connoisseur of beauty, you must be grateful for the deceitful hand of the painter. At any rate, I am sure this Liar of yours will be able to give me just what I am looking for.” Crispin patted his companion’s back amiably.

Basil disentangled himself from Crispin’s friendly embrace. “I believe, my lord, that we should begin our search.”

“Of course. I nearly forgot what you were here for. You’ll want to get it done quickly, I imagine, so you can be in time to take breakfast with your stepmother. You do that most every day, do you not?”

“Yes, but I hardly—”

Crispin put up a hand. “There is no need to explain. I apologize. I should have been more sensitive to the pain it must cause you to hear it mentioned. After all, that is where you were, breakfasting with Constantia in her dressing room, the morning your father was killed, isn’t it? I apologize for being so unfeeling.”

“You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Lord Sandal,” Basil said through clenched teeth.

“Very kind of you,” Crispin lauded. “But you do.”

“I do what?”

“Have something to reproach yourself, or rather”—Crispin smiled at his mistake—“have something to reproach
me
, for. I should not have taken up so much of your time with my banter. But it is so important to get to know one’s neighbors.”

Basil was glaring at Crispin, a vein in his throat vibrating, when The Aunts swept into the room.

“Lord Grosgrain the younger, how delightful of you to call,” Lady Priscilla said with a noticeable edge in her voice.

“And to bring all these men with you,” Lady Eleanor added. “We were wondering when you would present yourself to us.”

“Yes, I was just telling Basil about the importance of getting to know his neighbors,” Crispin put in.

“Do not judge us all by our nephew’s standard,” Lady Priscilla begged Basil, having cast a cold eye on Crispin’s attire. “As my dear brother, Hugo, always said, ‘When the fruit falls far from the tree, it gets badly bruised.’”

“No, sister,” Lady Eleanor objected. “ ‘When a foal has legs like a V, it is destined to lose.’ That is what Hugo said, I am sure of it.”

“Quite sure?” was on the tip of Lady Priscilla’s tongue when she was rudely interrupted by Basil.

“I beg your pardon, ladies, but I am afraid I must get my search under way.”

Basil had made a mistake of the first water. Two sets of Aunt eyes, finely tuned to rebuke any sort of social breach, bored into him.

“Do you really mean to search this house, young man?” Lady Eleanor asked in a tone that had sent at least two husbands to the grave.

Basil hesitated for a moment, giving Lady Priscilla a chance to address Crispin. “Nephew, what is all this drivel I hear? Have you got a woman hidden in the house?”

“Of course not.” Crispin was astonished by the suggestion. “I cannot imagine what makes Basil think that I would harbor fugitive criminals on my premises. Indeed I, my name, my house, the memory of my father, and the spirit of neighborliness are insulted. Gravely insulted.”

The Aunts, having found a new enemy in Basil, nodded at Crispin in commendation for his fine performance. “You see, Lord Grosgrain the younger,” Lady Priscilla spoke to Basil, “our nephew may not be the gentleman his father was, but he is not so uncultivated as to offer his home as a sanctuary for the criminal classes. Criminals are flouters of the standards of Proper Behavior and destroyers of the English Nation.”

Lady Eleanor picked up the thread of her sister’s comment. “Surely you know we would never share a roof with such people. Therefore it must be clear that you need not send your men prying into the house.”

“It would be most disruptive,” Lady Priscilla pointed out.

“And most impolite,” Lady Eleanor sharpened the argument.

“ ‘A deed done in haste is a waste,’ as our brother, Hugo, always said,” Lady Priscilla added.

“No, sister.” Lady Eleanor frowned slightly. “ ‘Food with no taste is a waste.’ That is wha—”

A raised eyebrow from Lady Priscilla stopped her sister in mid-sentence. Not to waste it, Lady Priscilla then turned the raised eyebrow on Basil. “We would view a search as an insult to ourselves.”

Basil had only just recovered his composure. “I assure you, I mean no insult to Your Ladyships, but I must execute this warrant. I do so by order of Her Majesty.”

“Lizzie sent you?” Lady Eleanor asked with incredulity. “Lizzie knows you are here?”

Basil seemed to shrink four sizes when confronted by two women who referred to the Queen of England as “Lizzie.” “I am Her Majesty’s representative in this parish, yes,” he explained haltingly.

“So she did not send you. I knew it. Lizzie would never let us be insulted like this. Nephew,” Lady Priscilla commanded, “bring me quill and paper. I will write to her immediately.”

Crispin, who was greatly enjoying himself, was about to oblige The Aunt when he heard Thurston clearing his throat at his elbow.

“You sent for me, my lord?” Thurston asked, clearing his throat two more times.

“Yes.” Crispin acknowledged the signal Thurston had just given him, then bowed to address The Aunts. “I apologize for the upset this may cause Your Ladyships, but after careful consideration, I have decided, in the interests of duty and neighborliness, to allow Basil to execute his warrant.”

“But, nephew. This is an outrage,” Lady Eleanor began.

“I know it will be an inconvenience to you,” Crispin went on, “but it really does seem the best course of action. I would not like there to be any doubt about the sort of thing that goes on under the illustrious roof of Sandal Hall. If I am to find a virtuous wife, my name, my house, must be unblemished.”

This was logic that The Aunts could not refute. Fearing lest their nephew change his mind and begin dancing a jig naked in the street, they lost no time retreating from the group, calling anew for ink and paper, and retiring to their sitting room to begin drawing up a list of likely betrothal prospects.

Basil stayed silent through the flurry of The Aunts’ departure, then turned to Crispin and said, with real gratitude, “Thank you, my lord.”

“It is my duty as an Englishman to serve Justice and her sister, Truth,” Crispin replied loftily. “Now I suppose you will want to start in the servants’ chambers. It is the most likely place for a criminal to hide, wouldn’t you say? By the way, I forgot to ask. I was hoping you would allow my steward and me to accompany your troops and ensure that no damage is done to my property.”

The gratitude was gone from Basil’s face. “That is most irregular, my lord.”

“Very well. But if you do not consent, I shall hold you responsible for any item which is broken or missing. Many of them belonged to my dear father, Hugo, and I would really feel that if I allowed a single dent, a single scratch, I would be committing a form of patricide. And patricide is a wretched crime. Don’t you agree?” Crispin paused to look inquiringly at his companion.

Basil muttered something that might have been “you bloody bastard,” but Crispin took to be “Yes, quite.”

“I am speaking metaphorically, of course,” Crispin continued, “just to make a point about how I value my possessions. Are you prepared to ante your father’s, or rather,
your
fortune against the carelessness of your searchers?”

Basil’s answer was pronounced in a far less pleasant tone than Crispin’s. “Do as you like, Lord Sandal,” he said through lips so tightly pressed together that they looked like two lines. “But if you interfere in any way with the execution of this warrant, I shall have you removed by the sheriff. Is that clear?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the short man on his right and spoke. “Come, Sheriff. Bring your agents. We will begin our search in His Lordship’s chambers.”

“You think to find a criminal in my apartment? I suppose we can only judge others as we would be judged.” Crispin said this jauntily as he followed Basil into the library and was pleased to see the vein on the man’s neck begin to bulge again. With any luck, he would have Basil in apoplectic fits before the day was out.

Thinking about that was far more pleasant than thinking about what would happen if by some awful mischance Basil’s minions managed to uncover Sophie’s hiding place. In addition to the twelve men surrounding every entrance to and exit from the house, Basil had ten with him to conduct the search. Under other circumstances, Crispin would have been fascinated to watch them poking through the charred remains of his bedroom, removing all the books on the shelves of his library to try for secret compartments, and unscrewing the legs of his chairs to ensure there were no hidden levers there, but his mind kept returning to Sophie, to what she had said next to the Thames.

Fifteen times in thirty minutes he was about to pull Thurston aside and demand to know where Sophie was hidden, and fifteen times he stopped himself. He could not, however, keep himself from asking if she had enough candles so it would not be dark wherever it was, and all eight times he got the same affirmative response. Crispin was about to inquire for the ninth, just to be sure, when one of the men, a fat one with beady eyes whom Crispin had already decided looked too intelligent, began flapping his hands.

“I think I found something here,” he called to his companions. “Come on the quick, and bring the ax.”

“Bring the ax,” Grip the raven echoed as Crispin interposed himself before their rushing forms.

“Gentlemen, would you like some wine?” he asked, ever the suave host. “Why not pause for a moment and refresh yourselves before taking an ax to my walls?”

“Lord Sandal,” Basil came and stood in front of Crispin. “If you interrupt my men’s work again, I will have you escorted out.”

“Interrupt?” Crispin looked incredulous. “I was merely trying to aid them, revive their flagging spirits. They look a bit haggard already. And there are still forty-two rooms to search.”

“Forty-two, forty-two, bring the ax,” the raven called.

This double reminder found fertile soil with the sheriff. “Forty-two more after this one? I believe he is right, sir. A little wine would be good for the men.”

Crispin smiled at him. “Thurston, go and bring several decanters of that choice vintage we brought from France.”

“Does His Lordship mean the wine from the cellar of the King of France?” Thurston inquired.

“King of France,” Grip repeated, hopping up and down. “King of France, forty-two, pull the daisy.”

“Of course. Nothing is too good for our neighbor and his friends.”

Basil blocked the threshold, stopping Thurston’s departure. “Sheriff, I urge you to reconsider,” he said vehemently. “It has not even gone half six in the morning. Besides, the wine may be drugged. It could be poisoned. And I am certain that we will not be forced to inspect the whole house. We shall find the girl shortly. If we were not close, why would he offer such a diversion?”

The sheriff hesitated, and Crispin stepped in. “I offered only because I was going to have some wine myself.”

“Aw, sir, I am feeling a bit parched o’ the throat,” a stocky member of the search party told the sheriff. “An’ I always like a bit o’ something before I work.”

“Have some wine, pull the daisy,” Grip rasped in support.