The Water Nymph (3 page)

Until now. Now it all came rushing back in a torrent that threatened to overwhelm him, to burst all his carefully crafted restraints, unseat all his rigorously upheld rules.

Sophie stood before him, conscious only of his intense scrutiny. “Are you satisfied?”

“No,” Crispin replied, but he was answering a different question than the one she had asked. When he realized what he had done, he cleared his throat and elaborated. “I want to look through your clothes as well.”

It was the mustache that saved him. Only the mustache kept Crispin from forgetting what he was doing there, what his purpose was, what, for that matter, his name was. And even the mustache posed problems, particularly the way it drew the eye to her wide, sensual lips. Would they feel like silk brushing against his neck, or like velvet? Crispin found himself wondering and immediately instructed himself to stop. He had much more important matters to consider, he reminded himself, than whether the mark over her lip was a birthmark or a shadow, and how the gentle curve of her waist would look from the back, and whether her head would reach to just under his nose so that he could rest his cheek on the crown of her hair, and what it would feel like to cup her full breasts in his hands, or have her legs twined around his waist or…

Crispin rose so abruptly from his chair that it fell backward, startling both Sophie and the sleeping raven, who immediately began shrieking, “Get the girl!” while hopping on one leg. It took Sophie a moment to figure out what was happening, and by that time Crispin had crossed the room and disappeared through a set of double doors.

Blazing with indignation, Sophie began to follow him, then stopped on the threshold. She had never felt so humiliated and foolish in her life. It was the first time she had stood like that, completely naked, in front of a man, and he had found it so distasteful to look at her that he had stormed out of the room. That was bad, but what was worse was how vulnerable it made her feel. Sophie Champion did not care what anyone thought of her, even in clothes, she reminded herself, and she certainly did not care for the opinion of an irksome tick like the Earl of Scandal. It must be the unsettling effects of the damned mustache paste again, she reasoned, and immediately felt better.

Buoyed, she addressed him through the open doors. “If you are trying to lure me to your bed, it will not work.”

Crispin emerged from the room carrying a red-and-gold silk robe. “I assure you nothing was farther from my mind,” he lied. She noticed that he did not look at her at all but kept his gaze firmly on something just past her right ear as he held the robe toward her and commanded, “Put this on.”

Sophie hastily wrapped herself in the silk sheath. It was not until she was completely covered that Crispin returned his gaze to her, hoping that with her body not so palpably before his eyes, he might be able to control the direction of his thoughts. Such control was more important now than ever, since Tottle’s demise.

Richard Tottle had long been a source of information about the goings-on behind the doors of the Palace, both official and unofficial. He had been printing, “By Order of The Queen,” all official laws, speeches, and proclamations since he had become a master printer eight years earlier. He was so well-informed, in fact, that the Queen herself consulted him to find out what was stirring in her own court, and it was therefore to Richard Tottle that Crispin had gone to learn who was trying to turn Her Majesty against the Phoenix. From Tottle, Crispin was supposed to have gotten an encrypted list of those close to Queen Elizabeth who might be behind the destruction of the Phoenix. He had found half a piece of parchment containing such a list clutched in the dead man’s fingers, but the other half was gone, crudely torn away as if during a struggle. Recovered by the wrong person—one who could decode it—the lost half of the list would be a clear signal that someone was looking into the Phoenix’s detractors. A clear signal that Crispin, whose investigation had to be completely clandestine, could ill afford.

If this devilish Sophie Champion woman did not have the piece of parchment, as it appeared she did not, then it was in somebody else’s hands, and he had better take steps to invalidate it as quickly—and secretly—as possible. Which promised to be difficult if she was roving around unsupervised, undertaking an inquiry, arousing people’s suspicions before he had even talked to them, as seemed likely given the interest she had already evinced by following him home. Running through these thoughts, Crispin picked up first her red doublet, then her leggings, then her hat, halfheartedly searching each for secret compartments and double linings. He was about to return to his seat, vanquished, when he saw Sophie glance anxiously at her right boot.

Despite this clue, he almost missed it. He slid his finger around the inside of the shoe, tugged at the laces that looped up the front, and had just decided that she was trying to trick him, when he felt the heel give way. It pivoted, and from inside it he lifted a gold medallion and a piece of paper. He set aside the medallion, apparently an image of the goddess Diana, and unfolded the paper.

There were only three words on it, but their juxtaposition made his stomach tighten. The first two, which had a thick, black line through them, were “Richard Tottle.” The next was “Phoenix.”

“Is this your marketing list of murder victims?” he asked coolly, waving the paper in front of her face.

“Certainly,” Sophie replied, equally coolly. “There are more names in the other shoe.” When she saw him glance in the direction of the other boot, actually hesitating about whether to try it or not, she laughed aloud.

The laugh brought the raven half out of its renewed nap, just enough for it to chant, “Get the girl,” once, and resume snoring.

Crispin returned his attention to her. “I know who Richard Tottle is—”

“—was,” Sophie corrected helpfully.

“Was.” Crispin bowed his thanks. “But who is the Phoenix?”

“A mythical bird.” Sophie’s tone was pedantic. “From antiquity. Each time it is killed, it rises anew from its own ashes and therefore would be a very unsatisfying murder victim.”

“Thank you for the lesson in classical mythology. Why is it on your list? Do you presume to travel through time?”

“Why should that matter to you?” Sophie eyed him keenly, then wished she had not. After she had reviewed all the reasons that she hated him that could not be erased by his long dimples, she spoke again. “Lord Sandal, I have done everything you asked. I have answered your ridiculous questions. I have stripped off my clothes. I have waited patiently while you ruined my boots. But now I must go. I am hungry and thirsty and I have not slept in three nights. Or rather, four. And, unlike you, I am interested in finding out who murdered Richard Tottle.” She had not realized that this was the case until she spoke the words, but she immediately saw it was true.

Before, Richard Tottle’s death had been an ill-timed inconvenience, one that put a stop to her investigations into Lord Grosgrain’s accident. Since Lord Grosgrain had been killed on his way to his strange meeting with Richard Tottle, Sophie had thought it possible that the two—the meeting and her godfather’s death—were connected. And now that she knew that someone had left her pistol alongside Richard Tottle’s body, now that it was clear that someone was trying to implicate her in his death, possibility turned to probability. What was more, this was strong evidence that Lord Grosgrain had been murdered. For if Lord Grosgrain had really died in an accident, her inquiries would not have excited anyone to action and certainly would not have threatened anyone so much that they tried to entangle her in a crime. Whoever killed Richard Tottle, she suspected, had killed Lord Grosgrain as well.

The last time she had seen Lord Grosgrain, when she had given him the bill of credit made out to Richard Tottle for twelve hundred pounds, he had said he would be able to repay her soon and then added, in a voice with a tinge of fear, “unless the phoenix gets me first.” He often used phrases like that, referring to the “black dragon” or the “red lion” or the “green bear,” all of which Sophie knew were alchemical terms for the potions he was always concocting in his unflagging attempts to produce gold from lesser metals. At first she had assumed the phoenix was merely a potion she had never heard of, but after Lord Grosgrain’s accident she had thought better of it. She and Octavia and Emme had spent a day and a night skimming through his books and papers, reading everything that was not in his strange personal code, but found no mention of a chemical called the phoenix. It was then that she realized the ‘phoenix’ must be a person. Probably a person with information about her godfather’s death. In her initial message to Richard Tottle, which went unanswered and forced her to track him down at the Unicorn, she had asked both what Lord Grosgrain was supposed to be paying him for and who the Phoenix was.

Crispin studied her as she sat wrapped in these thoughts, lost in thoughts of his own. The paper in her boot was a clear sign that she knew something, something he needed to know, something he was determined to find out. It was no use asking her questions, he saw, and simultaneously saw how he could get answers without them. He liked his plan so well that he almost had difficulty repressing a smile. Almost.

Crispin’s tone was lazy as he broke the silence of the room. “Why are you so interested in uncovering Richard Tottle’s murderer? I do not recall him mentioning you. Was he a friend of yours?”

Sophie countered with a question of her own. “Was he a friend of yours? What were you doing in the smoking room anyw—” She stopped speaking abruptly and her eyes grew large.

“You only just thought of it?” Crispin chided her. “It only just occurred to you that I might have murdered him?”

“But why did you use my pistol?” Sophie blurted. “Or rather how did you use my pistol? And why, if you wanted to frame me, did you take it away? And what were you looking for?” The demands toppled out, one after another.

“All marvelous questions,” Crispin lauded. “Unfortunately, I’m not really in the mood to answer them. Oh, perhaps one: I took the pistol to use as leverage against you. So I could induce you to answer my questions.”

“Leverage,” Sophie repeated under her breath, and then leveled her eyes at him. “It won’t work. I’ve answered all the questions I plan to. Now I am going home.” Sophie rose, and as she did so the silk robe fell open at the neck, revealing the swell of her breasts.

Crispin shook his head slowly from side to side and concentrated on her mustache. “I doubt you could solve the murder of Richard Tottle without my assistance.”

Sophie, suddenly conscious of the feeling of his eyes on her body and annoyed with herself for this consciousness, sat back down clutching the robe closed. “I need nothing that you have to offer. As it seems to me, your entire method consists in luring women to your home so you can torment them. If that is the best you can do to find the murderer…” She let her voice trail off with disdain.

“And just how would you set about it?”

“I might try searching Richard Tottle’s quarters. Perhaps he left whatever you were looking for there.” She leaned forward, and the robe slid open again. “If you were even looking for something and did not manufacture that merely as an excuse to order me out of my clothes.”

“If that is the best you can do to find the murderer…” Crispin met her disdain and raised it.

It did the trick. “The worst that I could do, Lord Sandal, is undoubtedly superior to your best,” Sophie growled. “From what I have read of your adventures, you are better equipped for pursuing coquettes than murderers.”

If Sophie had known him longer, she would have known that the glittering of Crispin’s eyes boded ill for her. They were the eyes of a predatory animal, ready to pounce and sure of a victory. “Even if that were true,” he purred at her, “having observed the feeble quality of your mind, I bet that I am still a thousand times better equipped to find the murderer than you are.”

Her reaction was instantaneous and satisfying. Sophie barely recognized her voice through her anger as she said, “Would you care to wager on that?”

Crispin leaned back in his chair to gloat. “Wager on the fact that I can find the murderer before you can? Certainly.”

“Very well. What about a thousand pounds? One for each time you are better equipped than I am to find him.”

Crispin appeared to think for a moment, then shook his head. His eyes were still shining. “I would not like it to be said that I bankrupted a lady.” Sophie was about to assure him that her coffers were more than adequate to the challenge, but he went on. “Besides, monetary wagers lack excitement. Why bother to strive for something you already have? Instead of stating now what we are willing to
lose
, I propose that we each write down what we want to win. Something marvelous, our secret, deepest desire. The wagers will be kept locked away, so neither of us knows the stakes, until the murderer is caught. Then the loser must provide whatever the winner asked for.” He saw her hesitating, then added, “I do this only out of courtesy to you, so you will not be bored. I suspect that losing is much more interesting when you do not know what you will be expected to give up. Of course, since, unlike you, I never lose, I can only guess.”

“In the interest of making your first time as thrilling as possible, I accept the terms of your wager.” Sophie took the quill and the piece of paper he slid across the desk to her, thought for a moment about what she might possibly want from him, let the quill hang in the air, thought again, and then, with a sly smile on her face, carefully wrote a dozen words. When she had folded her paper in quarters and he had done the same with his, she asked, “Who will hold on to these?”

Apparently by magic, a slender man somewhere between the ages of thirty and eighty materialized in their midst. “Good evening, my lord,” the man said, as if there were nothing the least bit unusual about his master sitting in the library in the middle of the night with a barely clad woman wearing a mustache. “I took the liberty of bringing these,” he continued, lifting two silver goblets and a glass carafe of glimmering red wine from the tray he carried. “Would you like me to lock those papers in the safe?”