by Joanna Shupe
Taylor opened the door. “Would you prefer a footman to see you home, my lady?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” She moved onto the stoop. “You’ll see to him, won’t you?”
“Of course, my lady. However—” He closed his mouth abruptly, obviously thinking better of what he’d been about to say. Which would never do, of course.
“Go on,” she prodded.
He glanced over his shoulder, dropped his voice. “If you should care to return, simply send word and I shall ensure your ladyship need not pick the lock again.”
By the time Quint recovered, Sophie had long departed.
Good. He didn’t know how he could face her after tonight. Bad enough the staff remained in the house, that they were witness to the embarrassment of Quint’s failings. He kept removed from them as best he could but suspected Taylor had drawn his own conclusions after the last episode.
He swiped perspiration off his brow. Began reciting Locke’s An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. It was one of his favorite passages, on how all human knowledge comes only from experience. Fine and good for Locke, of course, since he’d retained his sanity. What rational understanding could be deduced from these debilitating attacks of pure terror? Even the brightest of enlightenment thinkers would likely be baffled by Quint’s condition.
After another moment, his respiration restored itself to its usual rate.
He struggled up out of the chair, weaker than he wanted to admit. The fits, when they came, left him exhausted and with a blistering headache. Opening a window, he welcomed in the fresh air to remove the smell of gunpowder.
She’d actually fired a pistol in his house. He rubbed his temples. Only Sophie would dare do something so reckless. It was part of what he admired about her. But that sound and smell had set off a waking nightmare for him, one he could never admit to her. One he could never admit to anyone.
“My lord,” Taylor called through the partition. “Was a pistol fired?”
“Yes, and you might as well come in, Taylor.”
The door opened and the young butler appeared. Quint could read nothing in the lad’s placid expression, no disapproval or worry, which was something of a relief. “Is there anything I might bring you, my lord? Tea?”
“Yes, that would be much appreciated. Also”—he gestured to the pistols—“take these below and have them wrapped up. I want them delivered tomorrow to Lady Sophia, the daughter of the Marquess of Ardington.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I also request a carpenter to come and repair the hole in the floor?”
Quint glanced down. A small, round hole now marred the floor by the leg of his desk. He did not want workmen in the house. He did not want anyone in the house, really. And that hole would serve as a reason why. “No. Not just yet.”
“I thought you should like to know that her ladyship left through the service door, my lord. I instructed a groom to follow her at a discreet distance.”
“Good thinking, Taylor.” He dropped into his desk chair, ready to distract himself with work. “The mews are not always as safe as Lady Sophia clearly believes them to be.”
“Indeed, your lordship, that is sadly true. Though the lady is certainly brave. Not what one expects.”
An understatement. And Quint was not sure if she was brave or just reckless. The distinction hardly mattered, though. She was, however, distracting—and Quint could not afford distractions.
But it was the fondness in Taylor’s voice that made Quint frown. She’d gained herself another admirer, it seemed. “Yes, she is precisely that. She is also persuasive. Remember who pays your wages. No visitors, Taylor.”
Taylor lifted the box containing the pistols, then bowed. “As you wish, my lord. I will send up some tea.”
Now alone, Quint removed a small key from his waistcoat and unlocked the top desk drawer. Withdrew a ledger he never let anyone see. He flipped to the last entry and reached for his pen. In clear handwriting, he wrote the date. Then he catalogued the circumstances preceding the fit, as well as the symptoms he’d experienced during the episode. Every detail, written down for later examination. He would cross-reference this one against the others, looking for patterns. Similarities.
Answers.
It’s all in your mind, he told himself. There is nothing physically wrong with you.
While he knew it to be true, it was as if his body believed something else altogether. The fits were debilitating. Humiliating. Like nothing he’d ever experienced before in his thirty-three years. And if it happened in public with witnesses, he knew what they would believe. Knew what would happen then.
The same thing that had happened to his father.
Bed straps. Bloodletting. Freezing-cold baths. Emetics.
Quint shuddered. No, he preferred death to a lengthy stay at a hospital—or worse, a madhouse. Nor would he permit unqualified surgeons or physicians to poke and prod at him. He would happily swim in the swirling pits of insanity rather than subject himself to a charlatan.
How much time did he have left? His father had been thirty-eight when the fits started and had lived only four more years after that. Quint was already thirty-three. Did that mean he would not live to see forty?
The thought depressed him.
He often stared at his father’s painting in the gallery, looking for signs. What had the viscount been thinking? Had he noticed anything strange with his health? Had there been any clues to the madness in his future?
Will I turn out to be just like you?
The current medical texts and journals believed the answer to be yes. That madness, fits, and anxiety—the sort his father had suffered—traveled in the bloodlines. And there was no known cure. Quint refused to believe it, however. He would heal himself, if given enough time. The answer was in the evidence contained in the journal, the tests he’d conducted over the past three months.
So far, he’d experimented with spices as well as hot water baths, both to unpleasant conclusions. He’d brewed flavored teas, which tasted nice but hadn’t helped. Then there were the various herbs and plants that also failed to produce results and tasted terrible. He was loath to try an opiate derivative. A poppy extract would dull his senses significantly, a feeling he routinely avoided at all costs. Precisely the same reason he never drank spirits. He needed to retain the clarity, yet reduce the fear and anxiety.
He wanted to get better—and he would get better, if he could remain focused on the problem. Continue his research. Avoid distractions.
Which meant no more Sophie.
Chapter Four
Sophie slid the small door open, the rusted hinges protesting loudly in the silence. The soft golden glow coming from inside the unused garden shed meant her maid was already here.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Alice said when Sophie came through. “I swear I don’t know how much longer I could have stood it. Something crawled across my foot a few minutes ago.”
“Probably just a mouse.” Sophie threw off her cloak and turned her back to Alice. Her maid began unlacing her gown.
“It still gives me the shivers, my lady.”
“Get me changed, then, and you can return to the house.” Within minutes, her gown, petticoats, chemise, lacy drawers, and stays had been removed. Sophie unbuckled the strap on her thigh where a shiny, sharp knife rested in a leather holster. Shivering, she stepped into the plain smalls Alice handed her. Next came the binding.
This was Sophie’s least favorite part, though it wasn’t as if she had large enough breasts to worry over. In fact, Sophie’s long and lean body had never been precisely “womanly.” Her whole life, she’d longed for curves. A blessing her prayers had gone unanswered, yet even still, her male clothing had required extensive tailoring.
She turned in slow circles while Alice wrapped the cloth tightly about her torso. Next came stockings, trousers, a fine shirt, braces, and a waistcoat. Alice tied a cravat neatly around a high collar that would aid in hiding the lack of an Adam’s apple or whiskered
jaw. A pin in the neckcloth finished the look.
“There. Now let’s fix your hair,” Alice said and reached for ajar of pomade. Sophie removed the silver combs in her short curls and sat in the small wooden chair. Her maid rubbed the mixture through her fingers and then straightened, pulled, and swirled Sophie’s hair into a fashionable, foppish style. By the time Alice was done, Sophie would look like one of the poets women swooned over—if one did not look too closely.
When Alice stepped back, Sophie rose and slipped her feet into her male dress shoes. Finding footwear in Sophie’s size had proven difficult, so she’d taken a pair belonging to her younger brother and stuffed the toes with cloth. They were not comfortable, exactly, but would do. The topcoat slid over her shoulders easily, the garment having been heavily padded to give her more of a man’s broad shape. One greatcoat, walking stick, and hat later, she’d been transformed.
She turned to leave, but Alice’s voice stopped her. “Wait, my lady! The spectacles.”
Once they were in place, Sophie struck a manly pose. “How do I look?”
“Like the prettiest dandy in London.”
She smiled. “Then we’ve got it right.”
“And just where is your ladyship off to, so that I may inform the search party later on?”
“Very funny. I’m merely visiting Madame Hartley.”
“Another missing girl?” Alice asked.
Sophie slipped on her gloves. “Indeed. And since I never found Natalia, I intend to devote all my efforts to finding this one.”
“Be safe, my lady.”
“Always, Alice,” Sophie said and slipped into the gardens.
Twenty minutes later, she alighted from a hackney, taking care not to trip in her oversized footwear, and tossed the coachman a few coins.
“Thank you, m’lord,” the man returned with a tip of his hat.
She ignored him—most gentlemen treated the lower classes with a healthy dose of disdain—and sauntered up to the familiar dark red door. A sharp bang with the head of her walking stick and the partition swung open. “Sir Stephen,” the big guard, Mulrooney, said in a heavy Irish accent. “Welcome. Madame Hartley will be anxious t’ see you.”
Sophie relinquished her greatcoat, hat, and stick, and then pitched her voice deep. “A drink first, I think, Mulrooney.”
“Excellent. I’ll tell the mistress you’ve arrived, sir.”
Crowded tonight, Sophie thought as she strolled into the closest side room, where the stench of smoke and sweat nearly choked her. A footman arrived with a heavily watered whisky, Sir Stephen’s preferred spirit, and she grabbed at it gratefully as she covertly observed the men lounging around card tables. Women assumed brothels were all about fornication—and they were—but the amount of time gentlemen spent here was surprising. They chatted, gamed, and drank at all hours. With the number of recognizable titles around the tables, this might as well be White’s or Brooks’s.
She affected a bored expression when a few looks came her way. As predicted, none lingered. People saw what they wanted; no one assumed she was anything other than a green lad out for a bit of evening sport. And if she kept a slight distance, she could carry it off without question.
The whisky, smooth and woodsy, helped calm her nerves. Sir Stephen had made a few enemies recently, and Sophie dearly hoped not to encounter any of them this evening.
“Sir Stephen.” She turned at the sound of the feminine drawl and found Madame Hartley at her side. “How lovely to see you again so soon. I know Joselle will be happy you’re here.”
Madame Hartley ran the most exclusive brothel in London, but they both knew Sophie was not here to enjoy the girls. “Then it would be a shame to disappoint her,” Sophie returned.
The abbess murmured, “Joselle is in the blue room at the end of the hall.”
Sophie took the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Doors flanked the upper corridor, and the sounds coming from behind them were both mysterious and erotic, a hint of the world forbidden to ladies. Grunts, moans, sighs . . . a slap followed by a giggle. Ropes creaked and snapped under mattresses. What limited experience Sophie did have fueled her imagination and the sense of longing inside her. She wanted to feel that passion, so much so that she now ached in all the places that made her a woman.
Or could the tingling under her skin be a result of seeing Quint?
She’d wanted to kiss him earlier tonight. Badly. Why would he bother kissing you again? He wouldn’t, not after she’d told him their one and only kiss meant nothing—a sentiment he must’ve agreed with because he’d gone and fallen in love with the “Perfect Pepperton” chit. Blonde, demure, ideal in every way, she had put all the other marriageable girls to shame. When his betrothal had been announced, Sophie had died a thousand times inside.
While she cringed at the humiliating way his betrothal had ended—his future bride dashing off to Gretna Green with a groom—she could not say she was sorry for it. That silly girl had not deserved Quint. No one did, really. No one was good enough for a man so unique, so intelligent.
Certainly not Sophie.
Ladies aren’t supposed to enjoy it so much. And they certainly aren’t supposed to tell the man what to do.
Lord Robert’s voice, even years later, rang in her ears, the humiliation still sharp. So foolish she’d been. So innocent. She’d loved him and he’d used her and thrown her away like a pile of refuse.
Now, at the end of the corridor, Sophie knocked and entered. A young, pretty blonde girl came to her feet. “Oh, thank you for coming, my lady,” Joselle said, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean, sir.”
Sophie smiled as she locked the door. She’d never bothered trying to fool the girls. If anyone knew a man’s body from ten paces, it was a woman who made her living on her back. “That’s all right, Joselle. We are alone now. I trust you’ve been well.”
“I am worried sick. Did your ladyship have a chance to visit The Pretty Kitty?”
“I did. I spoke with your sister’s friend, Mary. She hasn’t heard from Rose in a fortnight either and they already cleared Rose’s room out. The man who looks after the girls told me she was busy with a customer.”
Joselle wrung her hands. “They’ve done something terrible with her, I just know it. She was getting out. Had a protector, she said. She wouldn’t need to work at The Kitty. She was so happy . . .” Her face crumpled, and Sophie rushed to awkwardly pat her shoulder.
“We will find her. I swear, I will do whatever I can, Joselle.”
“I know you will, my lady.” Joselle dragged in a deep breath. “I never wanted her working in one of O’Shea’s places. He don’t look after his girls. Treats ’em like garbage.”
Sophie knew of James O’Shea, rookery legend and owner of The Pretty Kitty. Rumors abounded of his violence and cruelty. O’Shea may or may not have been involved in Rose’s disappearance, but this was now the second girl gone missing from The Kitty since October. “And you are sure Rose has not gone with this man, the one she said was going to take care of her?”
“I’m sure. She would have written to me. Even if she was living somewhere else, Rose would have sent me word.”
“Do you know anything about this man, the one who made the promises to her?”
Joselle shook her head. “All I know is he was a gent. I am worried she’ll be one of those girls who’ve been washing up along the river.”
As was Sophie. Three dismembered bodies thus far, each a young prostitute. “I plan to return and see Mary once more. Perhaps she knows more about this mystery gentleman. Certainly he would have been one of Rose’s regulars.”
Joselle nodded grimly. “Thank you, my lady. We are so grateful for all that you do.”
Sophie gave her a small smile. “I shall return after my next visit to The Kitty, I promise. Now I best return downstairs before I cost you any more money this evening.”
“Well, let’s give ’em a show, my lady.” Joselle leaned over the bed and gripped the bed frame.
Using her hands, she began banging the wood against the wall. “Oh!” she yelled. “Fuck me harder! Harder!” She moved faster, an intense rhythmic slapping against the plaster. “Yes, oh God, yes!” A few more noises then she rattled to a stop.
Sophie bit her lip to keep from giggling. “Who would’ve guessed Sir Stephen had it in him?” she said quietly.
The girl playfully cocked her hip and tossed her long blond hair. “I’m so good I can make a dead man see stars, my lady.”
When Sophie finished with Joselle, she returned to the main floor. She wanted to speak with Madame Hartley before she left.
A footman presented her with a crystal glass. Sophie took the drink and swaggered over to a banquette along the wall. She sprawled on the velvet cushions, taking up space as men do with arms bent and legs spread, trying to appear as if she’d been recently satisfied. Of course, she had very little experience to draw on; but the trick, one assumed, was to look inordinately pleased with oneself.
“Sir Stephen.” Madame Hartley approached. “I trust you enjoyed Joselle?”
“Indeed, I did,” Sophie answered with a wink.
“Excellent. Might I have a private word, sir?”
“Of course.” Sophie rose and trailed the abbess to the back part of the house. When they reached Madame’s office, the proprietress gestured to a chair. “Let us both sit for a moment, my lady.”
Once they were seated, the abbess retrieved a note out of her desk. “This is from Pearl.” Sophie accepted the paper, which likely contained any hints of gossip the courtesan had overheard. “Joselle has been quite upset,” Madame noted. “Do you believe you can help her?”
“I will certainly try. One of the boys at The Kitty watches out for me in exchange for coins. He’ll keep an eye out for anything related to Rose.”
“Excellent. I am grateful for your ladyship’s help. To assist women who would otherwise be helpless is truly a gift, my lady”
Warmth flooded Sophie at the praise. She loved what she did, and receiving recognition for her small achievements was flattering. “Joselle is worried her sister may be the next girl pulled from the Thames,” she said, referring to the prostitutes recently found mutilated and tossed into the water.