The Lady Hellion

by Joanna Shupe

  “Sophie,” he called just as she reached the stairs.

  When she turned, she saw the glint of metal in his hand. Her knife. “How . . . ?” Somehow he’d removed it while they were kissing. Unbelievable.

  His eyes glittered. “You lose.”

  She thrust her chin up, forced a light tone. “You may keep it. I have others at home.” She started down the steps, and then stopped. “Oh, and Quint?”

  “Yes?” He was watching her intently, his expression annoyingly smug.

  “Look down.”

  Quint’s head dropped. Immediately, his body stilled as if he were caught on a frozen pond threatening to crack below him at any moment.

  Beneath his feet lay the terrace. Quint was outside.

  Quint stared at the smooth white surface of the terrace. He could do this. He had done this, not even ten minutes ago with Sophie here. He’d been outside and the world had not crumbled around him.

  Of course, he’d leapt indoors the instant he’d realized, but for a few moments he had been normal—not a near-cripple unable to leave his house.

  He took a deep breath, held it, and slid his toes onto the stone. His pulse jumped, so he closed his eyes and hurried to shift his other foot in line. The surface of his skin turned cold as perspiration broke out on his brow, and his lungs constricted. Do not think about it, he repeated, but it did not help. He gasped, desperate for air, and his heart nearly slammed out of his chest.

  Damnation. Irrational fear crashed over him, a wave of immense failure that had him retreating into the house. He could not do it. Safely inside, he bent over and rested his hands on his knees, drawing in great gulps of air.

  He’d researched anxiety, this “deluded imagination” as it was called. The dread of something worse than the present. And while he yearned for a solution, the rational side of him knew there likely would not be. As Byron said, There is an order of mortals on the earth, who do become old in their youth, and die ere middle age; Some perishing—of study, And some insanity.

  Sighing, he straightened. Disappointment weighted him down. Each day, he expected to be better, yet each day ended in defeat. Except for tonight when kissing Sophie. Too bad he could not kiss her each time he wanted to leave the house.

  And why had she kissed him? To distract him, certainly. Had there been another reason as well, or was that wishful thinking on his part? He would like to imagine she’d been overcome with passion, desperate for him . . . but he dealt in realities. Practicalities. Why would she want him now—a broken, cowardly excuse for a man—when she’d rebuffed a perfectly healthy version years ago?

  She wouldn’t, he told himself. Sophie could choose any man, and she’d made it clear long ago Quint was not under consideration.

  He stared out at the darkness, wondering if perhaps he should give up hope—on Sophie, on going outside, on ever being normal. “‘Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not,’” he said aloud, a quote from one of his favorite Greek philosophers, Epicurus. He should ask one of the maids to embroider the saying on pillows and litter the house with them.

  He needed to return to more important matters, such as discerning the identity of the intruder. His list of observations regarding the staff was near complete. Yet even so, he couldn’t point to one servant as having an obvious motive for breaking into the study. Theft, yes. But if any of them were of a mind to steal, there were plenty of smaller items and even paintings that would fetch a fair penny if fenced. And while he may be oblivious to much in his household, he was fairly certain the staff weren’t robbing him blind.

  “My lord.”

  He turned to find Taylor striding toward him, a note in hand. “Yes?”

  “This was just delivered.” Taylor offered the paper from his own fingers, which no proper butler would ever do. A proper butler would have the paper on a salver and present it with great flourish. Though Quint had to admit, he definitely preferred the non-flourish method. Another reason he liked Taylor.

  Quint slid his thumb under a seal he recognized and then noticed Taylor hovering. “Yes?”

  “It has been some time since your lordship has eaten, so I had Cook prepare something. It is waiting in the study, my lord.”

  Quint was not particularly hungry and he hated to be needled, but he supposed he should eat. “Fine.”

  He glanced at the parchment. A note from Colton. Julia had given birth to a boy. An heir. God help the ladies of the ton in twenty years, Quint thought with a grin. Along with reporting on the mother’s health and the baby’s exemplary constitution, Colton invited Quint to visit Seaton Hall. Quint hated the idea of disappointing his two friends, but traveling anywhere was out of the question.

  He’d best concoct a plausible excuse, however, or Colton might very well show up on his doorstep.

  Activity buzzed inside The Black Queen late on a Friday evening. Hazard tables, croupiers, roulette wheels . . . the frenzy kept the guests hopeful while they emptied their pockets. Sophie, decked out in Sir Stephen’s finery, strolled to the nearest table and placed a few bets while searching the room.

  A far cry from where she’d been earlier tonight, at one of the Season’s first events, dressed in a ball gown and pretending to enjoy herself. Sophie did so much of that lately—pretending—that it was becoming difficult to remember the real woman.

  When one of the house girls drew near, Sophie gave a nod to attract her attention, and the lightskirt soon arrived at her side.

  “Wanna buy some time, luv?” She smelled of gin and sweat, her clothes threadbare.

  Sophie shook her head. “I am looking for Molly.”

  Pearl had sent a note earlier—through Alice, of course—with the name of a girl to see tonight in hopes of getting some answers. With any luck, Pearl’s connection would be free. Sophie did not care to be at The Black Queen any longer than necessary. It was another of O’Shea’s establishments, and not in a reputable area of town.

  “That’s her, over there.” The girl pointed to the back, where a brown-haired girl was bent over, whispering in a gentleman’s ear. Sophie slipped the girl a coin, then headed for Molly. When she drew near, Molly glanced up and gave Sophie a once-over. Her lips twitched before she put her mouth near the man’s ear once more. Whatever she said made him laugh and pat her backside, and Molly straightened to face Sophie.

  “Were you wantin’ go somewhere private, sir?”

  “Yes, I do. Where?”

  Molly grinned. “Follow me.” She brushed past Sophie and continued to a door by the faro tables. A large, rough-looking man with a forbidding expression opened the door and Molly sailed through, Sophie following behind.

  At the landing, they nearly ran over a girl on her knees. A man leaned against the wall, his trousers undone, pushed to the tops of his white thighs, while the girl worked his male member with her mouth. The act was not unheard of, certainly, but it was the first time Sophie had ever seen it in person. Head bobbing, the girl pulled her lips over the taut, glistening flesh, wet sucking sounds filling the cramped space. Sophie stood motionless, unable to look away. The scene was strangely titillating. The man’s lids were closed, his face slackened in pleasure, and he didn’t even notice the interruption. But the girl’s eyes landed on Sophie—and she winked.

  A hand on Sophie’s elbow pulled her farther down the corridor. “In here,” Molly said, throwing open one of the doors. She crossed to sit on the small bed and her hands went to the laces on the front of her shabby gown. “What might your lordship be lookin’ for tonight?”

  “Nothing of that sort.” Sophie held up her hand. “I just need to talk.”

  “Oh, you like to watch? We get plenty of those, too.” She reached for the hem of her gown, lifting.

  “No,” Sophie said quickly. “Pearl Kelly said you might be able to help me with some information.”

  “Pearl Kelly.” Molly grinned. “Well. I haven’t seen her in years. Known her forever, since before we even had tits. She’s got quite a life for h
erself now. So what did she send you here for?”

  “Have you heard about the bodies being pulled from the river? The girls?”

  Molly shook her head. “No. Why?”

  “One of the girls who died, found a few days ago, she had a marking near her ankle. A small playing card, a black queen. The surgeon said it was a tattoo, most likely from whatever house she worked.”

  Molly nodded. “O’Shea makes all of us get ’em.” She lifted her leg, pointed to her stocking-clad ankle. Sophie could just make out a black smudge under the wool. “He says it’s to remind us of where we belong.” She rolled her eyes. “As if we could forget.”

  The barbaric practice of permanently marking women like cattle caused bile to rise in Sophie’s throat. “Have any of the girls gone missing recently? I am trying to find someone, a girl from The Pretty Kitty. The Thames police think she might’ve been pulled from the water two weeks ago. If I can find a man who knew both of these dead women—a customer, perhaps—then I might find whoever was responsible.”

  Molly shook her head, her gaze sliding away. “I can’t think of anyone who’s gone missin’.”

  An obvious lie, and Sophie had no intention of letting it drop. “Are you sure? This girl, the one found mutilated two days ago, obviously worked here at some point. Brown hair. She had blue eyes with a small scar—”

  Molly made a choking sound, then covered her mouth with her hand. Sophie could see the emotion on the other woman’s face from across the room. “Tell me, Molly. It’s plain you knew her. Tell me who she was.”

  Molly drew in a ragged breath. “I can’t,” she whispered, and Sophie noticed something new in Molly’s eyes. Fear.

  “Of course you can.” Sophie frowned and stepped closer. “You can help me find whoever did this to her. Please, just tell me what you know.”

  A tear slipped down Molly’s cheek and she quickly brushed it away. “I can’t,” she repeated in the same hushed tone. “If I do, he’ll kill me, too.”

  “Who?” Sophie pressed. “Who will kill you? You must tell me, Molly.”

  Molly shot to her feet. “Forgive me for sayin’, but I don’t have to tell you a thing, my lady.” Sophie jerked at the form of address, but Molly continued, her voice quiet and determined. “This is a lark to you, to come down here and ask questions, nosin’ around. Then you get in your fancy carriage and go back to your nice house on the other side of town.” She placed her hand on her chest. “I got no choice but to stay here. And if they find out I been talkin’ about things I shouldn’t, I’ll be breathin’ my last.”

  The words hurt, as true as they were, but Sophie did not let them deter her. “He rapes them, Molly.” Molly closed her eyes, and Sophie continued, “He forces her and then he strangles her. And then he cuts off her right hand before throwing her into the river like refuse. If you know who would do such a horrible thing, then you have to say it before anyone else is killed.”

  “No, I don’t. I feel poorly for those girls, but they ain’t me.” She lifted her chin. “And sometimes there are fates far worse than being killed. O’Shea don’t like his girls talkin’ and causin’ trouble. I can’t help you. Now I need to get back to the floor.” She started for the door.

  Disappointment rolled through Sophie. There was no way to force the girl to tell what she knew, and Sophie could not protect Molly should O’Shea find out. “What if I pay you?” That got Molly’s attention, so Sophie said, “I have some money saved. What if I can pay you for the information? You could use the money to leave London, go far away where O’Shea cannot find you.”

  Molly’s lips turned into a sad, resigned smile. “There’s nowhere O’Shea can’t find us, if he has a mind to. You best leave it alone, miss—else you’re likely to find yourself a Thames trout, too.”

  As Molly reached for the latch, Sophie blurted, “How did you know I wasn’t a man?”

  The girl gestured to Sophie’s crotch. “Your bollocks. Men carry ’em around like the most precious things on earth. You walk like you’ve nothin’ hangin’ between your legs.”

  Sophie was still pondering that piece of information as she stood downstairs, preparing to leave. As she shrugged on her coat, she noticed an errand boy accept a note from one of the floor bosses. The boy waited for instructions, nodded, and raced out the front door. Sophie hurried to follow him outside. When the boy started off down the street, Sophie chased him, calling for him to stop. She cursed her shoes, which prevented her from catching him.

  The boy glanced over his shoulder, his wild red hair sticking every which way, and slowed to a stop. “Wot is it, guv?”

  “You work here, running messages and the like?”

  His expression turned wary. “So wot if I do?”

  “I bet you know everything that happens inside.”

  He puffed up, as only a young boy could. “I know my fair share.”

  Sophie took out a coin from her coat and presented it to him. “This is yours if you’ll answer a question.” Then she described the missing girl. “Do you know her?”

  He shook his head. “Girls, they keep to themselves, mostly. O’Shea don’t care for ’em talkin’ when they should be tuppin’.” Two fingers reached out and snatched the coin.

  “Wait,” she said before he could dash away. “What’s your name?”

  “Red.” He pointed to his head.

  “Well, Red, there’s plenty more coins where that came from. Would you like to earn them? All you would need to do is be willing to keep me informed.”

  Chapter Nine

  After securing Red’s promise of help, Sophie continued down the street and glanced about. No hacks anywhere in sight. With no choice, she began to walk in order to find one, her hat pulled low as her mind turned over the conversation with Molly.

  Molly had known the girl’s identity. Fear had prevented her from saying. Fear of O’Shea, certainly, but had there been fear of someone else? Did Molly know the killer? If so, the prudent thing would be to tell someone so the man could be caught and hanged. Though Sophie could hardly blame her hesitancy; women like Molly held little faith in law and justice, since they saw so little of it in their own lives.

  Perhaps Sophie should return on another night and question a different girl, one who might be willing to share information. She shuddered to think of what O’Shea did to the girls under his control to frighten them. If rape, mutilation, and strangulation paled in comparison . . .

  The night was fairly quiet despite the early hour. Two cats fought nearby in a tangle of screeches and hisses, and the faint revelry from a nearby tavern spilled out into the street. Both served as a comforting reminder that she was not completely alone in this deserted stretch.

  A noise caught Sophie’s attention. A boot scraped on stone—a sound out of place considering the desolation on the street. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Was someone following her?

  She glanced around, checking. Nothing moved, not even the wind. Her trepidation rising, she transferred her walking stick to her left side, slid her right hand into an inside pocket, and clasped the comforting weight of her knife. She increased her pace. Bishop’s Gate was not far, and there should be enough activity there to lose whoever might be behind her.

  Her heart pumping, she regretted evading Quint’s man earlier. If she hadn’t, she could be on her way home by now. Another sound, this time closer.

  It all happened in a flash. She spun to find a large shape nearly upon her but did not have time to focus on his face before the glint of a blade caught her eye. A knife streaked toward her chest. Holding up her right arm, she tried to block the attack while shifting her body. The weight of the blow landed on her forearm, dislodging the knife in her hand. It clattered to the ground, and there was a sharp sting near her shoulder. She had no time to examine it, however, because the man slashed once more, this time near her belly.

  Sophie jumped back and raised her walking stick to defend herself. The ineffectual adornment bounced off the man’s should
ers, not affecting him in the least. A sneer twisted his lips as he advanced. She hadn’t ever seen him before. Crooked nose and large, rough features. He was missing two teeth from the top of his mouth, but otherwise seemed fit. Even if the heavy greatcoat were not hampering her legs, she could not outrun him.

  He moved quickly, aiming for her stomach again, and she reacted on instinct. Using all her weight, she bent low and threw herself into him. It put him off balance, just enough that she could slide her boot behind his foot and trip him. He fell backward—but did not release her. Instead, he pulled her down as well and she landed with a jarring thump on the ground. The side of her head slammed against the walk and pain exploded behind her eyes, the impact dazing her.

  “Fucking cunt,” she heard the man grunt before he rolled to slash the knife across Sophie’s thigh. Sophie kicked as hard as she could, her boot catching him on the knee. Struggling for breath, she knew she had to get to her feet. On the ground, she was as good as dead. But everything hurt and she felt dizzy. Dear God, was she going to die on the street?

  What felt like a large tree trunk rammed into her stomach, knocking all the air from her lungs. Sophie gasped, closed her eyes, and curled into a ball to protect herself. Then the sharp crack of a pistol erupted, and she tensed, expecting to feel a searing pain rip through some part of her body. None came, however, and the last thing she saw before the blackness rose up to engulf her was Quint’s guard standing over the attacker, a smoking pistol in his hand.

  Quint heard the commotion before the study door even opened. Loud voices were uncommon in the house, generally heralding an unwanted visitor.

  He was halfway around the desk by the time Taylor threw open the door. “My lord, he just arrived,” Taylor said, standing aside as Jenkins entered, a limp form cradled in his arms. Quint’s insides went cold. Christ almighty, it was Sophie. Dressed in man’s garments. And . . . dead?