by Joanna Shupe
Next, he worked his way down the silky-soft skin of her throat. She threw her head back, giving him better access, of which Quint took full advantage. He felt drunk on her, out of his mind with this craving for her. A small part of his still-functioning brain could not believe she was allowing these liberties with him. The man whose suit she had refused. Yet here she lay, on his lap, soft and pliant, and offering up no protest. Pulling him closer. Kissing him. And he was not yet insane enough as to pass on such a rare gift.
Two fingers dipped inside the layers of her bodice and lifted a pale and perfect breast over the cloth, revealing it. “So pretty,” he murmured before drawing the rosy tip inside his mouth. He alternated between sharp pulls and laving the taut nipple with the flat of his tongue, determined to drive her mad.
Her fingers threaded his hair, holding him close. “Quint,” she sighed, the sound barely above a whisper. The more he sucked, the more restless she became. “Don’t stop,” she said. “God, Quint, I am burning alive.”
His hand returned to her thigh, where he brought it up to cup her mons. Heat scorched his skin and she rocked her hips against his palm. “Yes,” she groaned, and the friction against his aching cock nearly had his eyes rolling back. A few more of those and he’d spill in his trousers for certain.
Releasing her breast, he lowered her against the armrest until she was nearly flat across his lap. Her eyes, half-lidded and sultry, watched him, while her chest rose and fell rapidly. “Remain still,” he told her. “Let me feel you.”
With her skirts already gathered around her waist, he only had to find the part in her drawers. He spread her open and then her glistening vulva lay bare before him—the downy brown hair covering her mons and the pink, dewy lips of her labia externa and interna. He swallowed. Perfection. Utter perfection.
Without thinking, he swiped a finger through the moisture gathered at the entrance to her vagina and brought the digit to his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the sharp tang of her arousal on his tongue. Sweet. Saint’s teeth, what he wouldn’t give to have his face between her thighs. But he didn’t want to frighten her.
“Please,” she panted, as if sensing his hesitation. “Don’t stop.” Her glittering gaze implored him to keep going and the desire in his groin grew heavier.
Further proof of his madness, no doubt, but he had no intention of stopping.
He slowly traced the folds of her labia with his thumb and explored every bit of her before pushing one finger inside her vagina. Her lids fell on a moan as her hips pushed up, bringing him deeper. The walls were hot and slick. And tight. He shuddered, imagining that wet, warm tissue clasping his erection.
Keeping his own raging need in check, he began a teasing slide in and out of her channel. Coaxing a response from her. Then he added a finger, stretching her further.
“Oh, yes,” he heard her say. He watched her body take his fingers deep inside. Felt her tremble. Then he curled his fingers, searching for the one spongy, sensitive spot—
She shouted and thrashed atop his lap. “Quint, oh God.”
He knew she was close. Her clitoris, the distended vascular bundle of cells at the top of her cleft, was swollen and taut, so he applied his thumb to it with relentless intensity. “Feel it, Sophie. Let it happen.”
Sophie clawed at him, the armrest, the fabric of the chair, anything she could reach. “Oh, God. Yes,” she whimpered. “Right there.”
Her thighs shook and her walls clamped down on his fingers. She clenched and then cried out, orgasm overtaking her. It was beautiful. The kind of image a man remembered to his grave. Her head thrown back, eyes closed, lips rosy from his kisses, shivering in ecstasy. He held on as best he could, prolonging the experience, until she twisted away with a shiver.
He dropped his head against the back of the chair, released her, and struggled to catch his breath. It took some effort to calm himself. Sophie seemed similarly undone as she lay boneless in his lap, a hand pressed to her chest, eyes shut tight. The study clock continued its usual tick, as if the world hadn’t just turned upside down.
Everlasting hell, what had he done?
Shame and loathing rolled through Quint. He’d . . . defiled her. She was a virgin. The daughter of a marquess. That she’d asked for it did not matter. He should know better—hell, he did know better. He just hadn’t been able to refuse her.
Hadn’t been able to stop himself.
Which stood as more proof of his imminent decline. His father had talked incessantly of copulation during his fits—dirty, filthy words—and had masturbated until they’d tied his arms down. That Quint had inflicted this utterly inappropriate act on a gently bred lady only verified what he already knew of his future.
He was not fit to be around others.
And his stupid cock was not listening. It lay hard and heavy in his trousers. Ready to mate at any second.
God, he hated himself in that moment. He adjusted her skirts to cover her.
“I am . . . I had no idea,” she murmured. Satisfaction and wonder laced her tone.
“And I beg your pardon for it. I should not have taken things so far.”
A crease formed between her brows. “Why not? Granted, it was a bit more than a kiss, but I’d hardly complain.” She struggled to sit up, so he helped to right her. “I daresay I’ll never look at your hands in quite—”
“Sophie.” He set her on the floor.
She laughed. “Quint, there is no need to be so serious. This was my idea and any regrets may be placed squarely at my feet. Not that I regret it, mind you.”
“You should.”
“Why? Because we are not married?”
“That, yes, but there is an even greater reason.”
“What?”
“Because I am nearly insane.”
The next evening, Quint scratched his pen furiously over the paper, the idea bursting forth from his mind. He must get the thought down in its entirety—before it was forgotten and gone. What if he split the coded message into parts and then performed a frequency analysis on each letter by section?
The hour well past midnight, he’d dismissed the staff some time ago. The coals had long faded, the temperature in the room decidedly chilly. Still, he wrote. When he finished, he placed his pen on the tray and sanded his paper. “Did you enjoy your ride with Lord MacLean?”
A gasp carried the length of the room. “You knew I was here?”
Only the instant she’d entered. He was attuned to her, down to the subcutaneous membranes under the layers of his skin. “Of course. And you did not answer my question.”
She lifted her chin stubbornly, a look he happened to adore. “A waste of time to ask, then, how you are aware of my perfectly innocent ride with MacLean this morning.” She stood and put her hands on her hips. “I do not like that you are having me followed. Especially during the day. It is unnecessary.”
He disagreed—and with MacLean around, Quint had all the more reason to keep her under watch. The Scot was a practiced reprobate, Sophie a reckless innocent. A clear recipe for disaster if ever there was one.
“I believe it necessary,” he told her, “considering your nocturnal activities. Criminals and footpads do not disappear in the daylight.”
“I am aware of that. But I am fairly certain MacLean could fight off any ruffian who dared approach.”
Quint clenched his jaw. Yes, no doubt MacLean could protect her. The sane Scottish lord could leave his house. Take her for rides in the park. Could likely club any attacker using a full-grown oak tree, if needed. But who would protect Sophie from MacLean?
“That may be so, but your kilt-wearing hero does not know what I know—and he may be caught unaware. And you are wasting your time by arguing.”
“You are exceedingly stubborn.”
“In that, we are well matched. All you need do is give up your ventures as Sir Stephen and I will happily dismiss Jenkins.”
She snorted in response. “You said you would help me, not try to stop m
e.”
Yes, he had—but he’d never expected the bargain she suggested. A bargain that had him hard and straining inside his trousers all damned day. It was all he could do not to pounce on her and lift her skirts.
Nevertheless, he would not allow it to happen again.
And not because of the antiquated belief that women should wait to find pleasure in the marriage bed. No, his resolve had to do with him. For whatever reason, she had wanted to dally with him. He didn’t pretend to understand it and had foolishly allowed his feelings for her to momentarily cloud his better judgment.
But she deserved better than a coward, a madman afraid to leave his house. The perfect and beautiful daughter of a marquess, she was braver and more intelligent than half the men in Europe. And he was . . . broken. Still that eleven-year-old boy standing in the freezing cold, knowing there was something wrong with him. He had no right to force himself on this woman, to touch her in any manner.
So despite the powerful, burning desire for her, he had to refrain from any further physical contact. Even kisses.
“I said I would help you, and I shall. Come with me.”
He reached for his piece of foolscap and stood.
“Where are we going?”
He stood close enough to see the pulse leaping at the base of her throat. Ignore it, he told himself. “I need to lock this away.” He held up the paper. “And we may talk privately there.”
“And we are not private here?” She glanced about the obviously empty room.
“Perhaps, but one never knows.” Especially when a member of his staff was likely passing information along to the Home Office.
Without waiting for further arguments, he led her to the rows of books at the far end of the study. On a high shelf, he plucked the edge of Hobbes’s Leviathan and the latch sprung. Sophie gasped as the bookcase opened. “You have a secret passage!”
“Which will not remain a secret if you do not lower your voice.”
He took her hand and stepped into the tiny corridor, closing the hidden door behind them. Darkness descended. He never brought a light when using the passage, as he didn’t need it. The trip was one he made often, sometimes out of need and other times out of weariness.
Sophie clasped his hand tightly, her breath coming faster. “Should we not have a lamp?”
“No.” He led her along the cramped space. It was not wide enough for them to travel side by side; rather, she pressed herself nearly flush against his back. “Just do not let go of me. Otherwise you may miss a turn and fall into the pit of crocodiles.”
A hand smacked his shoulder. Quint smiled.
“Here are stairs,” he told her. He guided her up the first step. Counted the eighteen. Then at the top, he found the latch and pulled it to open the door. Flickering light from the fading fire illuminated his bedchamber. He let go of Sophie’s hand, set his paper on the bed, and crossed to add more coal. “Push that closed, will you?”
Sophie shut the passage door while he tended to the fire, then he went to the bed. He’d designed the rosewood frame with squat, square posts, and without a canopy. Each of the posts had a small, decorative cap on top. Quint lifted and twisted the cap on the lower right post to reveal the wooden box hidden within. He withdrew the box, which was about the size of his forearm, and placed it on the coverlet.
“What on earth . . .” she breathed over his shoulder. “How positively clever! What do you keep in there?”
He slid the lid back, revealing the inner compartment. “This and that.” Rolling his progress on the code, he tucked the pages inside, around some other drawings. Just let Hudson try and find that.
“Are you working on something important?” She was close—so close her skirts brushed his leg, unnerving him.
“Possibly. Won’t know until I get it right.”
“You think this may have something to do with the break-in.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes. In the past, the Home Office has sought my help with various code problems. There is one cipher that is thought to be unbreakable, oftentimes called le chiffre indéchiffrable. If I can find a way to crack the cipher without the necessary key code, it would draw the attention of quite a few governments, including our own. It would be like having the only master key to every locked door in the world.” The box now closed, he slid it back into the post.
“I . . . had no idea you did this sort of work for our government.”
He glanced at her sharply. She wore an odd expression. “Why would you? No one knows, except the man I work for. And I trust you won’t tell anyone.” Sophie shook her head. “Good. Now, shall we discuss your investigation?”
“Oh, of course,” she said quickly, reaching into the pocket of her dress to produce a folded piece of paper. “I wrote everything down, as you asked.”
“Excellent.” He unfolded the parchment and read her very neat handwriting.
Missing: Rose Hoyt, sister to Joselle (real name?) Hoyt of Madame Hartley’s
Employment: The Pretty Kitty, Cheapside
Description: Blond hair, brown eyes, tattoo of cat above her ankle
Last Seen: late March
Death: ??
Body: Missing
Regular Visitors: Sweaty, La Gauche, The Watcher, King George, Tangle Tongue. (One was likely a would-be protector.)
“La Gauche?” he asked. “Because he favored his left hand?”
Sophie’s face turned crimson and she pressed her lips together. “N-not exactly,” she stammered. “It has to do with his . . . his . . .” She gestured vaguely in the direction of her waist.
He chuckled. “I understand. This has been quite an education for you, has it not?”
He resumed his perusal:
Missing: Unknown woman
Employment: The Black Queen, East London
Description: Brown hair, blue eyes, queen of spades tattoo above ankle
Last Seen: ??
Death: River police pulled her from the water on 16 April, 1820
Body: Missing right hand, raped and strangled
Regular Visitors: ??
“This was the reason for your visit to The Black Queen? To see if you could draw a correlation between the two women?”
“Yes. I had hoped one of the other girls there would confirm her identity and her regulars.”
“And?”
“They were too frightened—fearing O’Shea far more than our hand-collecting murderer.” Likely with good cause. O’Shea did not have a reputation as a fair employer—especially to women. “But one clearly knew the missing girl,” Sophie continued. “It was obvious by her reaction. I could go back and try to speak with—”
“No,” Quint stated emphatically. “Sir Stephen’s presence was noted and clearly not appreciated, considering what happened when you left.”
She stretched her shoulders, and the flickering light danced across the nape of her neck. He tried not to notice. “Not necessarily,” she said. “That could have been a random occurrence.”
“Unlikely. The chance of a random attack is very low, especially when you factor in your visit to the Thames police. There very well may’ve been a corrupt officer or two who would not appreciate someone asking questions. I believe you attracted the wrong kind of attention with both visits.”
“I fail to see how you can be certain.”
“I am not certain. No one can be certain. But I’ve weighed the various factors mathematically using Bayes’ rule and believe there is a high probability that the attempt on your life was intentional.”
He could tell that news upset her. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”
Quint held up the paper with her notes. “The answer lies somewhere in this.”
Chapter Twelve
Sophie was in trouble—not nearly as much trouble as someone trying to kill her on a street in Whitechapel, of course. But a different sort of trouble, and one no less disconcerting to her well-being.
Fact: She was alone with Quint in his bedchamber.
Fact: He was talking of theorems, secret messages, and mathematical probability.
Fact: She was incredibly, distractingly aroused.
The warmth in her belly slid south, a sharp tingle that resulted in a distinctive throb between her legs. How she could be so attracted to one man and not melt into a puddle at his feet was a testament to her sheer strength of will.
She cleared her throat. “So how do we find the answer?”
“By looking for patterns, which you have already begun by visiting The Black Queen. We need to carry it a bit further. What do we know about the four girls pulled from the river, other than they were each missing a right hand?”
“They were all suspected prostitutes. Each fairly young.”
“Estimated to be between nineteen and twenty-two,” he elaborated. “Which is not significant in itself. Most women in prostitution are young.” He sat on the edge of the bed and folded his arms. “What else?” he asked, waving his hand as if to hurry her along.
Sophie shut her eyes for a moment, concentrating on the bits she’d heard. “Each girl washed up along different spots on the river—”
“Unsurprising, considering the unpredictable currents. Variations in weather and detritus in the water would also factor as to how far a floating body may travel. And?”
“Um, mudlarks discovered the first. Dockworkers numbers two and three. River police found the fourth.”
“So we discount method of discovery. What about the bodies?”
“Each was missing her right hand. Why is that, do you suppose?”
“Hard to say.” Quint stroked his jaw. “Is it the sense of touch he’s trying to prevent? As most people favor their right hands, is it symbolic of robbing her strength? Also, it’s a unit of measurement; is the murderer using them to ‘measure’ the crimes figuratively? Or, does he make them use that particular hand for some perverse physical act, and retain it as a keepsake?”
“I can see you’ve given it some thought,” she said, astonished.