The Lady Hellion

by Joanna Shupe

  “Odd.”

  He looked at Winchester. “In a word. I never would’ve believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes.”

  Winchester nodded. “He’s fallen hard.”

  “Like a rock.”

  “It happens to the best of us, Colt. But he’s right. We shouldn’t have given him a hard time.”

  Nick cocked a brow. “When have we not given each other a hard time? Hell, you and I scuffled a few times when I returned from Venice. Quint is well aware of that, so why is he so touchy all of a sudden?”

  “I couldn’t say. What was with the breathing at the end? He looked ready to faint.”

  Nick leaned back in his chair. “He was furious, I suppose.”

  “That wasn’t fury. That was something else,” Winchester said, absently twirling a spoon on the table. “I’ve only been back for a few days, but I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Rumors of what?”

  “About Quint. That he’s a recluse.”

  Nick made a dismissive sound and rolled his eyes. “Please. His staff is always making up fantastic tales.”

  “This isn’t from the staff. He hasn’t been at the clubs. Or his scientific gatherings. Begged off on the opening speech at the Royal Society. They say he never leaves the house, and no visitors—ever.”

  “Except Lady Sophia.” Nick thought about this. Something had definitely been off earlier, when he’d met Quint on the terrace. The butler had tried his damnedest to bar him—a duke as well as a lifelong friend—from the house. If Nick weren’t so cheerfully impolite, he never would’ve made it inside at all. And it also explained why Quint had been reluctant to go out to any of the clubs. “Is he ill?”

  Winchester shrugged. “I couldn’t say. Looked fine, other than that bit at the end. Kind of nice to see him stick up for a woman, didn’t you think? Can’t say I’ve ever seen him so worked up.”

  “I know,” Nick agreed with a grin. “I never would have put the two of them together. Why, after all this time, do you suppose?”

  “It’s not exactly new,” Winchester said. “Something happened between the two of them right before his betrothal. I never told Julia, but I came across Quint and Sophia, alone, at a ball. Kissing quite vigorously, as I recall.”

  Nick blinked at this news. “But the betrothal?”

  “A mistake. Quint didn’t care a whit about the Pepperton girl.”

  “Yet he was prepared to marry her.”

  “Indeed, though I believe he only proposed to her because things with Sophia never progressed. Like he was trying to get her attention by courting another woman. Interesting, is it not?”

  Neither spoke for a moment. Nick realized, with no small amount of regret, that he would not be able to return to Norfolk tomorrow as he’d hoped. Damn.

  “What are you going to do about this?” Winchester asked. “About Quint and Sophia, I mean.”

  “I haven’t decided. Julia will have a fit if I keep it from her. She’ll also demand to come to London, and the doctor doesn’t want her traveling for another few weeks.”

  “Maggie will also want to know. We promised each other no more lies, so I cannot very well keep this from her.”

  “Nothing says you have to tell her right away,” Nick suggested.

  The two men sat silent, contemplating their wives. Julia’s anger did not bother Nick one bit. When she was angry, her face flushed and her breasts heaved in the most enticing . . . He shifted in his chair, not wanting to dwell on that thought here. He’d been trying to keep his hands off her since the birth, to give her time to recover, but it had been damned difficult.

  “You know the old saying, what is the best thing about an angry wife?” Winchester asked.

  “No, what?”

  He grinned. “Seducing her into forgiving you.”

  Nick chuckled. “So true. Fine. I’ll give them two weeks. Then I’ll tell Julia.”

  “Two weeks,” Winchester agreed. “Surely he knows he must marry her.”

  “If Sophia agrees. She’s always been prickly on the subject.”

  “Hardly matters if this were to get out. She’d be ruined. No woman wants that.”

  Winchester would know. His wife had been embroiled in a scandal during her debut, banished to the country for years. “Quint must have a plan in mind. He never does anything without thinking it through a hundred different ways.”

  “True. So what about Quint and this business about not leaving his house?”

  “Ridiculous. Quint is too logical to become a recluse. Most likely he’s on to another one of his puzzles. Let’s give him a few days.”

  “And then what?”

  “We ambush.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sir Stephen stifled a yawn as he—she—bounced in the carriage on the way home.

  Too many late nights, Sophie thought with a smile. But they had been worth it. Her investigation was moving along quite nicely. Based on Pamela’s disappearance from Madame Hartley’s, she he had three solid suspects: Comte de Saxe, Weston, and Tolbert.

  She had tried to approach it logically, as Quint would, and not jump on the idea of Tolbert as the person responsible merely because she did not like him. So she’d investigated them all equally.

  The comte was the easiest to rule out. He’d arrived in London only a week ago, having been in Vienna for the last year, and the first girl had been found over four months ago.

  Lord Weston had been trickier. He lived in London most of the year, and Sophie confirmed he frequented both The Kitty and Madame Hartley’s. She had needed to find out if he’d ever been to The Black Queen, because, thanks to the tattoos on the victims, the man she hunted was definitely familiar with all three establishments.

  Tonight, she had learned he had never been to The Black Queen. He’d told Sir Stephen he had no knowledge of that particular brothel and asked if the girls were talented. Sophie had shrugged and alluded to a wild night with a particular brunette named Molly. Perhaps Molly would be more inclined to talk if she thought Sir Stephen was sending business her way.

  Which left her with Tolbert as her last suspect. Now she just had to prove it—because one did not make accusations against a peer of the realm without proof.

  The thrill of the discovery threatened to burst out of her chest. She couldn’t wait to tell Quint. In fact . . .

  She rapped on the ceiling with her walking stick. Jenkins opened the small partition. “Yes, sir.”

  “Jenkins, take me to Lord Quint’s.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll go around the back.”

  She tried to ignore the fluttering of anticipation in her belly. She hadn’t seen Quint since the day of the luncheon with Winchester and Colton. That had been awkward enough, and she hadn’t wanted to add to Quint’s troubles by returning so soon. It had been stupid to show up during the middle of the day anyway.

  And now that his friends were back, she had to be more careful. Popping over to Quint’s whenever she wanted was no longer possible. Even now, at this late hour, she’d need to ensure he was alone.

  You just want him to kiss you there again.

  Well, yes. No denying that, she thought even as her face went up in flames. It had been . . . indeed, no word she knew would do the experience justice. And yet, as satisfying as it had been, she wanted to drive him to the same heights of pleasure. Each time he had satisfied her, he’d hurried her out the door. Never giving her the chance to reciprocate.

  The idea of touching him, making him shudder and shake with need, had taken root in her brain. She longed for Quint to take her as a man takes a woman, the two of them naked and writhing in ecstasy together. Moisture pooled between her legs just thinking on it.

  A voice, one that had been appearing more often of late, whispered that she was in too deep. That her feelings for Quint had long surpassed friendship and had developed into something more. Sophie pointedly ignored that annoying warning.

  She needed him to help with the investigation, and he need
ed her to help him recover. That was it. Once the investigation had concluded, they would return to their usual lives.

  Or, at least he would return to his normal life. Sophie had no idea what constituted normal for her any longer.

  By the time she crept through Quint’s gardens, the moon was well past the midpoint in the sky. It shone brightly on the leaves and flowers just starting to bloom, with the moist, earthy smell of nighttime enveloping her. When she came up the steps, a familiar figure stood on the terrace.

  “I am impressed,” she told Quint. “You are outside, and without any assistance this time.”

  His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “I am. And I have you to thank for it.”

  “No, you did this. You deserve the credit. Have you tried to go farther?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I’m not sure I’m—”

  Ready. She heard the word as clear as if he’d said it. “Well, then it’s a good thing I’m here.”

  “Yes, I noticed you’ve been staying away. Was that to punish me for the luncheon?”

  “Punish you?” She felt herself frown. “Why would I want to punish you?”

  “For allowing Colton and Winchester to treat you so horribly. If it makes you feel any better, I took them to task after you left.”

  “I was not upset with you, Quint. I had no one to blame but myself. I never should have come unannounced during the day. They were right to point out my foolishness.”

  He drew closer and her heart started pounding. She’d become so weak where he was concerned. The mere memory of his hands and mouth could make her dizzy with wanting. His palm cupped her cheek, thumb rubbing softly over her jaw as his ruggedly handsome face stared down at her. “I worried they’d scared you away for good. And there would be little I could do about it, trapped as I am.”

  Trapped for now, she wanted to tell him. Because he would get better. She would see to it.

  She wrapped her hands around his wrists. “You could always ask me to return.”

  His brown eyes glittered in the moonlight. “And you would do it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I cannot stay away, it seems.”

  “And thank God for that,” he murmured before bending to kiss her.

  This was a gentler kiss than the ones they usually shared, a kiss of familiarity. Of welcome. To reacquaint themselves. He tasted of peppermint tea, she noted as his tongue twined lazily with hers. He kept hold of her face, her hands clasping his wrists, and she let his calm, steady presence wash over her.

  “I’m glad you returned,” he said against her mouth when they paused for breath. “Did you want to discuss your investigations?”

  Her mind properly muddled by his kisses, she clung to him. “Investigations?”

  He chuckled. “Come inside, Sir Stephen. Let us see what you’ve learned.”

  She was dressed as a man, smelled of hair pomade, and Quint did not find it deterring in the least. He didn’t bother leading her to his study. Instead, he took her through the house and led her up to his chambers. No way could he keep his hands off her, and she deserved privacy for what he had in mind.

  Her cheeks were flushed when he closed them in. Was she considering what would happen as well?

  He watched as she removed her light brown greatcoat, placing it on the bed. Her deep-blue wool topcoat had been padded in the shoulders, but otherwise molded to her lithe frame. She had the hips of a woman, but the cut of the coat helped to hide them a bit. Her long, lean legs were clearly visible in the trousers, though the brown fabric had been gathered generously about the waist, obviously to hide her more womanly curves.

  Focus, he reminded himself.

  “So your three men, the Comte de Saxe, Weston, and Tolbert,” he began. “What have you learned?”

  Sophie’s gaze sparkled as she told him about eliminating both the comte and Weston. “Which means it must be Tolbert,” she finished excitedly.

  “No, it means it may be Tolbert. Just because he was the last person to see Pamela alive does not mean he killed her. In fact, Mulrooney saw Tolbert leave that night. Alone.”

  “You read my notes,” she said, seemingly surprised.

  He walked to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. “Of course I did. You left them here. I assumed you wanted me to read them.”

  “I did. So did anything occur to you?” Sophie leaned against the bedpost. “For example, what about the man who got rough with Pamela, the one Madame would not name?”

  “Not unusual in those places. Men will often seek out what they cannot find at home. So the Pamelas of the world see things most other women do not.”

  She nibbled on her lip, and he felt his blood stir. It was becoming increasingly difficult to restrain himself around her. She was a fever in his system, and he lost all sense of reason around her. And seeing her dressed as a man tonight did little to abate his fascination.

  “So you don’t think the man is worth investigating?”

  “Possibly. It’s hard to say. Pamela was predisposed not to like that sort of thing, so she may have overreacted. My sense is that Madame would have confessed a name if she truly believed him to be a threat.”

  “I suppose that is true.”

  “Did they find any letters or keepsakes in her things?”

  “No,” Sophie answered. “None at all. Left behind her money, clothes, and a small amount of jewelry.”

  “So not running away. Which means she snuck out to meet someone, not knowing he was dangerous. Did you check with the constable, to see if her body has turned up?”

  “Madame did. And no, they’ve not found anyone fitting Pamela’s description.”

  “You could try her family, see if she wrote to any of them and mentioned a man.”

  “She wasn’t close with her family, but I could try. I still plan to watch Tolbert, to see if he’s involved.”

  An uncomfortable weight settled on his chest. “I don’t like the idea of you trailing Tolbert all over town by yourself. What do you hope to see him do, kidnap a girl, strangle her, cut off her hand, and dump her in the Thames?”

  “He won’t notice me.” She smirked. “And I don’t know what I hope to see him do. But if he is the one hurting these girls, I want to see him stopped.”

  “Sophie,” he sighed. “This is extraordinarily unsafe. I cannot allow you to put yourself—”

  “Allow me?” she snapped. “Are we back to that again?”

  He clenched his jaw. “It is one thing for you to ask questions and collect evidence. It is another thing altogether to track a potential killer in the hopes of catching him in the act.”

  “I need to observe him. I need to gather proof. Surely you can understand that.”

  Yes, he could understand it. But that did not mean he had to like it. Anything that put her in harm’s way did not sit well with him. “Maybe I will come with you.”

  Now where had that idea come from?

  Her eyes widened. “Could you?”

  He thought about it. She’d already worked one miracle with the terrace. Perhaps it was unfair to expect another. “I am not sure. Perhaps if I stay in the carriage . . . But I might very well suffer a fit—”

  “Which I’ve already said is not a problem. And I’ll be there the entire time.”

  He swallowed, nodded, and reached for her hand, seeking the connection. She was like his own personal talisman against the madness in his future. “It will likely only get worse, you know. We should not be encouraged by what happened on the terrace.”

  “Balderdash. I do not believe that.” She stepped between his legs and smoothed his hair off his forehead. “You are getting better. I know it.”

  He didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. Didn’t mention the two failed experiments he’d conducted on himself since the last time he saw her. First a salt bath, which had left him dehydrated and weaker than when he’d started. The other a poultice of bruised garlic applied to his armpits, backs of knees, and ankles. In addition to mak
ing him feel ridiculous, he’d smelled terrible. In the end, neither remedy had lessened his anxiety when he’d tried to go outside.

  He pulled Sophie closer, more than ready to distract her from this conversation. She came willingly, met his mouth in a soft, determined kiss. Her hands fell on his shoulders, while his fingers clasped about her hips. She ran the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip, then bit him gently. Pleasure and pain combined to spark in his groin. He tightened his grip, deepened the kiss, his own tongue diving inside her mouth to stroke hers.

  Before he knew it, he’d slid her topcoat off. It took little effort to divest her of the waistcoat and cravat as well. Then her hands were at his throat, untying his cravat while she continued to kiss him, her mouth wicked and warm. His erection pulsed in anticipation of tasting her again, of having Sophie naked in his bed.

  When she went to work on his waistcoat, he broke away from her mouth. “Sophie, stop.” He needed as many barriers as he could get between himself and her soon-to-be-naked body.

  “Why?” Her half-lidded eyes looked down at him. “Let me touch you, Quint.”

  God, the mere thought caused a shiver to work its way down his spine, hardening him further. “No,” he told her. “You cannot.”

  Her mouth hitched into the impish, sexy half-smile that frequently preceded deviltry on her part. “Oh, I can. And I think you want me to.” She gestured to the very obvious erection in his trousers.

  “If you touch me, I won’t be able to control myself.”

  “Perhaps I want you to lose control. The way you make me lose control.”

  “You’re nearly naked, in my bed. One of us needs to keep a level head.”

  “No, one of us does not.” Her hands reached out and slipped a few buttons on his waistcoat before he could stop her.

  He moved her back and stood. There needed to be distance between them. He’d never wanted a woman this badly. But he wanted Sophie, wanted to take her—hard. Like an animal in heat, just pure instinct and drive, where nothing mattered but desire and pleasure. The risks, however, were far too great. For one thing, he could not chance impregnating a woman with a Beecham child. To do so would be impossibly cruel.