by Joanna Shupe
Colton handed Quint an épée and dropped into one of the chairs that had been brought in. Quint stretched out his shoulders and knees, thinking. The three of them had fenced so often over the years that Quint knew exactly how the match would go. Winchester had nearly four inches on him in height, but the earl lost patience easily. Quint merely needed to remain calm and wear him down.
Winchester lunged first and a steady stream of parries and thrusts began. Quint defended him easily, barely breathing hard. Which was precisely his plan, to reserve his strength.
“How was the Portland event last evening, Colt?” Winchester asked, slashing downward with his blade.
“Uneventful. I did chat with Lady Sophia for a few moments.”
Quint’s feet faltered a bit, throwing him off balance, and he had to shift to keep Winchester’s weapon from landing a blow.
“Indeed?” Winchester continued. “Did she have anything of interest to say?”
“No. We were interrupted, and then she left with MacLean and his aunt not long after.”
Quint felt himself frown. Why would Sophie let MacLean escort her home? Did she care nothing for her reputation?
As he tried to process this, Winchester said, “She left the ball with MacLean? Are you certain?”
“Saw it myself. What, do you suppose, is that about?”
Quint grit his teeth. Drove forward. First she went riding with MacLean, now he escorted her home. The Scot was obviously courting her. So the question was, had Sophie encouraged him?
“I could not say,” Winchester answered. “Quint, you and Sophia are friends. Has she set her cap on MacLean, then?”
“No,” he snarled. He feinted left and then charged right. Winchester countered with a parry, so Quint returned with a riposte his friend was not expecting.
“Jesus, Quint,” Winchester muttered, dropping back a step as he countered.
“I hope she knows what she’s about,” Colton said. “MacLean has a string of innocents trailing behind him if the rumors are to be believed.”
Sweat rolled off Quint’s forehead. He continued to change up his attack to keep Winchester guessing. “She is not interested in MacLean,” he said, though no one had asked.
“Most likely you’re right, though I’m still confused why he did not take her directly home.”
Quint froze and Winchester’s blade nearly nicked his shoulder. Quint spun to pin Colton with a hard stare. “Where, precisely, did MacLean take her?”
“Odd, that.” Colton’s face revealed nothing. “They drove to The Pretty Kitty. MacLean went inside for a few moments, leaving Sophia and his aunt in the carriage.”
Heat suffused Quint’s entire body, as if he’d swallowed a flame. Rage burned his belly, up his throat, to the roots of his hair. “Left her in the carriage? Outside The Pretty Kitty?”
“I thought it was strange as well. I mean, what errand would MacLean have at one of O’Shea’s gaming hells that a proper lady would ride along for?”
Growling, Quint whirled and renewed his attack on Winchester. He was more furious than he’d ever been in his life. They’d had this discussion. He’d told her no more recklessness. That she was to come to him for whatever help she required—not MacLean. No one else but him, damn it.
Both men grunted, dripping with perspiration, as the blades clashed and clanged. Quint could not stop. He felt possessed, as if his body and mind had completely separated.
It was one thing to follow Tolbert, with Jenkins keeping watch. But to cavort about Town with MacLean? And what had she told MacLean about her reasons for visiting The Pretty Kitty?
The next time he saw her . . . he had no idea what he might do, but she best be prepared for anything.
“Quint!”
He paused, the shout registering in his brain. When the fog cleared, he saw that he had backed Winchester up against the wall and Colton had grabbed Quint’s arm. Panting, he lowered his weapon.
“For God’s sake, man,” Winchester breathed, leaning over to put his hands on his knees. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”
Colton gently, yet forcibly, removed the épée from Quint’s fist. “That is quite enough exercise for today.”
The moon had just disappeared behind a group of clouds when Sophie entered Quint’s gardens.
She’d had a frustrating few days. Losing Tolbert last evening at The Pretty Kitty had been a disaster. The earl had entered and snuck out the back, apparently. Which made him appear ever guiltier, in Sophie’s estimation. Had he known he was being followed? She and MacLean had kept hidden, well out of sight, so it seemed unlikely.
She planned to follow Tolbert again tonight but wanted to see Quint first. He always made her feel better. She wouldn’t stay long, just long enough to shake some of the gloom hanging over her.
Canis lumbered from around a bush, happy to see her. She reached down and scratched behind his scruffy ears. “Have you been taking care of him?” she whispered as he licked her hand. “That’s a good boy.”
No light shone through any window of the house. If it were not for the dog’s appearance outside, she might worry Quint was abed. An image flashed in her brain, of Quint, naked on his crisp white bed linens, and warmth spread from her belly up to the tips of her breasts. She’d thought about their last evening together many times. It had been . . . incredible. But it always was, every time he kissed her.
When she reached the terrace steps, she nearly tripped. Quint was there, arms folded and sitting on the balustrade, his eyes boring into her. His expression was shadowed, and the hard angle of his jaw did not move or twitch. She could feel the weight of his gaze as she climbed toward him.
“Good evening,” she said tentatively. He sat unmoving, silent. Was he upset? Angry? Ill? “Shall I come back? Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“No, you should stay,” he said, his voice oddly tight. “So we may catch up on your investigation. I want to hear every last detail of what you’ve been doing to prove Tolbert’s guilt.”
“That should not take but a minute. Finding him has proven more difficult than I imagined.”
“Really? Even when you have so much help?” He stressed the last word, and she frowned.
“I learned last evening that he would be at Portland’s affair. I followed him from there to The Pretty Kitty, but lost him. He went out the back door.”
“Just you followed him?”
“No. Lord MacLean accompanied me.”
The silence was deafening, and it suddenly dawned on Sophie. “My God, you are jealous of MacLean.”
“Do not be absurd. What I am is furious you took such a risk. Letting MacLean take you to The Pretty Kitty, staying in the carriage while he went inside. Why would that seem a good idea?”
“I had to follow Tolbert, and yet MacLean insisted on seeing me home. I had no choice but to ask MacLean to help me. And did you not say that it was unwise for me to travel into these parts of Town alone? I finally have an escort along and now you’re upset over that. Make a decision, Quint.”
“Did MacLean try anything?”
She blinked and it took a second to follow the jump in logic. “Try—oh.” She put her hands on her hips. “No, he did not try anything. We had a chaperone, you ridiculous man.”
Quint sneered. “Oh, yes. His aunt, who no doubt is elderly, quite deaf, and likely remained asleep through the entire endeavor. A superb choice.”
How had he known? Nevertheless, she had no intention of admitting it. “It hardly matters because he is not interested in me. In fact, he tells me I remind him of his sisters.”
“You do not honestly believe that drivel, do you?”
“I do happen to believe it, yes. Though it hardly matters because I am not interested in him.” She strode to the terrace steps, ready to leave and put this entire conversation behind her. “I’ll return after you’ve calmed down.” Like next month, perhaps.
When she reached the gardens, a hand on her arm spun her around. Quint’s face, hard and unyieldi
ng, glared down at her. “Do not walk away, Sophie. Not this time. You want an escort on your nighttime errands? Fine, let us go.” He gestured to the rear of the property.
“You will accompany me? In the carriage?”
“Yes,” he gritted out.
She could feel Quint vibrating, see his pulse racing at the base of his neck. He was breathing rapidly, but she wasn’t sure if that was from anger or trepidation over being out of the house. Perhaps both.
Part of her wanted to force his hand, to get him in the carriage to see what happened. But was he ready? Was she pushing him too far, too fast?
“Does the idea of me riding with Lord MacLean upset you so much?”
Instead of answering, he took a brown bottle from his waistcoat pocket. He removed the cork, brought the bottle to his lips, and swallowed the contents. As he replaced the vial to his pocket, she asked, “What was that?”
“A tincture of valerian root. I sent a footman out to procure some this afternoon.”
“I had an aunt use it once for sleeplessness. It would put her right under. Are you certain that’s wise?”
“I’m certain. Let’s go.”
Quint kept his eyes closed, his head resting on the seat back, as the carriage bounced through London. He felt little, if any, anxiety—at least not yet. Heart rate appeared to be normal. His breathing regular. He felt muddled, however, as if there were a tangle of spiderwebs in his brain.
“Are you feeling ill?”
“No,” he answered. “The tincture is working.”
“Or perhaps you do not need it.”
“We shall see.” He had wanted to ride without ingesting the herb first. It was imperative to find a long-term solution that did not rely on valerian root, orange water, laudanum, alcohol, or anything else that would dull his senses over time. He needed to find a way to calm his mind without herbs or spirits.
He’d just been . . . desperate. The idea of her and MacLean out about Town had been more than he could handle. So he’d latched on to a temporary cure in order to accompany her. He just hoped he wouldn’t be required to do any calculations or answer deep philosophical questions along the way.
Sophie, in Sir Stephen’s attire, shifted in her seat, the sound of her clothing whispering over Quint’s skin. Fortunate he had his eyes closed; the sight of her in trousers—showing off her long legs and taut buttocks—never failed to stir his blood. He was anxiously awaiting the ride home. The effects of the tincture would wear off by then, he hoped.
“Why are we going to Covent Garden?” he asked her. Though he couldn’t see, he’d been tracking the turns. By his estimation, they had just left Piccadilly.
“Word from Tolbert’s valet is the man planned to visit White’s, then Madame Hartley’s. I plan to get to Madame’s first and wait inside. That way, I’ll not lose him again.”
“You are wasting your time. As I said, based on my observation of him, I cannot see how Tolbert is your killer.”
“I believe you are wrong,” she said. He could imagine her lifting her chin as she continued. “He was the last person to see Pamela alive. Did he force her to sneak out and meet him? Did he drug her and slip her out the back, then walk out the front door as if nothing happened?”
Quint snorted. “The latter would require a heavy dose of luck. The upper floor at Madame’s is well-trafficked and there is a guard at the back door. The chance that Tolbert could accomplish a kidnapping and not be seen is extraordinary.”
“I did not realize you were so well acquainted with the inner workings of Madame’s establishment.”
The ire in her voice had him smirking. “Jealous, Lady Sophia?”
She said nothing.
He disliked her silences. She was rarely quiet, which was one of the things he appreciated most about her. It was as if she brought life wherever she went. “To be clear,” he said, pushing for a reaction, “I paid for services twice, once at the age of eighteen and again at the age of twenty. The first was a brunette named Beth, who had a trick she did with her tongue where—”
“Quint!”
Though his eyes remained firmly shut, he pictured Sophie’s indignant embarrassment. He grinned. “I did pull both Colton and Winchester out of there a time or two over the years as well. But tonight I think I’ll stay in the carriage.”
“Are you certain? I do not know how long you’ll be waiting. You should return home—”
“No, it’s not safe for you to be here on your own.”
“You forget that I’ve been doing this for a year. I can take care of myself.”
“And you forget that I have recently sewn a rather large gash in your leg. I’d rather not repeat that exercise any time soon. If you need me, have Mulrooney fetch me.”
“You are just worried I’ll ask MacLean for help again,” she said, amusement in her voice, as the carriage slowed. “We’re nearly there. I’ll return when I can. Then we’ll follow Tolbert and see where he goes.”
Chapter Eighteen
“That’s another two shillings, Sir Stephen.”
Sophie grimaced. She’d been playing whist for over an hour, her partner an older viscount who had trouble keeping track of the cards. As a result, Sir Stephen had already lost five pounds to their opponents. Good thing she had a sizable amount of pin money saved up. Sir Stephen’s habits were deuced expensive.
She’d chatted briefly with Madame for a few moments when she’d first arrived. Madame was deeply concerned over Pamela’s death. The idea that one of her girls had been killed so brutally did not sit well with the proprietress. Sophie assured her the man responsible would be held accountable.
Just as soon as she could prove it.
Sophie was studying the cards in her hand when she heard a voice say, “Can we get in a game?”
No, it couldn’t be. Her head snapped up. Robert and another man were standing by her table, expectant expressions on their faces. Her hands clenched in her lap, her body frozen. Before she could move or decide what to do, two of the men at her table agreed to get up, including her partner. Hellfire.
Robert sat across from her, his friend to her left. “The Earl of Reddington,” Robert said by way of introduction. “I do not believe we’ve met before.”
“Sir Stephen Radcliff,” she mumbled, trying to keep her face averted. The spectacles would fool most people, but Robert knew her intimately. Very intimately. It would be unwise to let him get a good, close look at her.
The cards were dealt and the bidding began. Sophie kept her cards in front of her face. Robert seemed more interested in drinking than the play, which suited Sophie just fine. His friend was not unknown to her, but only as a casual acquaintance, and the two newcomers chatted as the play progressed.
The years had been kinder to Robert than she’d hoped. He was still fairly attractive, with his smoky blue eyes and dimpled chin. A lock of his short, dark hair fell over his forehead as if by accident, though she knew it had been deliberately styled to appear that way.
When the talk turned to women, Sophie ground her teeth.
“Reddington, who’ve you got in mind for tonight? That pretty blonde last week was a right handful. You should try her.”
“I haven’t decided.” He finished his brandy and waved his empty glass at a footman for more. “Perhaps I ought to take two tonight.”
Two women at once?
“In the mood for something a bit spirited, eh?”
“Always.” Sophie saw Robert grin out of the corner of her eye. “I have to make the most of London while I’m here. God knows there’s no fun to be had in Wales.” The two men droned on, both clearly soused, and Sophie tuned them out. She did not care to hear Robert bemoan the realities of the life he’d specifically chosen.
Ladies should not enjoy it so much.
A perverse satisfaction coursed through her at learning Robert’s marriage was not a happy one. Not to mention a healthy dose of relief that she hadn’t ended up tethered to him for life. They were clearly mismatched
in every way.
The right man would get down on his knees and thank the heavens you were in his bed. A lump of emotion formed in her throat. Quint preferred her enthusiasm. He encouraged her not to hold back, not to try and pretend.
And he’d been as desperate for her as she for him. She liked knowing she could make him lose control. By the look in his eyes earlier when she’d arrived dressed as Sir Stephen, no doubt this evening would be a spirited one as well.
“. . . a virgin’s hardly worth the time,” she heard Robert’s friend say, catching her attention.
“Not true,” Robert said, his voice a trifle too loud. “You just have to know how to handle them.”
“You make the girl sound like a horse.”
“Precisely.”
Sophie’s blood began to boil, her ears turning hot. Trying to stay calm, she played her card and then took a sip of her watered-down whisky.
“All women,” Robert went on, “need a man’s firm hand to guide them. To show them how to express their passion. One must slip the bridle on carefully in order to ride her.”
“And what bridle would that be, your pump handle?” Both of them snickered, and Sophie curled her fingernails into her thighs. She’d heard bawdy talk before, but this was different. This was hateful. And it made her want to smack the drunken smirk off Robert’s face.
“If need be,” Robert answered. “Women leave my bed wearing grins, that’s for sure.”
“If that’s the case, then why did I see the fair Lady Sophia give your foot a good stomping the other night?”
Sophie’s ears started ringing, her body vibrating with fear and anger. If he so much as dared . . .
“She’ll take a bit more coaxing, is all. But I know how to handle that one. She’ll be begging for it before too long. After all, I’ve had her—”