by Joanna Shupe
“There he is, my lord,” Jenkins said from the driver’s seat.
Sophie jerked, realizing she’d nodded off. Shaking herself, she flung open the carriage door and stepped out. A boy with a shock of red hair ran by. She called, “Red!”
The boy halted. “Evenin’, guv. You still ’ere?”
“I’m . . . leaving now.” Her tongue felt thick, uncoordinated. “What’ve you got there?” She pointed to the paper in his hand.
“A note.”
“From O’Shea?”
He glanced around nervously. “It might be.”
“Where’re you taking it to?” Her words were slurring. And she was so tired.
“Whitehall.”
Sophie blinked. Whitehall? Why would O’Shea be sending a note up to someone in Whitehall?
“Thanks, Red.” She thrust a handful of coins at him. “You ever need t’ find me, ’member, ask for Alice at the Marquess of Ardington’s house in Berkeley Share—I mean, Square. She’ll know how t’ get me. Be off with you, now.”
The boy pocketed the coins and took off at a run. Sophie hoisted herself back into the carriage—but slipped on the step, nearly hitting the ground. She tried again. The second time proved a success and she fell onto the seat with a sigh. Closing her eyes, she decided to nap on the way home.
Quint could scarcely believe it. Inside the carriage, Sir Stephen was sprawled on the seat, asleep, and reeking of whisky. “Damnation,” he muttered.
“Came out of The Black Queen half seas over, my lord,” Jenkins said. “I thought you might want to help me get him inside. Not sure I could handle it myself.”
Annoyance and anger rushed through Quint’s veins, so much so that his hands were shaking. Why had she gone out without him? And to The Black Queen, of all places. The last time she’d been there, she’d nearly been stabbed on the street, for God’s sake. What was wrong with her?
“Thank you, Jenkins. I’ll help you get him inside the marquess’s town house. Let’s go.” Before I change my mind.
He folded himself into the carriage, too furious with Sophie to be bothered at the idea of taking a short trip. Besides, he’d wanted to try a ride without ingesting the tincture; well, here was his opportunity. He sat and lifted Sophie into his arms, settling her in his lap. The smell of spirits was strong, and he wondered why she would’ve allowed herself to get soused in a gaming hell. Did she care nothing for her safety?
His teeth were clenched, but it had nothing to do with the ride. Sophie was the most stubborn, irritating, headstrong—
She stirred, curling into his chest and pressing her face against his throat. “Damien,” she breathed, then made a purring noise. “I knew I’d find you.”
“Did you?” he asked, dryly. “Had the entire evening all planned out?”
“No,” she answered, serious. “Nothing ever goes as planned. Never expected to see O’Shea.”
Quint stiffened. O’Shea. She’d seen James O’Shea. Cold, icy fear slid through him, his heart thumping hard. “What did O’Shea want, Sophie?”
“He made me drink. God, that stuff tastes terrible.”
“Yes, it does,” he agreed, though he’d never shared a drink with O’Shea. He had enough sense never to find himself in such a predicament. Reining in the emotion churning in his gut, he forced himself to remain calm. “What else did he want, Sophie?”
“Told me to stay out of his part of town.” She started kissing his neck. He hadn’t worn a cravat and she was able to cover a lot of ground in a short amount of time.
“Stop that. Why did O’Shea tell you to stay out of his clubs?”
She bit him gently and sucked hard, no doubt leaving a mark on his skin. The sensation went straight to his shaft, which had already perked up the moment she’d sat on his lap. But he needed to talk to her. He tried to shift her away from him. “Sophie, concentrate.”
“I cannot, not when you’re here. You smell divine.” She dragged her nose along his jaw. “I want to lick you.”
A shiver slid down his spine and settled in his bollocks. His voice sounding strangled, he said, “Later, kotyonok. Tell me what happened with O’Shea.”
“Russian is my favorite,” she said on a sigh.
“Sophie,” he snapped. “O’Shea.”
She waved a drunken hand as if the revelation was of no concern. “He said I was talking to the girls instead of fucking them. Such a rude word. Fuck.”
Quint closed his eyes, struggled for control. He was fully erect beneath her bottom. It would take some doing, but he could strip off her trousers and—
He shook himself. Get a hold of yourself, man. She was intoxicated, and he had no business making love to a woman in such a condition.
“O’Shea knew you were asking questions of his girls?”
“Indeed, he did. Knows all, that one.” She shifted, throwing a knee on either side of him, straddling his waist, her core now resting on top of his cock. He groaned. “Told me to stop looking for Tolbert, too. Said if I didn’t, he’d hand me over to his boys.”
Quint sucked in a breath. That meant... “He knew you were a woman?”
“Yes,” she hissed, dragging out the word as she rocked her hips over him. “Mmm, you feel so good, Damien. You’re hard where I’m soft.”
Horror and desire warred inside his body. He wanted to lock her away to keep her safe. And he wanted to bend her over the opposite seat and make her scream his name.
She leaned forward and kissed him, her tongue lapping and nipping at his lips. “Kiss me, Damien.”
He turned his head. If he started, they’d never stop. Not to mention the carriage had slowed. “We’re here,” he told her. “I need to help you inside.”
“No, I need to help you inside.” She dragged her hips over him once again, leaving no doubt to her meaning. Her fingers started for his trouser buttons, but he grabbed her hands, stilling them.
“Not here.” He took a few deep breaths, trying to control the inferno raging inside him. How did she manage it so quickly?
“We’ve arrived, my lord,” Jenkins called from outside.
Quint shifted Sophie so he could carry her. Jenkins opened the door and Quint slowly stepped to the ground. His heart kicked hard, a ringing beginning in his ears. Could he do this? Then Sophie wrapped her arms about his neck and started nibbling on his earlobe, which made him forget all about his unfamiliar surroundings. His legs wobbled as he entered the gardens behind the Barnes town house.
“Quit that,” he whispered. “Someone will see you.”
“I don’t care,” she said but then stopped, putting her head on his shoulder. “I love you.”
Quint nearly dropped her, his body going slack in surprise. Had—had he heard her correctly? She loved him? As in, loved him? Panic of an altogether different sort clogged his throat. He’d never expected it. Never thought . . . Didn’t she have more sense than to fall in love with a man half-cracked?
He thought back to his mother, standing over his father’s bedside, weeping, as the viscount screamed during one of his many bloodletting treatments. Quint had watched from the corridor, terrified. She’d come out to hug him, saying, We must do everything we can to help your father, Damien.
That will not be me, he had vowed. And definitely not Sophie. He would not allow it to happen. When he finally tumbled over the cliffs of madness, he would do it without hesitation—and completely alone.
Winchester had been right; Quint was a disappointment. Sophie had given him something precious, something he had absolutely no right to accept, and he’d taken it without thought to the consequences. Now their . . . friendship had gone too far, and he had no choice but to do the honorable thing. She might not understand at first, but eventually she would come to see reason. No woman should be tethered to a lunatic.
He glanced down and saw she’d fallen asleep. Or lost consciousness, to be precise. Alice, Sophie’s maid, hurried out from the servants’ door. “Here, my lord,” she called softly. “Bring her
this way.”
He followed the maid through the dark kitchens and up the narrow set of servants’ stairs. Once they were indoors, his anxiety lessened somewhat. There were no other servants about as they continued up the two flights and began the long walk to Sophie’s bedchamber. He just hoped they did not run into any member of the family.
Alice opened the door and he slipped inside. Sophie’s chamber was . . . unexpected. Decorated in pink and white, there were ruffles and bows each way you turned. The femininity seemed incongruous with her personality, especially considering her current garb.
He placed her on top of the bed and stepped back. “Thank you, my lord,” Alice said. “Is she hurt?”
“No. Merely soused. She’ll have a terrible headache in the morning. I have a remedy—”
“As do I, my lord,” the maid said, lifting her chin. He’d momentarily forgotten how proprietary Sophie’s maid was toward her charge. “Now if your lordship will excuse us.”
“Of course.” With one last glance at Sophie, he walked out, his heart feeling much heavier than an adult man’s usual eleven ounces.
Chapter Twenty
Sophie squinted against the gray midday light filtering through the carriage window. It even hurt to blink. God, her head ached, a constant throb behind her temples. Never, ever would she ingest spirits again.
Parts of last night were fuzzy, but she remembered most of her conversation with O’Shea. He’d warned her away from his establishments, said he knew she was Lady Sophia, and sent a missive to Whitehall. The last was indeed interesting. Whom did O’Shea know in Whitehall? It made little sense that the king of London’s underworld should correspond with anyone in the government.
She also recalled a bit of Quint on the ride home. He’d appeared out of nowhere, holding her close and letting her kiss him. She had a vague recollection of telling him she wanted to lick him. The tips of her ears grew hot. He must think her completely wanton.
Not that Quint hadn’t encouraged such behavior in the past. He seemed to like her aggressiveness, if memory served.
No time to think on that. She and Alice were waiting to trail Lord Tolbert. Since Sophie would not be able to return to O’Shea’s establishments any time soon, she decided to watch Tolbert during the day. Which meant dressing as herself and dragging her maid along. Propriety was nothing but a nuisance.
Currently they were in a hackney down the street from Tolbert’s lodgings. She did not expect to see him yet; gentlemen were hardly seen before the early evening. But she could not risk missing him again.
She’d just closed her eyes to rest a moment when Alice shook her arm. “My lady! There he is!”
Lids flying open, Sophie watched as Tolbert strode down his steps and into a waiting carriage. She instructed their driver to follow, promising double his fare if they did not lose the other vehicle. They set off and it became clear that Tolbert was headed toward the docks. Sophie’s heart began pounding with anticipation.
Finally, Tolbert’s carriage pulled to a halt outside a small row of shops. She lost sight of him for a brief moment in some traffic, but then caught the top of his beaver hat as he entered a pawnbroker’s shop.
“What do you suppose he’s doing in there?” she wondered aloud.
“Likely selling off the family silver, if his lordship’s debts are to be believed, my lady,” Alice answered.
Sophie remembered the ring Pamela had owned, the silver ring with paste emeralds. If Tolbert had killed those girls, it would stand to reason he would sell off whatever meager possessions the women had worn at the time, if any. Did the jewelry have anything to do with severing the right hand of the victims? Excitement swelled in her chest. She was close to catching him, she could feel it.
Tolbert returned to his carriage ten minutes later. “Shall we follow, miss?” her driver asked.
“No,” she called back. “Wait here.” She reached for the handle.
“Where do you think you’re going, my lady?” Alice said sharply behind her. “Your ladyship cannot step inside a shop such as that.”
Sophie waved a hand. “And who will know in this part of town? No one will see me.”
“It is highly improper.”
“Alice, if we wrote a list of everything improper that I’ve done in the last year, this would not even qualify for the first ten.” She quirked an eyebrow, and Alice sighed.
“I’ll accompany you,” the maid said, and the two of them stepped out of the carriage.
The bell over the door of the shop clanged when they entered. There were glass cases lining nearly every wall, each filled with bric-a-brac that had been either stolen and fenced or sold in desperation. It proved a depressing atmosphere, in Sophie’s opinion.
A short, older man with thin hair and spectacles stepped out of a back room. “Good morning, ladies. How may I be of assistance?”
Sophie lowered the hood of her cloak and stepped to the nearest case, placing her reticule on top. With her expensive clothing and cultured voice, no doubt he would pin her as a lady of quality. She hoped that did not influence his willingness to impart information. Very few men took women seriously, which was why she’d started dressing as Sir Stephen in the first place. “Good morning, Mr. . . . ?”
“Benjamin, my lady. I am Mr. Benjamin, the owner. How may we help your ladyship?”
“I am looking for a ring, Mr. Benjamin. A very specific ring that a friend of mine has lost recently. It’s a silver band with green stones set in the shape of a shamrock. Have you seen one like it?”
“Not recently, no, my lady. But perhaps your ladyship’d be interested in this amethyst ring in the shape of a heart.” He reached toward a case and began to unlock it.
“No, thank you, Mr. Benjamin. I am quite interested in finding my friend’s ring. Are you certain no one has brought it in recently?”
His prodigious forehead wrinkled. “No, I am certain, your ladyship. Everything passes through my hands and I have not seen such a ring.”
If he was lying, she could not tell. She opened her reticule and pulled out a shilling and slid it across the counter, keeping her finger on it. Avarice lit his gaze as he reached for the coin. She did not release it, however. “I will gladly remove my finger if you give me one more piece of information. That man who just left, what was his business here?”
“His lordship?” His expression turned calculating. “It’ll cost your ladyship more than a shilling.”
“Now, see here—” Alice started, but Sophie put a hand on her arm. “How many?” she asked the pawnbroker.
“Three shillings.”
Alice sputtered, but Sophie returned to her reticule. She pulled out the two additional coins, holding them in her palm. “Fine. Three shillings.”
“His lordship sold a necklace. Ruby. Quite lovely.”
“May I see it?”
“Beg your ladyship’s pardon, but I’m not sure that’s good business. If all my customers—”
Sophie reached once again into her reticule and found another coin. “Four shillings. And I will hand them over when I see the necklace.”
He paused, then hurried to the back. When he reappeared, he held a small velvet case, which he presented to her. It was a thin gold necklace with one large ruby surrounded by smaller stones. “That is nearly two carats worth of rubies, your ladyship.”
“Thank you, sir—”
The bell over the door chimed. “Benjamin, I forgot—”
Sophie spun and blinked at Tolbert, who had stopped just inside the door, his expression reflecting his surprise at her presence. He removed his beaver hat and bowed while she searched for something to say.
“Lady Sophia.” He drew closer. “I wouldn’t expect to find you in a shop such as this, especially in this part of town. Were you buying today?” He leaned a hip against the glass case, watching her speculatively.
“Merely browsing. I lost a bracelet not far from here last week and thought Mr. Benjamin might have seen it.” She was relieved
to see that the pawnbroker had removed any evidence of the ruby necklace.
“Is that so?” Tolbert looked to the other man, then back to her, his expression wary. “Any luck in locating it?”
“No. Sadly, I fear my bracelet is lost forever.”
“Pity.”
A tense silence descended. No one moved, and the situation rapidly turned awkward. Sophie got the distinct impression that Tolbert would not go first. With no other choice, she said to Mr. Benjamin, “If the bracelet turns up, contact me at once.”
“Of course, my lady,” the pawnbroker replied, wiping his brow with a scrap of cloth.
“Lady Sophia,” Tolbert said with a nod.
“Good afternoon, Lord Tolbert.”
Legs shaking, Sophie breezed out of the shop, Alice behind her, and hurried to the hired carriage.
A knock sounded and Canis rose abruptly from the floor at Quint’s side. Quint’s hand shot out to stroke the dog’s head, reassuring the animal, while his eyes remained on his section of code. “Yes, Taylor?”
Taylor and Vander, the valet, entered the study. Quint’s eyes narrowed. Hadn’t he specifically told Taylor that he did not want to see—
“Pardon the interruption, my lord, but we would like a moment of your time.”
Was the valet here to complain about the nonexistent demands of his schedule? As far as Quint knew, all the man did was remain below stairs and polish boots. Taylor had been adamant about hiring a valet, and Quint had reluctantly given in—but it did not mean he needed a nursemaid hovering about at all hours. “Yes?”
Taylor cleared his throat—a nervous gesture, Quint knew from observation—and stepped into the room. “Vander has shared with me a theory that I believe your lordship might find interesting.”
“Is that so?” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
Vander followed, staying behind Taylor, and Quint studied him. The man was big. At least two inches over six feet and about sixteen stone. He had black hair, clipped short, no facial hair, and the darker skin of those of Indian descent. First step taken with his left foot, so left-handed, then.