Deeper in Sin

by Sharon Page

  She must please him. Desperately, she tried to remember exactly what he’d done to her. Delicious things with his tongue. Some rough things. Gentle teasing things.

  At the ball, she had seen the woman’s mouth at the man’s groin, and she was sure his entire erection was inside the woman’s mouth.

  She must have been wrong. That had to be impossible.

  She flicked her tongue around the head. Was she making him feel pleasure? Or was she doing everything all wrong? All she could do was explore and try and, well . . . pray.

  Cary thrust his hips.

  Obediently, she opened her mouth wider and took him in, cheeks hollowing.

  His hips pumped, lifting off the bed rhythmically to drive his erection into her mouth.

  Ah, that was what he wanted. Cushioning her mouth around him, she tried sucking him in deeper. Just a bit. Then a bit more.

  She slid up on him, then starting bobbing her head—

  “Sophie, what in blazes?”

  The duke’s raspy voice startled her. So much, she almost forgot what she was doing, and she scraped him.

  Now she saw he was awake, his blue eyes wide with surprise. He stared down at her, where his shaft vanished into her mouth.

  She kept bobbing.

  “No,” he said abruptly. He cupped her cheeks, lifted her off him so she had to release his cock. “You were supposed to behave yourself.”

  She flushed with embarrassment. “Is pleasuring you so very wrong?”

  A look of agony shot over his face. “It is when I ask you not to do it.”

  She hung her head, her cheek pressed against his palm. “You were sleeping. I suppose I did play a dirty trick.”

  A soft, rough laugh came from him.

  She looked up. “I only wanted to help you. How could naughty pleasure not make you feel better? I should think it would take your mind off things.”

  He shoved back his tangled blond hair. “It’s more complicated than that, love.”

  “How is it—?”

  A sharp knock on the duke’s door made her choke on her sentence.

  Someone was going to come in—the valet or the butler or a maid for the fire?

  “Aak!” she squealed. She gripped the counterpane and tried to scramble underneath it.

  “The door’s locked,” Cary reminded her calmly.

  “And Penders—or whoever—will wonder why.”

  Since she was going to become a courtesan, why was she worried?

  Protecting her reputation was instinct. One she had to forget.

  “Stay calm and quiet,” the duke said. He raised his hoarse voice. “What is it?”

  “It—it is the Duke of Saxonby, Your Grace.” Penders, who had perfect, somewhat snooty butler tones last night, now sounded shaky and afraid. “He has come with a magistrate from Bow Street. They asked to speak with you. They have insisted that it is an urgent matter.”

  “The magistrate is here?” Raw panic hit her.

  “Sophie, what is it?”

  She realized Cary was looking at her strangely. His eyes narrowed. His mouth became hard and grim. “You look afraid,” he said. “Is there any reason a magistrate would want you?”

  Oh God, she’d made him suspicious.

  But if the magistrate had come for her, she was doomed. Should she tell him exactly what had happened with Lord Devars and beg Cary for any understanding and mercy he could spare?

  Her lips moved—

  Sound wouldn’t come out.

  She couldn’t do it. She could not tell him. Not what she’d had to do to escape Lord Devars and rent a cottage for Belle and the children, then provide them with food and buy herself a gown so she could get a protector.

  He would know she had been a thief.

  He would never trust her. She would have absolutely no chance with him then.

  The last thing she could do was be honest with him.

  She shook her head so hard, it made her dizzy. “No. No, I don’t know why he would be here.”

  He looked at her for endless minutes while she fought fear.

  Finally, Cary shouted. “I will come.” It sounded like such a strain on his voice when he raised it. He winced, touching his bruised jaw. “You stay here,” he instructed.

  Sophie nodded, but her heart was in her throat.

  Could she really just wait there in his bed while the magistrate might be telling him about her crime? While they might be plotting her arrest?

  Cary grabbed a robe, intending to throw it on quickly. But his body had stiffened up after last night. Laudanum and protective shock had worn off. It had been easy to forget pain last night, when he was struggling with bigger demons—and when he’d been wrapped up in sexual delights with Sophie.

  Now he was aware of how his every muscle ached.

  Cary had chosen a heavy brocade banyan—something sturdy enough to cover his huge, throbbing erection. He stood with it draped over his arm, his body locked in a spasm of pain. He rubbed his leg, wincing at the tenderness.

  White as a sheet, Sophie came to him. She took the robe and helped him put it on without saying a thing. When she’d heard the word “magistrate,” she’d turned pale as the moon. She was afraid. And obviously not giving him the truth.

  Last night, he’d gone to a Cyprian Ball to conquer his inability to make love. Since then—since he had encountered Sophie—he had been driven wild with sexual frustration for a woman who seemed innocent but claimed she wasn’t. He had been attacked by three men, had been beaten to a pulp, and now had a mysterious visit from the magistrate.

  Either Sophie was destined to bring him a hell of a lot of bad luck, or there was more to her than met the eye.

  He paused at his door before leaving. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” he asked.

  And watched her face go stark white again.

  “No,” she said slowly. “Why would there be? Everything I told you is the truth.”

  Hell, he didn’t know whether to believe her.

  By the time he reached his study, Cary had assessed a dozen reasons why the men might be here.

  That was battle training. In minutes—moments—he could invent dozens of scenarios and their possible outcomes. He’d developed the skill in Ceylon, where the army had often been ambushed.

  But when he walked into the room, he laid aside all his speculation. In this situation, he had to listen—he couldn’t go in with preconceptions.

  But he couldn’t push aside one nagging question—was Sophie the reason the men were here?

  This couldn’t be related to the attack last night, as he’d had no time to tell anyone about it. The only people who knew were his servants, Sophie, and the men who had attacked him.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. What brings you here at this ungodly morning hour?” Cary drawled, taking in the scene.

  A gray-haired gentleman sat in one of the leather club chairs positioned in front of the fire, where a good blaze burned. Saxonby stood at the window, looking out of the rear gardens. Sax’s hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders set stiffly. Cary’s house occupied the corner of Park Lane and Upper Brook Street, and possessed reasonable grounds for a London house. But he suspected Sax wasn’t looking at the gardens.

  Caradon had been friends with Sax since they were both boys. Sax could hide things well, but Cary knew the signs. His friend was deeply worried.

  Now Cary noticed a third man who stood in the corner of the room, running his fingers over the books on the shelves. This man was younger than Cary, tall and dark haired, with stubble shadowing a square jaw. He wore a belligerent sneer.

  The magistrate stood at once and gave a quick bow. “Your Grace, very good of you to make yourself available—” The man’s words stopped abruptly. He blinked in surprise.

  It was Saxonby who burst out with the obvious question: “What in hell happened to you last night?”

  “I was attacked by footpads,” Cary answered. “Three of them. Apparently, I’m getting old,
because they disarmed me, got me onto the ground, and swarmed me.” He spoke lightly, but he carefully watched each of the men. As he’d surmised, that wasn’t the reason they were here.

  “That must be the explanation,” Sax said, turning to the magistrate. “He was with the woman, and they were both attacked.”

  “And he left her there,” sneered the dark-haired man.

  “Look, my head was knocked around by a few boots last night,” Cary said. He turned one of the chairs in front of his desk to face the three men. His body ached too much to let him remain standing. “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about. I was with a woman. But she accompanied me home, along with my coachman, when I passed out.”

  “Passed out?” The magistrate scrubbed his jaw.

  “Convenient,” muttered the other man.

  “I beg your pardon,” Cary snapped, irritated. “I didn’t catch your name.” Nor did he know the name of the magistrate. “Would you mind telling me why you are here?”

  “Apologies, Your Grace,” the magistrate said hastily. “This is John Rycroft, one of the best Bow Street Runners. I am Sir Henry Clemont.” The magistrate made a circular motion with his hand to the Runner, obviously requesting a bow.

  Rycroft still looked belligerent. He gave a fast, perfunctory bow.

  “The nature of your business?” Cary prompted.

  Clemont plucked out a large linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. “The body of a young woman was discovered this morning in the mews directly behind your house, Your Grace.”

  Cary shoved up from his chair. A familiar feeling hit him—sickening horror, cold shock, sorrow.

  “Huddled in a corner at the end of your rear wall, she is,” the Runner said, picking up the story. Hatred and accusation burned coldly in his eyes. “Given my experience with dead bodies—with bodies that came to that end violently—I would say she’s been dead for a few hours.”

  “There is a woman dead in my mews?” Had he heard this right, or had the blows last night knocked his brain loose?

  He looked to Saxonby, who answered, “Yes, Caradon. There is.”

  Cary turned back to the magistrate. “You are saying she was killed violently. That she was murdered?”

  Rycroft answered. “Aye, she was killed violently. Head caved in.”

  The Runner was succinct. Cary suspected his earlier, roundabout way of expressing himself had been deliberate—to make people say things that incriminated them. Because one look at the Runner’s face told Cary that the man believed he had killed this woman.

  “You brought a woman home for some fun,” Rycroft went on. “What happened? Did she change her mind? Charge you too much? So you lost your temper with her and smashed her head in.”

  “Rycroft, His Grace is a hero of war,” the magistrate said nervously.

  “Nothing stands in the way of justice for me,” the Runner responded quietly. “His Grace admits to bringing the woman here.”

  “Not the one you are talking about,” Cary said. “My woman is still very much alive. And I had nothing to do with the murder of this other woman.”

  Rycroft sneered. “And I suppose you sent your trollop home safely, Your Grace?”

  “She is still here, and she is not a trollop. Speaking of which—the murdered girl’s body is still there?”

  The Runner watched his face. Intently. “It’s not the prettiest of sights, Your Grace.”

  “I know how horrific and pitiable the sight of a murdered young woman is. I experienced it in Ceylon during the uprising.”

  Cary had dealt with a girl’s murder in Ceylon. There he had known who the killer was—one of his soldiers. The man had raped and strangled a young Ceylonese woman.

  “I came to you, Your Grace,” Sir Henry said, “in the hopes you might have some knowledge as to how this young woman came to be behind your house last night.”

  He realized Sir Henry was nervous about accusing a duke of murder.

  “I do not know anything about a young woman. I have no idea who she is or why she would be there—” He broke off. “It’s possible she was a servant. At my house or at one of the others—the mews serves two streets. All the houses have many maids on staff—”

  It could have been a girl who worked in his house. Damnation. His gut ached with shock and horror.

  Cary strode to the bellpull and yanked it several times.

  Penders arrived within moments. “Your Grace?”

  “Are any of the maids or female servants missing?”

  “Missing, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, missing, damn it. Not accounted for.”

  “The female staff are generally under the charge of Mrs. Kilpatrick.”

  The housekeeper. “Send her here. At once.”

  “Maybe you might be willing to trouble yourself to have a look at her,” Rycroft said. “See if you recognize her.”

  “I do not know every servant in this household. Not the female ones.” Those issues used to go to his mother. Up until this winter, when she had gotten so ill.

  “Don’t you? Would have thought all peers knew which young, pretty girls they had in their houses.”

  “So she was . . . pretty?” Cary asked.

  “Assume she was. Though there’s so little left of her face, it’s hard to tell,” Rycroft said casually.

  Mrs. Kilpatrick, a woman with graying hair who had worked for his family since starting as a maid, walked in through the open door. According to her, all the female servants were accounted for. They had shown up for their duties as expected that morning.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That is all for now.”

  After the housekeeper left, Cary said, “Let me see the girl. Let me see if I know her.”

  “Would you admit to it if you do, Your Grace?” the Runner asked, impertinently. “Knowing how much your sort hates any kind of a scandal, you might claim you don’t know her. Identifying her is an important thing. Even if just to tell her family what’s happened to her.”

  “I am aware of that,” Cary snapped. “You will get the truth from me.”

  He saw Sax flinch at his angry tone.

  “I had nothing to do with this woman’s death,” he repeated. He didn’t expect them to believe him, but he had to at least say it.

  “It’s known you went through a great deal of torture when you were held as a prisoner by the heathens in Ceylon,” Rycroft said. “Might have made you snap—”

  “I did not snap. Not even while I was being tortured,” Cary said, forcing the hot anger out of his voice. Time to sound icy and autocratic, like his father. “Let us discuss some of the facts,” he continued, his voice as cold as a glacier. “You believe the woman has been dead for a few hours. When do you think she was murdered?”

  “We do not yet have a definitive idea, Your Grace,” Rycroft said. “It’s an estimation. Perhaps three o’clock in the morning. Or perhaps earlier.”

  He had been with Sophie every moment since he had encountered her with the Marquis of Halwell at the Cyprian Ball.

  Cary strode to the door. “What are you waiting for? Take me to her.”

  “In your robe, Your Grace?” Rycroft asked.

  “Bugger it. Yes, in my robe. I don’t give a damn what I am dressed in.”

  Rain streamed down. In London, spring rain was cold, bone-chilling, and went right through you to freeze your soul. It was a reminder he was at home in England, and not in Ceylon where the rain would be warm and sultry.

  Cary grabbed umbrellas from his footmen. Even with the cover, his banyan quickly soaked up the rain. The bottom six inches of it got coated in mud as he strode down his rear lawn, then headed out through the gate to the lane of mud and horse dung along the mews. A young Runner stood there, guarding the body.

  Pale didn’t describe the young man of the law. The lad was even whiter than Sophie had been, his pallor tinged with green. “Go up to the house,” Cary suggested to the lad. “Go to the kitchen at the back and tell Cook the duke has aske
d her to make you a cup of tea.” In the army, he had dealt with many horrified young men.

  The lad looked grateful, then sobered and glanced to the magistrate.

  “Do as His Grace says, lad,” Sir Henry said.

  Cary walked over to the body. Saxonby followed, his expression grim. Cary squatted down, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Then he knew why he was confused.

  She was lying curled up, and he had been trying to locate her head. But Rycroft was right. This girl had been bludgeoned in a vicious way, and what remained of her head made him sick. Even after he’d been on a battlefield and had seen men decapitated by cannon fire.

  The young woman had dark hair. Blood and dirt coated her gown, but it was a pink silk. It was hard to judge what she looked like. The gown indicated she was not one of his maids.

  The dress looked familiar.

  He studied her mashed face while his gut roiled.

  Now he knew. She was the girl who had been at the Cyprian ball. Sally, the one who had argued with Angelique and who had run when her skirt was torn.

  How had she ended up here?

  He looked up at Saxonby, who had also squatted to get a better look. His friend had put his hand over his mouth and looked as if he wanted to hurl the contents of his stomach.

  “I’ve seen worse on the battlefield,” Cary said. “Do you recognize her? She was at the Cyprian ball.”

  “And what—followed you home?” Sax asked.

  “The last I saw her, she was leaving in a carriage. She had a protector and had no interest in me.”

  Cary straightened, and Rycroft stalked over to him. “You thought she was a maid. I didn’t disabuse you of that, Your Grace,” the Runner said. “But the truth be told, that lass is no maid.”

  “No, she is not. She is a courtesan.”

  “You knew her. Is she the woman you left with?”

  “No.” He related what little he knew about the woman—the fight between her and Angelique at the Cyprian ball. The fact that he had seen the girl leave in a carriage bought for her by Viscount Willington.