by Sharon Page
I had fought too long and too hard in my life to be forced to submit to such a hateful man. I reached out and gripped the lip of a porcelain vase now filled with fading roses. Letting out a scream of exertion, I lifted it, swung it, and slammed it into the head of my arrogant rapist of a marquis.
The fine china shattered against his head, slicing into his temple and cheek. Water sloshed over him.
“You bitch!” he shouted. His fist rose, for like all cowards, he was quite happy to hurt a fragile woman.
But suddenly, he was torn away from me.
It was my viscount. My rescuer and my beloved marquis. “Damn it,” said the viscount to me, after the marquis had stalked out. “I love you. You threw me over to pursue men with better titles. But still I love you, and I cannot see you hurt.”
I was shaking, but it was with a powerful and potent rush of desire, stronger and more intoxicating than anything I’d ever known.
I had been afraid of love. I was not any longer.
—From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous
“So did you make love to the lovely Sophie Ashley?” Sax asked as Cary, Sax, and another Wicked Duke, the Duke of Sinclair, searched the mews behind Cary’s house for clues.
The Duke of Sinclair lifted his head from his study of the mud. He’d traced a path from the nearest cross street at the mouth of the mews and had walked back to the place where the victim had laid. “The dark-haired beauty I saw you with at the Cyprian ball? She is new to the game, isn’t she? I would have noticed her if she’d been at a ball before. Have you claimed her as your mistress? I tried to find out who she was from our fair Cyprian hostesses, but they are all too competitive and jealous to tell me.”
“I didn’t know you’d attended that Cyprian ball.” Walking around the spot where the poor victim had laid, Cary frowned at his two friends. “Regardless, we’re supposed to be hunting for clues. Not discussing my sexual proclivities.”
“I just wondered if the Cyprian ball idea had worked,” Sax said.
“Worked at doing what?” Sinclair—known at Sin to friends—dropped into a crouch, close to the end of the mews. The wind blew back his brown hair. “Chocolate” was how women described it.
Cary thought of Sophie again. Her lush dark hair, the raven waves all tangled after she came.
Hell.
“Nothing,” Cary muttered in answer to Sin’s question.
“Have you made her your mistress?” Sin asked.
“No. She’s a young widow from the country. Naïve and sweet. It was my plan to send her back home, but she’s run off, and I can’t find her.”
“So she is available,” Sin mused.
Cary straightened, all but spitting fire. “Damnation, I just said I intend to send her home for her own protection. I won’t stand by and watch her be corrupted.”
“Easy, Cary.” Sin stood and gave a short laugh. “You seem surprisingly possessive over a woman you haven’t slept with.”
“Neither of you is going to sleep with her,” he said shortly. “Remember that.”
“Would you mind coming over here and looking at something, or do I run the risk of getting your fist in my face?” Sin asked.
Cary left his place. Some blood still stained the mud, though the rain had washed most of it away. He had found lace torn from the woman’s dress, also spattered with blood. A dainty silk reticule that must have been dropped by the woman—the color matched her dress. There were a few pound notes and some coins, along with some rouge paint for her lips and cheeks.
He had acquired the woman’s name from Angelique—Sally Black. Angelique had only surrendered it to him when he had promised to dance several times with her at the next Cyprian ball. She’d told him his presence at the ball had provoked London’s Cyprians. Each one wanted to become the mistress of the handsome war hero, the Duke of Caradon. If he showed her special attention, it would be a feather in her cap.
He had managed to get the information and commit himself to nothing more than dances.
“Did you talk to her protector?” Sin asked.
“I ran into Viscount Willington at White’s yesterday afternoon,” Cary said as if it had been a chance and casual meeting. He had questioned the viscount carefully, but then his simmering anger had gotten the better of him, and his direct, harsh questions had terrified the viscount. Willington had protested his innocence. And if that were a lie, and Willington were guilty, Cary knew his damn anger would put the man on his guard. The thing was, he didn’t see Willington had the sense of daring to hurt the girl and put her behind Cary’s house. That would take more presence of mind than Willington possessed.
“She was Willington’s paramour? Hell, he’s the meekest gentleman I’ve ever known. Still, if he’s her lover, he is the most likely suspect. Given you saw her flee to his carriage.”
“Agreed, except he claims he did not see his mistress the night she was killed. The carriage she used was one he’d purchased for her. Instead, he spent the night gaming at a dockyard tavern. Early this afternoon, I confirmed it at the tavern, called “The Anchor.” He played cards through the night, and only left when the sun was up, well after six o’clock.”
Sinclair held out his hand. In it was a silver watch, coated in mud, the silver visible only where Sinclair had brushed it off.
“It could be anyone’s, but I assume your killer must have entered the mews from either this end or the other,” Sin said.
“And waited for his victim? He could have taken the watch out to check the time.” Cary took the watch, withdrew a handkerchief, and wiped the watch clean. “It bears initials. Y. Y.”
“Unusual initials,” Sin said. “But unfortunately I don’t know anyone who has them. They don’t belong to Willington. His family name is Tinsdale.”
“What we have to do is find out whether anyone in Miss Sally Black’s life has those initials.”
Sax came over. “This is all we’ve found. A watch that may not even be related to this murder. Some torn lace and a reticule. Those last two items don’t help us in any way. What we need are links to the man who did this.”
“If it was a man,” Cary said thoughtfully.
“You think a woman did this? For what motive?”
“Jealousy. Anger. Revenge. To clear the path to Willington as a protector, possibly.”
“I can’t see Cyprians fighting over Willington. He’s no prize.” Sax gave a wry grin. “But I’ve heard rumors they intend to fight over you. All of London’s premier Cyprians want you—Nell, Angelique, the one nicknamed the Fiery Rose, and the Swan sisters. And probably a dozen others. Maybe one of them could get you through this . . . uh, problem that occurred after you were held prisoner.”
Cary curtly shook his head. If Sophie couldn’t, he couldn’t see how any woman could.
“We should talk this over with Grey,” Sin suggested. “He’s had experience in hunting down a killer. And he needs something to take him mind off the impending event.”
“Impending—?” Cary broke off as he understood what Sin meant. “You mean the birth of his first child.”
“Last week, he said he was warned it could happen any day. He’s almost gone bald from tearing his hair out with worry,” Sax said. “There should be no danger—Helena has been healthy and happy throughout, but Grey is like all men. They worry. Come on. Let’s go and confer with the fourth member of the Wicked Dukes.”
The three men rode along Park Lane, turning into the drive of Grey’s house. Footmen and grooms sprang forward to take the horses.
Grey’s majordomo met them at the front door. “His Grace is in his study,” he intoned. “I believe His Grace will be pleased at the visit.”
They found Grey pacing in front of his fireplace, a tumbler of liquor in his hand. “They have thrown me out. I’m not allowed in there. Damn it, I want to be there, holding her hand. Making sure she is safe.”
Cary, Sax, and Sin exchanged glances. “What are you talking about?”
“I believe he is telling you that his wife is having her baby.” Grey’s brother-in-law, the Earl of Winterhaven strode through the study door. “Grey, I’ve been through this many times. The midwives don’t want you in there.”
“I need to be there. What if something goes wrong?”
“It won’t,” Winterhaven said confidently.
“But it happens, damn it. I know that.” He took a long swallow.
Cary had never seen his friend look more fearful, and he knew Grey had been through hell during his life.
“You need to sit down.” Cary led Grey to a wing chair by the fire. He got Grey to sit, but it was only for seconds before his friend sprang up again.
“I need to be with her, Cary. We belong together, and I can’t stay here, being useless.”
“Grey, the women will turn you away,” Winterhaven said.
“Did you really let the midwives keep you away from Jacinta?” Grey asked.
Cary had loved Jacinta, but Winterhaven had won her heart. He had been too damaged to seriously pursue her, so he had backed off and let Winterhaven sweep her off her feet.
Winterhaven blushed. “I did. They were adamant I would only be in the way and hinder their work. But it was hell to wait, to not know.”
“Go and be with her, Grey. Being at her side is the most important thing,” Cary insisted. He took the tumbler from Grey’s clenched hand and set it down. He realized Grey had barely drunk from it.
Sax picked up the glass and started to drink from it. “I hate this birthing business, and I’ve never had to do it.” He shuddered.
“Obviously,” Sin remarked, grinning. “You’ll never be birthing anything yourself.”
“I mean, I’ve never been at a woman’s side as she went through it,” Sax muttered.
Cary put his hand against Grey’s shoulder and led him up the stairs. They reached the corridor to the bedchamber. A cry of pure straining agony floated down it.
The feminine wail of pain speared Cary’s heart, and he stopped dead. He couldn’t voice the words in his heart: Was everything all right? He couldn’t do it because he didn’t want to frighten Grey.
“God, Cary, do you think I could lose her? I love her so much. I feel I’ve done this to her—put her in danger for my own selfish needs.”
“Doesn’t your wife want a child as much as you?” Cary asked. “Whenever I saw Helena while she was enceinte, she glowed with happiness.”
Grey hesitated. Cary was astounded by the change in Grey—he was a man deliriously happy with being in love, with being a married man. Now he was haunted with fear over losing his wife. “Jacinta tells me I’m mad for being so afraid. But she also admonished me to be at Helena’s side. Yet the dragon-like women in there won’t let me in. Even Jacinta, who is in there with Helena, could not convince them to change their minds.”
Cary rubbed the back of his neck. “Since I’m not a father, I’m no expert.” But he thought of how desperately he had wanted his mother and father when he’d been kidnapped. He knew the pain of loss—even if he was returned to his family eventually.
“Grey, I’ve heard the business is intense and painful, but that doesn’t mean anything is going to go wrong. Helena is strong and courageous. I know she will come through this fine, and the baby will be fine as well. Believe in that. And go and be with her.”
“Thank you.” Grey squared his shoulders. Then he opened the door to his bedroom—from which he had been barred.
A burly woman, whose hair was damp with perspiration, barked, “Be off with you, Your Grace. With all due respect.”
Grey walked inside, looking every inch the powerful duke. “I love my wife, and my place is at her side. Now, do you intend to bar the way again?”
The plump midwife lifted a brow and put her hands on her hips. But then she smiled. “All right then. At least you don’t look like you are going to pass out when it gets noisy and messy, which I feared you might do before.”
“Madam,” Grey said with pride, “I do not pass out.”
“So you think. You’d be surprised how many supposedly strong gentlemen sink to the floor when they see a babe appear.” But the woman stood aside and let Grey in.
She firmly began to push the door shut. But not before Cary glimpsed Grey’s wife, Helena, in a damp shift, her hair in a sweat-soaked tangle. Sitting up in the bed, she clenched the hands of Jacinta and a midwife. Her normally lovely face was bright red with the strain and tense with agony.
The door slammed. Cary couldn’t see anything more. And he didn’t want to—this should be as private as possible between Grey and Helena.
But then, on the other side of the closed door, Helena let out a cry that made his toes curl in his boots.
And he’d been on battlefields.
She hurt all over.
Sophie woke in her narrow, simple, and uncomfortable cot in the tiny room she had rented on a narrow lane off Whitechapel Street. Faint morning light filtered in between a gap in the tattered curtains. With all the fires burning, there was always a gray cloud hanging over the streets.
She ate a meager breakfast of tea and gruel. She rubbed her lower back ruefully. After one night on the duke’s wonderful bed, her sagging bed felt horrible.
A letter came for her, shoved through the letter box of her door.
Belle’s lovely handwriting! Sophie clutched the letter. She closed her eyes and said, “Please let there not have been a disaster. Please. Please. Please!”
She had less than a week to come up with a solution. The Earl of Devars had given her a week to return before he threatened to tell the magistrate she had stolen a piece of jewelry from him—the bracelet he had given her before trying to rape her.
Quickly, she scanned the letter. Thank heaven, there was nothing amiss. Belle had written a cheerful summary of the last few days, recounting how the children had created their own version of cricket with fallen pinecones and thick twigs. There was no mention of Lord Devars. Did that mean he was waiting and leaving her family alone—or just that Belle hadn’t written about it so she wouldn’t worry?
And here she was, one more day in London, running out of time, and still without a protector. Dazzled by the Duke of Caradon, she hadn’t even found out when the next Cyprian Ball was....
How was she going to do that?
Sophie thought of Cary showing her the brothel and the poor woman on the street, waiting for drunken men to emerge from the pub.
She wouldn’t have to do that. And it wouldn’t help. She wouldn’t make enough money to keep away from Lord Devars. And keep her family safe.
No—if she didn’t find a protector before her week was done—in five more days—she was going to have to agree to his terms. She was going to have to let him do anything he wanted to her.
Why couldn’t Caradon have let her become his mistress? There was no mistaking the passion between them. And the pleasure he’d made her feel . . . Ooh, even now she felt an ache deep inside just remembering it.
It meant something. He’d almost lost himself in sex with her. But he’d been too stubborn to see the obvious.
They were right for each other.
They belonged together—at least as gentleman and mistress.
Five days left!
So she couldn’t waste time trying to make Caradon see sense. She must find a rich protector.
Her heart ached when she thought of being in another man’s bed. But her heart could not ache. She didn’t have time for the hope of love anymore.
Her teakettle boiled, startling her. She had scrounged up wood for the fire, so she had a small one to drive away some of the damp cold and to boil water. She poured tea in a cracked cup—she had only the one cup, almost ready to break, a plate, two dented pots, a highly dented teapot, and some misshapen forks, spoons, and one knife.
She poured a weak cup of tea—her leaves had been used for two days.
Goodness, she had the answer!
And she had tea all over the
table. Half her precious tea had missed the cup when, in her excitement, she’d jerked the metal pot.
But she didn’t care. She had a solution.
At the Cyprian ball, Angelique had complained about the courtesan who took bribes. All Sophie had to do was find the woman, bribe her with the money she had left, and get into the next Cyprian ball—hopefully it would be soon—then find a protector.
She might be able to save them all—and save herself from the horrible Devars.
All she had to do was forget the glorious, handsome Duke of Caradon.
“Hades, how long does this business take?”
The question came from Sin, who paced by the windows at the west end of the south wall. Cary was wearing a hole through the rug at the east end, walking up and down. A grandfather clock out in the hall began to strike—it was eight o’clock, and the sky was dark.
The business of birthing had gone on through the afternoon and into the night.
Sax stood at the mantel, finishing his third brandy. He had one arm braced on the marble as if he were entrusted with the duty of holding up the wall. His silver hair stuck out at strange angles from his raking fingers. He looked up with worried eyes. “I’ve heard it can take days,” he said. “A friend of my sister’s was three days in her labors before the baby came.”
“Three days? How in God’s name do women endure this?” Sin asked.
“They are incredibly strong,” Cary answered softly.
He realized how strong Sophie was. She was taking the responsibility for her family after being tragically widowed. She had faced a murder victim with astounding courage and composure.
She had tried to come to his rescue, insisting on his innocence.
Cary realized one thing—it should be his duty to look after her. She needed help. Maybe he couldn’t have sex or marry, but he could do decent things.