by Sharon Page
“For Christ’s sakes, I am not a killer. I came to ask about two of your patrons.” He pulled out a wad of notes and handed them to her. “The first is Lord Stratham. Was he here—?” He gave the date of Sophie’s attack.
“Yes, he was here that night.”
“When did he arrive?” Sophie had been attacked close to dawn.
“It was after midnight, and he remained here until long after the sun had come up.”
“What of Lord Halwell? He is one of your regular clients.”
“Lord Halwell has not been here for several weeks, Your Grace.”
“Then where does he go to satisfy his need for the perverse?”
The madam shrugged. “I have no idea. His tastes no longer profit me, so I no longer care.” She snapped her fingers. “I dismiss him. Like so.”
“I believe you do know. He was a wealthy client. You would want to know who poached him away.”
“Why do you ask me all these questions?” Her face lit up with understanding. “You suspect Stratham or Halwell of the murder of that strumpet because they like to tie up women and whip them.”
“They are just two of a large pool of suspects,” he said casually. “Thank you for your help, Madame. My partner and I will now leave.”
“Your partner is very sweet. Very lovely. She exudes innocence.” The woman leaned toward Sophie. “When His Grace tires of you, come to me. I could make you a fortune, my dear.”
“That will not happen,” Cary said.
“I would never want to work in a brothel,” Sophie said quickly. “Never.”
“Of course. And with your beauty, if you are clever, you will never have to.”
As they left the madam, Cary said, “Before we go, I want to question some of the women here. I want to make sure the madam told us the truth.”
“But you paid her.”
“And another might have paid her more to lie for him.”
It was hard, at first, to watch while he spoke to the beautiful bevy of courtesans. But Caradon kept looking away from them. Watching Sophie. And when gentlemen approached her, Cary leveled a predatory stare at them. A warning.
He watched over her like a wild, possessive lion.
After speaking to many women, he returned to her. “Several women saw Stratham here that night. And also on the night of Sally Black’s death. Other men I suspected were also here at the times of Sally’s murder—when we speculate it was committed—or at the time of your attack. But as your attacker claimed to have been paid, unfortunately, we are at square one.” He groaned.
As they traveled home, she said, “I am so confused. I keep trying to sort out my thoughts. There seem to be three possibilities. It is someone who wanted to kill Sally and me, and needed someone to make a scapegoat for the crime. It is someone who wants you to look guilty because they want you to be arrested, or at least shunned. Or it’s a coincidence—Oh!”
“What, love?”
“Your coachman told me you had suffered two accidents and a previous attack by footpads. What if those were also done by the murderer?”
“For what purpose? If I had been killed, I wouldn’t be alive to be a scapegoat.”
“That’s true,” she admitted.
“There is another solution,” Cary said.
“What’s that?”
“You said there was a man you feared. A man who tried to force you to become his mistress. The attack could have been motivated by his lust for you. He likely hates me for taking you from his clutches.”
And she knew Devars was in London.
“Who is he, Sophie?”
She couldn’t say. If Cary confronted him, the theft would come out and she would be arrested.
“His name, Sophie.”
There was more than she in danger. If it was Devars who had done this, he intended to hurt or destroy Cary.
But if she told him, and Cary went after Devars, she would go to prison.
“I can’t tell you.” Tears came then, spilling down her cheeks.
“Damn, don’t cry. All right. But I will find out,” he said.
Breakfast in bed. It was so decadent. Sophie supposed courtesans did that. Her lady’s maid had worked before for an actress who had many male admirers who gave her gifts and “visited.” Her maid claimed the actress always took her breakfast in bed.
She would enjoy it much more if she weren’t terrified Cary would find out about Devars.
Her maid set down the tray. “There is a message on there for you, Miss. From the Duke of Caradon. It arrived this morning.”
Ignoring the food, Sophie tore open the letter.
Dearest Sophie,
Something of an unexpected nature has happened.
Oh no.
My mother and my sisters have arrived in London. This was a shock to me—my mother is ill, and I never thought she would attempt an arduous journey without asking me to help her. Or at least warning me. Fortunately, she has not heard the gossip falsely accusing me of murder. That could devastate her health completely.
It is my mother’s intention that I marry quickly. For the next few days, I will be unable to see you. This will drive me mad.
Please keep yourself safe. Do not venture outdoors. You will be safe in the house. The instant I am able, I will come to see you. Even if only for a few moments. To reassure myself you are well. And you are obeying me.
Cary
She looked at the note. Cary’s mother wanted him to marry. Then what would happen to her? And how could he? He wasn’t yet able to . . . to be properly married.
Her gaze went back to what he’d said. That he wouldn’t be able to see her, and it would drive him mad.
He must care about her to say that.
But he was supposed to find a bride. Marriages of the aristocracy did not always involve love. Her mother had written that in her book. For many, marriage was about power, wealth, land.
She wanted Cary to have a good marriage. She wanted him and his wife to love each other. Which meant he had to be healed and able to make love.
It also meant that once he could make love, he couldn’t be with her. She would want him to be faithful to his wife.
So once he was healed, she must give him up.
Sophie wrote a letter to Belle that afternoon, and enclosed almost all of the allowance Cary had given her as his mistress. This was her first payment, and she would receive it monthly. She’d kept enough to pay her bills, which was very little, as she planned to live frugally. In the letter, she asked about the children, and her heart fluttered as she thought of her son. She did tell Belle that Devars was in London, but she lied and wrote that she saw him but he did not see her. She did not want Belle to worry. At least it seemed her theft was still secret.
Her heart ached as she sealed the letter.
She must go and see her son, Alexander. She missed him so much. She’d never been apart from him before. Cary was going to buy a carriage for her. As soon as she had it, she could go. She would make it a quick journey. She had to try to keep seducing Cary.
But after they had been to the brothel near the docks yesterday night, he had not even touched her.
Her maid came into the parlor where she was writing. “Miss, there is a woman come to see you. She wouldn’t give her name, but she said you would very much want to talk to her.”
A woman, so not Devars. She told her maid to send the woman in.
Sophie jolted in shock as soon as she saw the woman. It was the Cyprian who had been tied to the strange metal rack at the brothel. The one who had been whipped.
The woman plopped down onto the settee. Her red hair was caught in a chignon. She wore paint on her cheeks and lips and something to darken her lashes. Sophie realized this was the courtesan who was known as the Fiery Rose.
“I came here to tell you that I know who killed Sally Black and who attacked you,” the Fiery Rose stated. “I wanted to go to the Duke of Caradon, but when I went to his house, he was there with his mother and som
e girls I thought must be his sisters. I knew he’d come to see his mistress soon enough. If I tell him the name of the killer, I’ll be in danger of getting killed myself. I need money. Money to get away. To make a new life for myself.”
“I will give you money.” Though Sophie would have to rip open the letter to take it out—
“I don’t want it from you.” The woman sneered. “I want it from His Grace. He must have piles of money. Enough to let me buy a lovely house in a warm, sunny country. Enough that I can have gowns in the first stare of fashion. And jewels.”
“I have no idea what the duke would give you. Or even if he will give you anything. If you know about the murder, it is your duty to tell the truth.”
The redhead laughed. “Duty? That’s rich. As for His Grace—I think he’ll pay a great deal to save his own neck.” She sobered and gave Sophie a cold, hard look. “Let me tell you, Miss Ashley. Being a mistress is a short-lived career. Right now, I have an adorable viscount wrapped around my finger. But I know it won’t last forever. That’s what happened to me mum—she died in poverty. This is my chance to build my future.”
“But you’ve been a courtesan—haven’t you saved money for your future?”
The woman laughed mockingly. “All mistresses have some kind of vice. Some way to escape.”
“Escape?”
“Escape the sin of having sex with men you don’t love. Half of them I didn’t even like.” Her laugh was cold. “So courtesans turn to drink. Opium. Gambling. My escape was opium. I was introduced to it by one of my protectors. Now I can’t fight it. That’s where all my money has gone. So here is a note for your precious duke. He is to meet me in Hyde Park in the morning. At seven o’clock. He must bring me a bank draft for ten thousand pounds.”
“Ten thousand? Good heavens—”
“Once he can hand over the real killer, he’ll be safe. So if he wants to save his hide, he will pay it.” The woman swept to her feet. “Seven o’clock. With ten thousand pounds. He is to send me a note to confirm he will be there.”
The woman hurried out of the room.
Sophie followed but reached the door as the woman jumped up into a hackney.
She would have to send him the note. She just prayed his mother and sisters didn’t see it.
She would take the letter and give it to one of Cary’s servants. At the tradesmen’s door. Since a mistress shouldn’t run into her protector’s mother.
Only gentlemen went to the park at seven o’clock in the morning. Out for morning rides, they trotted huge, beautiful horses along the Rotten Row.
Sophie had come by hackney, had been dropped off at the gate at a quarter to seven. She chose deliberately to come early. She suspected Cary wouldn’t want her to be here—but she wanted to know who had attacked her, so she was going to hide and take up a spot where she could overhear.
Cary didn’t come to her last night. In his letter, he’d said he would come to her as soon as he were able. She’d hoped he might have slipped out and seen her to talk about the demand from the Fiery Rose. But he hadn’t.
So she hadn’t been able to try to seduce him.
The thing was, she had hoped all night he could come—even when it was obviously a hopeless business. Even though he’d warned her that he wouldn’t come, it had hurt when she had not seen him.
How in heaven’s name was she going to let him go eventually?
It would be like tearing out her own heart. But she had to do it.
Sophie hiked over the grass, damp with early morning dew. Water rippled on the Serpentine, the lake within Hyde Park. It shimmered and glittered. Sophie tried to stay screened by trees. She didn’t see anyone yet.
A dark shape was stretched out by the water.
Sophie’s heart flip-flopped. It looked like—
She ran across the grass, heart pounding, her lungs heaving for breath. She saw boots with a heel. The white froth of petticoats beneath skirts. A cloak that had fallen open. Vibrant red hair spilling across the new grass.
Sophie reached the body and sank to her knees.
It was the Fiery Rose, the Cyprian who had come to see her yesterday. The one who said she would tell the duke everything she knew—for a price.
She lay on her stomach on the grass, her face turned to the side. From where Sophie was on her knees, she could see one of the woman’s large brown eyes, open and horribly blank. The woman’s arms were outstretched and limp, her white gloves soiled.
Sophie saw bruises around the woman’s throat.
The woman had been strangled.
Something was clutched in the woman’s hand.
Sophie leaned close. Carefully, she pried it out. A small, crumpled note. It was from the duke and it read:
I will meet you at seven. By the Serpentine. Caradon.
It was the confirmation he was supposed to send.
It wasn’t yet seven o’clock. Someone had come here, had found the woman before Cary got here, and had killed her.
Sophie knew she should go and fetch the magistrate. But what should she do about the note? The magistrate would see it and think Cary had done this.
She could take the note with her. What harm would there be in that? The duke hadn’t done this. She knew that. Someone had gotten here and found the woman first.
Cary would be here any moment. He was innocent—but would anyone believe him? They wouldn’t arrest a duke based on this.
Or would they?
She should put the note back where she’d found it.
But she could protect Cary just by taking it.
Morality won. Sophie put the note back into the girl’s hand. What she would do was find Cary. He must be on his way here. If he wanted to take the note away, he could. As long as no one found the poor girl before she brought him back.
But she knew, in her heart, Caradon would not take away the note, even though it was a false clue against him.
She knew he would be too honorable.
16
Sophie ran headlong through the Park Lane gate. She careened into the road—someone shouted. Horses whinnied, and she whirled to see flying hooves and a huge carriage bearing down at her. Crying out, she jumped back, and the carriage passed by her so close, she could feel the suction of the air.
Her lungs heaved. She used to be able to outrun any boy in the village, and now look at her. Her throat was burning from frantic breathing as she stumbled through the gateposts of the house.
“Sophie?” It was Cary. He was walking down his drive, and now he ran toward her. He must be going toward the park to meet the Fiery Rose at seven o’clock.
He was innocent. He had to be. But what if—what if he were hanged for this? Panic and shock and horror all exploded in her. She ran at him and grasped his arms.
In front of his house, he folded her into his embrace. “Sophie, what’s wrong?”
“The woman you were going to meet is dead. She’s by the Serpentine. She’s lying in the grass. And she’s holding a note from you. She was strangled. Oh, it’s so—”
He drew her tight to his chest. “Shh, love. You’ve had a bad shock, but we can’t speak about this out here. Let me take you to my house. You need brandy. Then I will go and see.”
She shook her head, but that made her dizzy and sick. “You need to come with me. Now, Cary. Please. I—I was going to take the note she was holding. It is your note to her. The one telling her you would meet her. But then I thought I shouldn’t. But maybe I should have. Someone might have already found it. I didn’t know what to do—”
“Calm down, Sophie,” he said.
“Caradon, what is happening?”
The soft, cultured feminine voice came from the steps of his house. Sophie choked on her voice. Cary turned around, Sophie in his arms.
She saw pale hair—white hair—and an ivy-green dress with beautiful trimming. Clutching the railing, the woman limped down the steps. Soft lines surrounded the woman’s mouth. Concern etched more lines in the woman’s high f
orehead. She looked like an older, female version of Caradon.
His mother.
Sophie recoiled in shock. Numbly, she thought: What did I just say? No wonder he tried to stop me from speaking.
“Caradon, this child in obviously in shock, and you are now as white as she is. What woman has been killed? What has this to do with you? I must know what is going on. Take me inside, please, and bring this girl in. You will tell me everything. I know there is something going on—all the people I have encountered today look at me as if there is something I should be told, but everyone is too afraid to give it voice.”
Sophie looked helplessly at Cary.
“She can’t know the truth,” he murmured into Sophie’s ear. “She’s ill and not strong. Having me suspected of . . . This could kill her. If I’d known she planned to come to London, I would have stopped her. She wanted to catch me by surprise, so she can push me into marrying.”
Sophie looked at up him. She kept her voice low. “But she will know you are innocent. She is your mother.”
“She may not believe completely in my innocence.”
She was about to ask why—why his mother wouldn’t have complete faith in him, when his mother commanded, “Stop whispering, the two of you. Caradon, we will go inside now. And I wish to know everything that is happening.”
Cary sighed. “Mother, this is Sophie. A dear friend of mine.”
“A dear friend?” his mother echoed.
“Yes,” he said. He turned to Sophie. “Sophie, this is my mother, the Duchess of Caradon. Please go inside with her—instruct one of the footmen to tell my man of affairs to have the magistrate fetched. I will examine the body. Tell Sir Henry to meet me in the park.”
Sophie lowered her voice to the softest whisper. “Are you going to take the letter?”
In a soft voice he answered, “I’m going to give it to the magistrate, Sophie. I have to.”