by Sharon Page
“I want you to stay out of this completely.”
“But I want to at least be there—”
“I want to make sure this madman does not have any opportunity to go after you. You will stay here.”
She sighed. “All right. But please, please, please, be careful.”
In Sophie’s drawing room, after the men and Mrs. Carlyle had left, Sophie paced in front of the fireplace. “Ma’am.” Sophie’s footman entered and stood with perfect correctness. “The Duchess of Caradon, ma’am.”
The duchess? Here? Sophie whirled around, stunned. Slender, swathed in a fur-trimmed cloak, the duchess walked in. Stammering, Sophie offered tea or sherry, but the duchess quickly said, “I must speak to you about my son, Miss Ashley. This is unconventional, but I do not know where to turn. You were correct, dear, with what you said. There is something I must tell you—”
Sophie approached the duchess. “You are terribly pale. Let me pour you sherry.”
She gave Cary’s mother a small crystal glass, led her to the settee, and sat beside her.
The duchess sipped and sipped, then found her courage. “I fear what troubles my son is more than what happened in Ceylon. I’ve never spoken of this to anyone else. Almost no one knows about it—with the greatest care, we were able to cover it up. Only certain members of the law and our most loyal servants know.”
The duchess hesitated. Curiosity consumed Sophie, but she knew she must wait for the duchess to find the courage to talk. Then the older woman gently touched Sophie’s hand. “There has been no one else, outside of our immediate family, who is as close to him as you. He has not allowed anyone to be so close to him.”
Was that really true? How could she be the only other very close person to him? But then, in her mother’s book, sometimes mistresses were. A man might live a separate life from his wife, but he needed someone to confide in, someone to believe in him, flatter him, care about him. So he did it with his mistress.
“When he was only five years of age,” the duchess said, “he was kidnapped for ransom.”
Sophie’s blood went ice cold. Five years old! The same age as her son. Pain at that thought twisted inside her. “But—but what happened?”
The duchess eyed her warily. “I trust you not to tell Caradon that I told you of this. Or anyone.”
“Of course. I would never tell anyone. I can keep secrets.” She’d kept so many of her own. “What happened to him? He was freed, obviously.” Thank God. Thank God! “But was he hurt?”
“In terrible ways. Unspeakable things happened to him.”
“Unspeakable? I don’t understand.”
The duchess put a lacy handkerchief to her mouth. “He was chained up so he could not escape. And hit. But he was also . . .” The woman was white as a ghost and shaking.
“You needn’t go on,” Sophie said.
“I must. He has said he won’t marry. And I fear it must be because of what happened to him. This man—this monster who took him—touched him. In ways that should only be between a husband and a wife. A man and a woman. And he was but a child.”
The duchess hurried on. “He had to kill the man to escape. He created a trap and sent a brick hurtling down onto the man’s head. That only enraged this monster, and he grabbed up a kitchen knife. Fitzwilliam—he was not the duke then, of course—ran and took up a fireplace poker. The man tried to stab him, but fell, and my son hit him in the head with the poker.”
“Poor—the poor child. How awful.” There weren’t words to express the horror. It was so much like what had happened to her with Devars. But Cary had been a child!
“He was afraid he would be hanged. For killing the monster who had kidnapped him.”
“But he wasn’t.”
“No. It was covered up. Hushed up. He had already been through hell. There was a girl there too. The daughter of this monstrous man. She was sixteen years of age. Caradon had hoped she would help him. But she—she beat him terribly. Burned him on his legs with hot sticks. And she would make tiny cuts on his arms. Nothing to badly wound him, but it was awful torture to a child. He endured hell. And when he came back, my husband learned what happened to him. . . . The duke was terrified his son had been made into something monstrous too. He was so cold and fearful, because he believed he must straighten Fitzwilliam out. We were all so afraid, and instead of embracing our son and showing him great love, we retreated.” Tears spilled onto the duchess’s cheeks. “We ruined him as much as that monster. That’s what I fear. Can he ever be made right?”
The woman shuddered with tears. She was so thin and fragile.
Impulsively, Sophie hugged her. “I do believe he can. I am going to fight to try.” Then she blushed. “I mean . . . oh . . . er . . .”
“I never dreamed I would be saying this, but I need your help, my dear,” the duchess said. “If anyone can heal his heart, I believe it is you.”
Sophie helped the duchess outside, both women wearing cloaks with their hoods up. Sophie realized she had never felt accepted or respectable in her life, yet Cary had tried to make her that way by rescuing her and protecting her. Her heart was filled with sorrow for him as she helped his mother into the duchess’s carriage. Sophie climbed up the carriage steps. The duchess had fallen into several coughing fits after she had told the story, and Sophie wanted to watch over the duchess until she reached her home.
“I will have the carriage return you home,” the duchess said.
They sat in silence as the carriage started off. Then the duchess gave her a look—the sort of look her son would give her when he’d done something naughty.
“I do have a terrible admission to make,” Cary’s mother said. “I sent Caradon to London to find a bride. He was visiting me in the country, and I told him he had to come back for the Season and get married and produce a grandchild. I told him I was dying.”
“Oh goodness, I am so sorry.”
“You see, it wasn’t true. I felt very sick after the winter, and I feared it could happen. But I was feeling better. Yet I lied, and I used that lie to blackmail my son. For that, I feel awful. But I was so desperate.”
“You must tell him the truth, because he will be very worried about you,” Sophie said passionately. “I think he will forgive you. He loves you and his family very much.” Of course he did. He knew what it was like to be torn away from them. Was that why he had come to her rescue and offered to give her the house and allowance of a mistress while demanding nothing in return?
“I want to see him be happy,” Sophie said. “And I know he will understand why you told him what you did.”
“It was wrong. I, who knew what he suffered, had no right to manipulate him.”
Sophie patted the duchess’s hand. “You want him to have a partner in his life, and the joy of children.” But what had Cary suffered? It sounded as if . . . as if he had been abused in perverse ways. No wonder he had said he indulged in lots of sex with courtesans to prove himself.
How did one erase memories like that?
All along she had been confident.
Now, she realized she didn’t know what to do.
She also thought of the terror of a five-year-old boy, afraid he would be punished for defending himself. “The man who took him was killed. Who was he?”
“He had been a footman. He had been dismissed, as my husband believed he had stolen some valuable snuffboxes. It turned out he had gotten a village girl into trouble, and after she had the baby, he had turned to theft. However, he used very little of his ill-gotten gains to support the young woman and his daughter. That was the female who was so horrible and so vicious to Fitzwilliam. The villain’s daughter. After Cary was saved, the magistrate looked for her, but she had vanished. She left a note though, threatening revenge for her father. In the letter, she said he’d been falsely condemned for the theft. Of course that was not true. He was quite guilty.”
“She threatened revenge?” Sophie repeated. “All these terrible things have happened. Acci
dents to the duke. And these murders—”
“It was years and years ago. Why would she have waited until now? She would be more than forty years old.”
“I don’t know why she would have waited,” Sophie admitted. “Maybe she wasn’t able to exact her revenge until now.” Cary had never mentioned this, but then, he had not told her about the kidnapping. He had wanted to keep that ordeal a secret. So of course he could not have told her about this girl.
There were two courtesans who would be the right age. Nell. And the haughty one, Angelique, who had fought with Sally Black on the night she had died.
She must go to Cary and tell him. As soon as the duchess’s carriage took her home, she would rush to the Cyprian ball. At least Sophie knew where it was—from their discussion during the council of war.
Sophie knew they had reached the Cyprian ball by the large number of discreet black carriages on the street, and the enormous number of well-dressed men streaming through the open doors. Street flares illuminated them, and the moon was out.
Once the duchess’s carriage had brought her home, she had hastily commanded her carriage take her to the ball.
Suddenly, her carriage stopped. She leaned out and saw they could get no closer. “Let me out here.”
She wished she could bring her coachman in, but someone must stay with the horses and the carriage. She had raced there hastily, and of course had not thought to bring a footman to take in with her. All she had thought of was Cary—warning him.
And she supposed she had been embarrassed to drag a footman into a courtesan’s ball with her.
She would just watch at all times. Stay with the crowd. She flipped up the hood of her cloak and accepted her coachman’s help down from the carriage.
Pushing her way through the gentlemen, she reached the doors and was stopped by a young servant, resplendent in red-and-gold livery and a powdered wig. But she wasn’t going to be thwarted now.
“Your invitation, madam?”
She needed a distraction. “My God, that gentleman has collapsed! Someone fetch help!” she shrieked. Several men, including the servant, turned. She raced past, only to collide with men who were coming back to see what the commotion was.
Useless men!
“No, you don’t.” The servant grabbed her cloak.
She ripped open the ties and ran right out of it, elbowing her way through. The man at the door was left with a look of shock and her empty cloak.
She was inside. Now where was Cary?
Desperately, she looked around.
In the center of the crowd, at the end of the ballroom, stood a bevy of women in brilliant dresses. The Cyprian hostesses.
Sophie spotted the two sisters. The Black Swan was dressed entirely in black silk decorated with glittering jet, and her pale blond hair was decorated with a black comb tipped with diamonds. Her sister, the White Swan, wore white and pink with many flounces.
And there was the courtesan famed for her voluptuous bottom. She wore a clinging gown that revealed its large curvature.
Angelique stood there, dressed in bronze silk with a gold overlay.
Of course, there was no Fiery Rose in brilliant scarlet. And she didn’t see Nell, as Nell must still be recuperating.
She was praying the culprit was not Nell. That it was Angelique. Though why kill innocent women if it was Cary she hated? Why not attack him? There had been attempts on his life. Why had she turned away from that and started to have women attacked instead? Who was the man who had helped her?
And how could she blame a five-year-old child for having to do whatever he could to save himself? Angelique should blame her horrible father!
Of course it might be neither of them. The man’s daughter may not have become a courtesan at all. But it was a possibility, and she had to tell Cary.
Again, Sophie searched the crowd. She strained up on her tiptoes. Cary and the rest of the Wicked Dukes were tall. Surely, she would see Cary’s beautiful pale gold hair—
Stratham passed by her field of view. At once she sank down, praying he didn’t see her. He was heading toward the Cyprians, fortunately.
Blond hair! In a small gap in the crowd, she glimpsed a shock of light blond hair. That had to be Cary.
Something hard jammed into her back. She half turned, ready to protest.
She didn’t recognize the man leering at her. Sandy brown hair was pulled back in a queue, and pockmarks made a mess of his cheeks. His eyes were cold and hard. From behind her, he reached out and grabbed her hip. The hard thing pushed more painfully against her back.
“Where do ye think ye’re going, my dear?” He sneered. “I’ve got unfinished business with you.”
That voice.
It was the man who had attacked her.
“Don’t scream or do anything stupid. I’ve got a pistol against your back.”
“You wouldn’t sh-shoot me here. In front of all these people.”
“Because I’d hang? But you’d still be dead, sweetheart.” His arrogant smirk froze her blood. “I’ve been following you. First you were riding with the Duchess of Caradon, then on to here. Busy, interfering little whore, aren’t you?”
So that was how he’d known who she was. He must have been watching her house, waiting for her.
She didn’t know what to do. What if he did shoot her? She should shout or warn Cary or do something. Roughly, the man pushed her toward the side of the room. She saw a dark entrance.
No. No. She opened her mouth to scream, when a cloth was pushed over her face and half of it was shoved into her mouth, almost choking her.
She struggled.
A hand came through the air in a ferocious arc. She couldn’t move, and the palm slapped her hard on the face. The force sent her head snapping to the side.
“You will do what you are told. Stop moving, you stupid little bitch.”
Sophie blinked against the pain as Angelique stepped forward. Angelique also held a pistol. Sophie had no chance—not against two weapons.
“You will come with me,” Angelique snapped.
She would die for sure! “No, I won’t.” She could be shot here, but they might hesitate to do it right beside a crowded ballroom.
“Yes, you will. With Caradon here, his mother and his sisters are unprotected in his house. I’ve paid two ruffians to watch his house. If they do not get word from me in another half an hour, telling them to abort, they will sneak into the house and slit the throats of Caradon’s mother and sisters.”
Sophie gasped, ice-cold with horror. “How could you?”
“He took my family from me. But if you come with me without a fight, I will call off those men.”
“How can I trust you?”
Another slap. Sophie gritted her teeth to keep from screaming or crying.
“You have no choice but to trust me,” Angelique snapped. “If you do not move now, they will definitely die. Wait long enough, and I won’t have time to stop the men.”
“All right,” Sophie said. “I will go with you.”
19
I have made a dreadful mistake. X. Q., my viscount, has married. A dull girl with a long nose, she came with a staggering dowry. It was the final blow, and I swore I would have nothing to do with him again.
But he came to me one night in a frenzy of passion and angst. He had been a fool to listen to his father, he declared. To marry for duty and not to possess me as he wished. He could not live without me, he swore.
He pulled out a blade and put it to his breast.
I pulled it away. I declared my love, my true and undying love.
That night—oh, it was a precious night. Like an ornament spun of delicate glass. How it glittered at first, how lovely and perfect it was.
But it had to shatter, of course.
In the morning, he was gone.
But I had not taken the care that I should have, and in two months, my folly could no longer be ignored. I was with child.
I had to look forward to many mont
hs of being reminded of how dangerous it was to fall in love. And then, could I spend each day in the presence of a reminder of my most foolish mistake? Would not resentment follow?
Surely, the best I could do for both the child and for myself was to give the wee thing away.
To be a successful courtesan, a woman must be prepared to be a survivor. She must fight and struggle and never let herself be foolish with regard to love.
Indeed, that is the making of a successful courtesan.
It may not be the making of a happy woman.
—From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous
“I need to see you stop the attack with my own eyes,” Sophie insisted. Angelique had hauled her to a black carriage. The hard muzzle of the pistol pressed into Sophie’s back.
She couldn’t give in to fear. Fear that the pistol would go off by accident. She stopped, lifted her chin, and spun to face Angelique. She wasn’t going to cry. Or give in to vapors. She was going to have courage—as Cary had when he had been a prisoner of war, when he had confronted a kidnapper. “Do you have to shove that thing into my back? I fear it will go off.”
Angelique, swathed in a rich black cloak, looked startled. She must have expected sobbing. Then a twisted, mad smile curved the courtesan’s painted lips. “That hardly matters, my dear. You will soon be dead. But I did want the pleasure of torturing Caradon. I do think it would destroy him to watch you die.”
But the horrid witch moved the pistol away from her back, still smirking.
There, Sophie thought, she had won a small victory. But she wished she could understand. Surely, even a madwoman could be made to see sense, to have empathy, to care, if only Sophie could understand why she was doing this. But first, she must ensure Cary’s family was safe.
Angelique motioned with the pistol for her to mount into the carriage, but Sophie went on. “Please,” she begged. “I want to know they will not be harmed. You can make haste with the carriage and call off your men. These are innocents. Please do this.”