Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5)

by Grace Callaway

  “Then ’e ’ad you and ’is inkwell ran dry,” her friend snickered.

  “A pen wot keeps a hard nib ain’t easy to find,” the first one agreed, and they fell into each other, laughing and snorting.

  “Dilettantes. Ignore them, my sweet one.” Dunn reached for Polly’s hand.

  “Touch her, and you’ll regret it.”

  Sinjin’s low warning dispelled Polly’s bemusement at the whole exchange. Her head swung in his direction; his aura was afire with possessiveness. A warm, tingling sensation spread in her belly.

  Sighing, Dunn rose and dusted off his trousers. “He belongs to you, I suppose?”

  “Um…” She darted a look at Sinjin’s predatory countenance, uncertain how to respond.

  “She’s mine.” Sinjin’s reply was unequivocal. “Stay away from her.”

  “Where do you ladies find such troglodytes?” Dunn held his hands up when Sinjin took a menacing step forward. “Easy there, big fellow. No need to make mincemeat of me over a jest.”

  Polly laid a staying hand on Sinjin’s upper arm. Beneath the navy superfine, she felt the bulging power of his muscles… and her pussy gave a shocking, moist flutter. At the same time, she realized that her nipples had risen, stiff and throbbing, beneath her bodice. She blinked, wetting her lips. Sinjin’s gaze followed the path of her tongue, and his gaze grew heavy-lidded, as if he could sense her arousal.

  Satisfaction smoldering in his aura, he took the hand she touched him with, pressing a brief yet proprietary kiss over her gloved knuckles before letting her go.

  “See here, Dunn.” Ambrose took over with authority. “Do you know Nicoletta French?”

  “No,” the playwright said sulkily.

  “She likely went by another name,” her brother said. “She’s about five and a half feet tall, black hair, hazel eyes.”

  Dunn pushed his spectacles up. “That describes half the doves that nest in this place, not to mention the flock of fly-by-nights who roost here now and again. You need to be more specific.”

  “Her voice was on the lower end of the register for a female. She had a habit of twitching her skirts—a likely sign of nerves. Her accent is polished but from elocution lessons, I believe, as the Cockney is discernable beneath—”

  “Egad, are you some sort of human magnifying glass?” Dunn stared at Ambrose. “You can’t expect that I would notice such obscure details.”

  Frowning, her brother said, “You requested more specifics.”

  “I meant about her, ahem,”—he cast a hasty glance at Polly and Em—“physical attributes?”

  Ambrose inhaled, as if for patience. “Her build is on the voluptuous side.”

  “Oooh, lovey, you got to be more precise than that. Most all o’ us fit that bill.” An actress with brassy ringlets sauntered over, her short pink dressing gown leaving little to the imagination. “The name’s Sweet Pea, an’ bein’ a warm-’earted sort, I’d be willing to ’elp you out.” She held out a hand, palm up. “For a small donation, o’ course.”

  With a sigh, Ambrose took out his coin purse.

  The money disappeared into Sweet Pea’s pink robe, and she emitted an ear-splitting whistle. “C’mon, doves, let’s show these nobs what The Cytherea ’as to offer!”

  Like whirling dervishes, the actresses moved in a flurry of motion and color. When the dust settled, Polly saw that they’d arranged themselves in a line of impressive precision. Their poses were identical: each had their hands on their hips, their right legs jutting saucily forward. The women were so synchronized, so uniform in the front that they presented, that it took Polly a moment to recognize the principle by which they’d organized themselves.

  A shocked giggle rose up her throat.

  “They call it the, ahem, buffet queue. Everything on the menu, organized from a bite-sized aperitif,”—Dunn gestured to the woman with the scantest curves at the start of the line—“to a full-fledged entrée.” The woman on the other end wriggled her remarkably generous bosom and rump.

  “So which o’ us does this Miss French o’ yours most resemble?” Sweet Pea called from the middle of the line.

  Ambrose lifted a brow at Sinjin. His tone cool, he said, “Well, my lord?”

  Sinjin’s cheekbones were stained a dull red. He slid a glance at Polly, who gave him an encouraging nod. He’d never hidden who he was before they met, and she wasn’t about to hold his past against him now. With marriage as a possibility between them, she wanted them to be honest with one another—as honest as they could be anyway.

  When still he hesitated, she took the bull by the horns. Gesturing toward two curvy brunettes, she said, “From my recollection, I’d say Miss French fits between those two ladies.”

  “But not as buxom as you, luvie, eh?” Sweet Pea said with a friendly wink. “Got a fortune ’iding ’neath that nun’s ’abit, I’d wager.”

  Blood rushed into Polly’s cheeks. Although the woman’s compliment appeared genuine, its frankness took her aback.

  “Kindly refrain from addressing Miss Kent in that manner,” Sinjin said coldly.

  “Oo, protective, ain’t you, guv?” the woman cooed. “Not to worry, just making a comparison to get a clearer picture o’ the dove you’re looking for.”

  “I’d concur with Miss Kent’s assessment, shifting one position closer to the end,” Sinjin muttered after an instant.

  Sweet Pea and Dunn looked at each other.

  “Nymphea,” they said.

  “Pardon?” Polly said.

  “This Nicoletta French o’ yours—could be our Nymphea Flott,” Sweet Pea explained. “Now ’er ’air weren’t dark like you said. It were a sandy brown, but changin’ the color o’ one’s coif, well, that’s as easy as switchin’ out a frock for us trained professionals.” She preened, flipping a lock over her shoulder. “But ’er shape, no changin’ that, and ’er place in the buffet queue was right where the toff says, ’twixt Hyacinth and Orchid.”

  “Miss Flott no longer works here, I presume?” Ambrose said.

  “Worked ’ere for l’il o’er a year, then moved on ’bout two months ago,” the actress replied. To her colleagues, she said, “Back to work, doves,” and the other players scattered like bright marbles.

  Ambrose whipped out his trusty notebook. “What else can you tell us about her?”

  “Nymphea wasn’t a friendly sort. Always ’ad airs an’ thought she was better than she ought to be.” Sweet Pea sniffed. “But she ’ad ’er share o’ nightly patrons.”

  Polly noticed a flicker in the woman’s aura. A spark of ambivalence, doubt… as if she recalled something but didn’t think it important enough to share?

  “Whatever you remember, Miss Sweet Pea, no matter how minor, could prove useful,” Polly coaxed. “Please tell us anything that comes to mind.”

  “Now that you mention it, I did see ’er wif a fellow once. A follower, I mean—not a customer.”

  “Tell us more about him,” Sinjin said intently.

  Twirling a curl around her finger, Sweet Pea said, “Don’t know ’is name or much else. Only saw ’im that once, mind, and I weren’t paying much attention. First rule o’ The Cytherea: don’t poach on another’s territory,” she said virtuously. “But wot wif ’im being as big as a ’ouse, ’e was a ’ard one to miss. Black ’air, night beard afore noon, eyes mean as a snake. And ’is voice was so deep it was more o’ a rumble.”

  Polly saw the excitement radiating from Sinjin. Sweet Pea’s description was a spot-on match for the male voice he’d heard that night. This had to be Nicoletta’s accomplice.

  “The cove came ’round right afore Nymphea left. ’Eard the pair o’ ’em kicking up a dust in the alley. Dunno wot it was about.” Sweet Pea shrugged. “And that’s all I know ’bout im.”

  “You mentioned Nymphea’s patrons earlier,” Ambrose said, his pencil poised. “Could you name them?”

  “Ain’t enough pages in your book, luv,” Sweet Pea drawled.

  “Could you provide us wit
h a list?” Sinjin said to the playwright.

  Dunn nodded. “Would take a bit of time to question the girls and go through the ledgers, but I reckon I could come up with something.”

  After further questioning, it became apparent that Sweet Pea and Dunn had disclosed all they knew. Thanking the pair, Polly and the others returned outside where their carriages stood waiting.

  “That was productive,” Polly said brightly.

  “Indeed.” Hope was fierce in Sinjin’s gaze.

  “What next?” Em said to the group at large.

  “Strathaven will take you and Polly home,” Ambrose stated.

  From her brother’s tone of voice, Polly knew that he would not be swayed. Evidently, Em knew this as well for she said merely, “What about you, Ambrose? Where are you going?”

  “Revelstoke and I are paying another visit to Nicoletta French, Nymphea Flott, or whatever the blazes her name is,” he said grimly. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Given the proximity of the theatre to Nicoletta’s lodging, Sinjin and Kent arrived at their destination within minutes. Throughout the ride, Kent had seemed preoccupied, his focus clearly upon what they’d just learned. Sinjin, for his part, felt a mix of relief and anticipation.

  At last, there was proof that he hadn’t made up the mysterious man—that Nicoletta French was not what she seemed. Proof that he’d been framed and wasn’t the brute that she and her accomplice had tried to make him out to be. And now, with the help of Polly’s family, he would soon unravel the sinister web and clear his name and conscience.

  Then he could go to Polly a free man.

  As they headed up the front steps of No. 12 Castle Street, Kent said curtly, “Let me lead the interview, my lord. It’s critical to strike a balance: if we intimidate her too much, she won’t talk.”

  “All right. But if I…”

  Sinjin trailed off at the same time that Kent stilled beside him.

  The front door was ajar.

  “Stay behind me,” the investigator ordered.

  Sinjin followed the other man inside, his neck prickling at the eerie stillness of the foyer. Sunshine shafted in through the transom above the door, gilding the dancing dust motes, the only movement in the room. No sounds of domestic activity, no voices… His ears twitched at a faint shuffling noise, and he tried to discern its origin. He gestured toward the hallway.

  Kent jerked his chin, and the two of them advanced stealthily down the corridor, deeper into the heart of the house. The rustling grew louder, coming from the room up ahead—the parlor where Sinjin had found Polly the other day. He and Kent were almost within the line of vision of the open door. With their backs against the wall, they consulted silently. The investigator hiked his thumb at his own chest, then made a staying motion at Sinjin.

  His gestured instructions were clear: I’m going in, you stay here.

  Like hell Sinjin would.

  Kent was already moving, swiftly rounding the doorway into the room. His voice emerged the next instant, calm yet commanding. “Stay where you are. I just want to talk.”

  “Buggering hell.” The deep bass voice was straight out of Sinjin’s nightmare.

  He didn’t pause, sprinted inside. A startling tableau greeted him: Nicoletta lying on the carpet, a scarlet bloom on her chest, a hulking black-haired man standing over her with a pistol in his fist. The gun was aimed at Kent. Instinct coiled Sinjin’s muscles. He sprang forward, diving for Polly’s brother as the shot went off in a deafening blast.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Three days later, Polly stepped into the sunshine, her hand on the sleeve of Sinjin’s jacket. His gleaming phaeton stood waiting in front of the house, the pair of matched bays bridling in their harnesses and stamping their hooves.

  “I can’t believe we’re going for a ride together,” she murmured. “It seems so…”

  “Ordinary?” When she nodded, he placed his hand over hers, giving it a light squeeze before handing her up into the equipage. “After everything that has happened, I’d say we’ve earned a little normality, kitten.”

  She couldn’t agree more.

  Three days ago, Sinjin and Ambrose had found Miss French shot through the heart, her killer standing red-handed over her. The blackguard had tried to commit murder yet again, but Sinjin had foiled his attempt. He’d pushed Ambrose out of harm’s way, and, thankfully, the shot had missed them both. Unfortunately, the villain had gotten away, but the truth of what had happened at Corbett’s had finally come to light.

  Ambrose had discovered a blackmail note on Nicoletta’s desk. Signed by the dead woman, it had been addressed to Sinjin and contained a nefarious demand: pay five thousand pounds or she would bring charges of assault against him. She’d stated that she’d convinced Corbett of her story and would use the powerful businessman as a corroborating witness. She’d threatened to spread word of Sinjin’s brutality to the gossip rags and destroy his reputation unless he paid for her silence.

  The extortion attempt had been well planned, but something must have gone dangerously awry between Nicoletta and her accomplice. Ambrose hypothesized that they’d had an argument, over the money perhaps, and, in a fit of rage, the man with the deep voice had shot his lover dead. At present, Ambrose and his partners were on the hunt for Nicoletta’s co-conspirator and murderer.

  Although questions remain unanswered, Ambrose no longer had any doubt that Sinjin had been the victim, not the perpetrator, of a heinous crime. The evidence found at Nicoletta’s lodgings had compelled him to revise his assessment of Sinjin—that and the fact that he owed his life to the other man’s bravery.

  Hence, Polly was allowed on this, her first drive, with Sinjin. It was all very proper, an unchaperoned ride in an open carriage deemed permitted behavior. For Polly, it was a thrill nonetheless to spend time alone with Sinjin, even if only for a short journey through Hyde Park.

  He vaulted into the high perch, settling beside her. With the dreadful business over, it became clear to Polly just how much of a strain he’d been under. ’Twas as if a dark cloud had passed, his true brilliance now shining through. Goodness, she didn’t know how it was possible, but he was even more devastatingly handsome than before.

  Shadows no longer hung beneath his vivid eyes. His chiseled features were smooth and rested. His deep blue jacket, striped waistcoat, and biscuit-colored trousers clung to his muscular physique. He exuded male power, his virility undeniable.

  Although she’d worn her best promenade dress—a white dotted Swiss muslin with ruffles on the high bodice—she wished she was more his match. Perhaps she ought to consider trying a more daring and fashionable silhouette. Then again, how could she ever compare with his perfection? If she tried to, she might draw more attention to her flaws and end up looking even more foolish… like a partridge masquerading in a swan’s feathers.

  With a practiced snap of the reins, he set the spirited horses into motion, the smooth ride dispelling some of her doubts. She told herself to focus on the beauty of the moment, which had been hard-fought for. The usual city brouhaha—clattering vehicles, shouting hawkers and tradesmen—made it difficult to do more than make small talk until they passed the gates of the park. Once within the leafy enclosure, they found an oasis. Frenzy gave way to birdsong and the muted conversations of the fashionable crowd on horse or on foot.

  Polly noted the curious looks aimed in their direction—not surprising, since Sinjin caused a furor wherever he went. By supper, word would be all over Town that he’d been seen in her company. Anxiety surged; she had enough concerns about the feasibility of marriage to Sinjin without the added pressure of being placed in Society’s fishbowl.

  “We’ll avoid Rotten Row,” Sinjin said as if gleaning her thoughts. “Too crowded by far.”

  He navigated them toward a quieter, winding path that took them along the banks of the sparkling Serpentine. Polly couldn’t help but admire the way he handled the reins. Unlike many spo
rting gentlemen, Sinjin showed no unnecessary flourishes. He didn’t need to: his masterful driving said it all. His horses clearly knew who was in charge for they responded with exquisite precision to his maneuvering.

  Having experienced the strength and skill of Sinjin’s touch, Polly understood the horses’ reaction. The memory of his lovemaking in the carriage momentarily fogged her brain. Shameless wanton that she was, she’d relived that magic more than once in the privacy of her own head.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Sinjin said.

  Her cheeks warmed. Since she couldn’t very well tell him that she’d been having lustful fantasies of him, she said the next closest thing on her mind. “I was wondering how you’re faring now that the nasty business with Nicoletta French is over.”

  “I’m relieved,” he said, “and I will be more so once your brother apprehends her accomplice. Questions remain that I want answered.” He frowned. “I still don’t understand, for instance, why she and her co-conspirator didn’t try to extort me sooner, why they waited as long as they did.”

  “Perhaps because they couldn’t locate you at Mrs. Barlow’s retreat?” Polly suggested. “Or perhaps they thought they’d take your father’s br—money first. Drain him of what they could before they moved onto you.”

  “There’s no need to sugar coat: my father did pay her for her silence,” he said flatly, “and you’ve likely hit the nail on the head with the rest of it as well.”

  His expression didn’t change, but she saw the dark pain seeping into his light. She wondered, not for the first time, about his family. Her own would support her through anything, and she didn’t understand why the Duke of Acton wouldn’t believe in his own son’s innocence. In the past, Sinjin had proved reticent about his kin, but now they had the opportunity for deeper conversation.

  Proceeding with caution, she said, “Have you spoken to him about the latest developments?”

  A muscle jerked in Sinjin’s jaw. “I sent him a note.”

  “Did he reply?”