The Lady Hellion (9 page)

“My lord.”

He turned to find Taylor striding toward him, a note in hand. “Yes?”

“This was just delivered.” Taylor offered the paper from his own fingers, which no proper butler would ever do. A proper butler would have the paper on a salver and present it with great flourish. Though Quint had to admit, he definitely preferred the non-flourish method. Another reason he liked Taylor.

Quint slid his thumb under a seal he recognized and then noticed Taylor hovering. “Yes?”

“It has been some time since your lordship has eaten, so I had Cook prepare something. It is waiting in the study, my lord.”

Quint was not particularly hungry and he hated to be needled, but he supposed he should eat. “Fine.”

He glanced at the parchment. A note from Colton. Julia had given birth to a boy. An heir. God help the ladies of the
ton
in twenty years, Quint thought with a grin. Along with reporting on the mother’s health and the baby’s exemplary constitution, Colton invited Quint to visit Seaton Hall. Quint hated the idea of disappointing his two friends, but traveling anywhere was out of the question.

He’d best concoct a plausible excuse, however, or Colton might very well show up on his doorstep.

 

 

Activity buzzed inside The Black Queen late on a Friday evening. Hazard tables, croupiers, roulette wheels . . . the frenzy kept the guests hopeful while they emptied their pockets. Sophie, decked out in Sir Stephen’s finery, strolled to the nearest table and placed a few bets while searching the room.

A far cry from where she’d been earlier tonight, at one of the Season’s first events, dressed in a ball gown and pretending to enjoy herself. Sophie did so much of that lately—pretending—that it was becoming difficult to remember the real woman.

When one of the house girls drew near, Sophie gave a nod to attract her attention, and the lightskirt soon arrived at her side.

“Wanna buy some time, luv?” She smelled of gin and sweat, her clothes threadbare.

Sophie shook her head. “I am looking for Molly.”

Pearl had sent a note earlier—through Alice, of course—with the name of a girl to see tonight in hopes of getting some answers. With any luck, Pearl’s connection would be free. Sophie did not care to be at The Black Queen any longer than necessary. It was another of O’Shea’s establishments, and not in a reputable area of town.

“That’s her, over there.” The girl pointed to the back, where a brown-haired girl was bent over, whispering in a gentleman’s ear. Sophie slipped the girl a coin, then headed for Molly. When she drew near, Molly glanced up and gave Sophie a once-over. Her lips twitched before she put her mouth near the man’s ear once more. Whatever she said made him laugh and pat her backside, and Molly straightened to face Sophie.

“Were you wantin’ go somewhere private, sir?”

“Yes, I do. Where?”

Molly grinned. “Follow me.” She brushed past Sophie and continued to a door by the faro tables. A large, rough-looking man with a forbidding expression opened the door and Molly sailed through, Sophie following behind.

At the landing, they nearly ran over a girl on her knees. A man leaned against the wall, his trousers undone, pushed to the tops of his white thighs, while the girl worked his male member with her mouth. The act was not unheard of, certainly, but it was the first time Sophie had ever seen it in person. Head bobbing, the girl pulled her lips over the taut, glistening flesh, wet sucking sounds filling the cramped space. Sophie stood motionless, unable to look away. The scene was strangely titillating. The man’s lids were closed, his face slackened in pleasure, and he didn’t even notice the interruption. But the girl’s eyes landed on Sophie—and she winked.

A hand on Sophie’s elbow pulled her farther down the corridor. “In here,” Molly said, throwing open one of the doors. She crossed to sit on the small bed and her hands went to the laces on the front of her shabby gown. “What might your lordship be lookin’ for tonight?”

“Nothing of that sort.” Sophie held up her hand. “I just need to talk.”

“Oh, you like to watch? We get plenty of those, too.” She reached for the hem of her gown, lifting.

“No,” Sophie said quickly. “Pearl Kelly said you might be able to help me with some information.”

“Pearl Kelly.” Molly grinned. “Well. I haven’t seen her in years. Known her forever, since before we even had tits. She’s got quite a life for herself now. So what did she send you here for?”

“Have you heard about the bodies being pulled from the river? The girls?”

Molly shook her head. “No. Why?”

“One of the girls who died, found a few days ago, she had a marking near her ankle. A small playing card, a black queen. The surgeon said it was a tattoo, most likely from whatever house she worked.”

Molly nodded. “O’Shea makes all of us get ’em.” She lifted her leg, pointed to her stocking-clad ankle. Sophie could just make out a black smudge under the wool. “He says it’s to remind us of where we belong.” She rolled her eyes. “As if we could forget.”

The barbaric practice of permanently marking women like cattle caused bile to rise in Sophie’s throat. “Have any of the girls gone missing recently? I am trying to find someone, a girl from The Pretty Kitty. The Thames police think she might’ve been pulled from the water two weeks ago. If I can find a man who knew both of these dead women—a customer, perhaps—then I might find whoever was responsible.”

Molly shook her head, her gaze sliding away. “I can’t think of anyone who’s gone missin’.”

An obvious lie, and Sophie had no intention of letting it drop. “Are you sure? This girl, the one found mutilated two days ago, obviously worked here at some point. Brown hair. She had blue eyes with a small scar—”

Molly made a choking sound, then covered her mouth with her hand. Sophie could see the emotion on the other woman’s face from across the room. “Tell me, Molly. It’s plain you knew her. Tell me who she was.”

Molly drew in a ragged breath. “I can’t,” she whispered, and Sophie noticed something new in Molly’s eyes. Fear.

“Of course you can.” Sophie frowned and stepped closer. “You can help me find whoever did this to her. Please, just tell me what you know.”

A tear slipped down Molly’s cheek and she quickly brushed it away. “I can’t,” she repeated in the same hushed tone. “If I do, he’ll kill me, too.”

“Who?” Sophie pressed. “Who will kill you? You must tell me, Molly.”

Molly shot to her feet. “Forgive me for sayin’, but I don’t have to tell you a thing, my lady.” Sophie jerked at the form of address, but Molly continued, her voice quiet and determined. “This is a lark to you, to come down here and ask questions, nosin’ around. Then you get in your fancy carriage and go back to your nice house on the other side of town.” She placed her hand on her chest. “I got no choice but to stay here. And if they find out I been talkin’ about things I shouldn’t, I’ll be breathin’ my last.”

The words hurt, as true as they were, but Sophie did not let them deter her. “He rapes them, Molly.” Molly closed her eyes, and Sophie continued, “He forces her and then he strangles her. And then he cuts off her right hand before throwing her into the river like refuse. If you know who would do such a horrible thing, then you have to say it before anyone else is killed.”

“No, I don’t. I feel poorly for those girls, but they ain’t me.” She lifted her chin. “And sometimes there are fates far worse than being killed. O’Shea don’t like his girls talkin’ and causin’ trouble. I can’t help you. Now I need to get back to the floor.” She started for the door.

Disappointment rolled through Sophie. There was no way to force the girl to tell what she knew, and Sophie could not protect Molly should O’Shea find out. “What if I pay you?” That got Molly’s attention, so Sophie said, “I have some money saved. What if I can pay you for the information? You could use the money to leave London, go far away where O’Shea cannot find you.”

Molly’s lips turned into a sad, resigned smile. “There’s nowhere O’Shea can’t find us, if he has a mind to. You best leave it alone, miss—else you’re likely to find yourself a Thames trout, too.”

As Molly reached for the latch, Sophie blurted, “How did you know I wasn’t a man?”

The girl gestured to Sophie’s crotch. “Your bollocks. Men carry ’em around like the most precious things on earth. You walk like you’ve nothin’ hangin’ between your legs.”

Sophie was still pondering that piece of information as she stood downstairs, preparing to leave. As she shrugged on her coat, she noticed an errand boy accept a note from one of the floor bosses. The boy waited for instructions, nodded, and raced out the front door. Sophie hurried to follow him outside. When the boy started off down the street, Sophie chased him, calling for him to stop. She cursed her shoes, which prevented her from catching him.

The boy glanced over his shoulder, his wild red hair sticking every which way, and slowed to a stop. “Wot is it, guv?”

“You work here, running messages and the like?”

His expression turned wary. “So wot if I do?”

“I bet you know everything that happens inside.”

He puffed up, as only a young boy could. “I know my fair share.”

Sophie took out a coin from her coat and presented it to him. “This is yours if you’ll answer a question.” Then she described the missing girl. “Do you know her?”

He shook his head. “Girls, they keep to themselves, mostly. O’Shea don’t care for ’em talkin’ when they should be tuppin’.” Two fingers reached out and snatched the coin.

“Wait,” she said before he could dash away. “What’s your name?”

“Red.” He pointed to his head.

“Well, Red, there’s plenty more coins where that came from. Would you like to earn them? All you would need to do is be willing to keep me informed.”

Chapter Nine

After securing Red’s promise of help, Sophie continued down the street and glanced about. No hacks anywhere in sight. With no choice, she began to walk in order to find one, her hat pulled low as her mind turned over the conversation with Molly.

Molly had known the girl’s identity. Fear had prevented her from saying. Fear of O’Shea, certainly, but had there been fear of someone else? Did Molly know the killer? If so, the prudent thing would be to tell someone so the man could be caught and hanged. Though Sophie could hardly blame her hesitancy; women like Molly held little faith in law and justice, since they saw so little of it in their own lives.

Perhaps Sophie should return on another night and question a different girl, one who might be willing to share information. She shuddered to think of what O’Shea did to the girls under his control to frighten them. If rape, mutilation, and strangulation paled in comparison . . .

The night was fairly quiet despite the early hour. Two cats fought nearby in a tangle of screeches and hisses, and the faint revelry from a nearby tavern spilled out into the street. Both served as a comforting reminder that she was not completely alone in this deserted stretch.

A noise caught Sophie’s attention. A boot scraped on stone—a sound out of place considering the desolation on the street. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Was someone following her?

She glanced around, checking. Nothing moved, not even the wind. Her trepidation rising, she transferred her walking stick to her left side, slid her right hand into an inside pocket, and clasped the comforting weight of her knife. She increased her pace. Bishop’s Gate was not far, and there should be enough activity there to lose whoever might be behind her.

Her heart pumping, she regretted evading Quint’s man earlier. If she hadn’t, she could be on her way home by now. Another sound, this time closer.

It all happened in a flash. She spun to find a large shape nearly upon her but did not have time to focus on his face before the glint of a blade caught her eye. A knife streaked toward her chest. Holding up her right arm, she tried to block the attack while shifting her body. The weight of the blow landed on her forearm, dislodging the knife in her hand. It clattered to the ground, and there was a sharp sting near her shoulder. She had no time to examine it, however, because the man slashed once more, this time near her belly.

Sophie jumped back and raised her walking stick to defend herself. The ineffectual adornment bounced off the man’s shoulders, not affecting him in the least. A sneer twisted his lips as he advanced. She hadn’t ever seen him before. Crooked nose and large, rough features. He was missing two teeth from the top of his mouth, but otherwise seemed fit. Even if the heavy greatcoat were not hampering her legs, she could not outrun him.

He moved quickly, aiming for her stomach again, and she reacted on instinct. Using all her weight, she bent low and threw herself into him. It put him off balance, just enough that she could slide her boot behind his foot and trip him. He fell backward—but did not release her. Instead, he pulled her down as well and she landed with a jarring thump on the ground. The side of her head slammed against the walk and pain exploded behind her eyes, the impact dazing her.

“Fucking cunt,” she heard the man grunt before he rolled to slash the knife across Sophie’s thigh. Sophie kicked as hard as she could, her boot catching him on the knee. Struggling for breath, she knew she had to get to her feet. On the ground, she was as good as dead. But everything hurt and she felt dizzy. Dear God, was she going to die on the street?

What felt like a large tree trunk rammed into her stomach, knocking all the air from her lungs. Sophie gasped, closed her eyes, and curled into a ball to protect herself. Then the sharp crack of a pistol erupted, and she tensed, expecting to feel a searing pain rip through some part of her body. None came, however, and the last thing she saw before the blackness rose up to engulf her was Quint’s guard standing over the attacker, a smoking pistol in his hand.

 

 

Quint heard the commotion before the study door even opened. Loud voices were uncommon in the house, generally heralding an unwanted visitor.

He was halfway around the desk by the time Taylor threw open the door. “My lord, he just arrived,” Taylor said, standing aside as Jenkins entered, a limp form cradled in his arms. Quint’s insides went cold. Christ almighty, it was
Sophie
. Dressed in man’s garments. And . . . dead?

“I didn’t know what else to do, my lord,” Jenkins blurted as Quint rushed forward. “Figured you’d want me to bring him ’ere. He’s lost quite a bit of blood.”

With a desperate lurch, Quint reached for her, the need to touch her overwhelming him. Thankfully, Jenkins did not question it, just placed the body in Quint’s outstretched arms. She was tall but thin, and stirred as Quint held her close. “I am fine,” she murmured against his shoulder. “Just need to rest a few moments.”

His chest seized painfully, this time from panic of a different sort. How badly was she hurt? He sucked in a breath and said to Jenkins, “Follow and tell me what happened.”

He pushed by both men and strode quickly for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He went to the chamber adjoining his and kicked the door open. Striding inside, he placed her on the bed. “Taylor!” he shouted.

“Yes, my lord,” Taylor said from directly behind him.

Quint began unbuttoning Sophie’s outer garments. “Send a footman to Barnes House for Lady Sophia’s lady’s maid, Alice. Then bring every medical supply we have in the house. Fresh cloths. Boiled water.
Now!
”

“Shall I send for a physician as well, my lord?”

“No,” Quint replied emphatically. “Absolutely not. I’ll tend to her—him—myself.” He slid the greatcoat off her arms, and she groaned at the movement. The slash in the fabric near her right shoulder caught his attention. Blood stained the fabric.
Goddammit
.

“What happened, Jenkins?” he barked, tossing the coat on the ground. He went for her boots next and noticed another slice in her trousers. Wet, dark crimson spread over her thigh. That laceration would need to be treated first. On the unused washstand, he found a clean linen towel. “Here, press this against the wound on his thigh.”

Jenkins came forward and did as instructed, which earned a groan from Sophie. “Apologies, my lord,” Jenkins mumbled and then continued his report. “He did exactly as your lordship said he would. Tried to give me the slip in the mews, but I was ready for him. Followed him to The Black Queen over in—”

A large, darker-skinned man burst in, a stack of clean towels in his arms. Quint blinked, paused in the process of removing Sophie’s boot. “
Who the devil are you?
”

The man drew himself up. “I am Vander, your lordship’s new valet. I have brought you fresh linens.”

His manner of dress was English, but the voice revealed his eastern heritage—India, specifically. Quint’s eyes narrowed on the interloper, helpfulness notwithstanding. “And you were to remain below stairs, where we would never cross paths with one another.”

Visibly shaken, the valet nodded and placed the linens on the bed. He hurried from the room, not saying another word.

“Quint,” Sophie gasped, regaining his attention.

New valet forgotten, he slipped off her boot. “Continue, Jenkins.”

“So The Black Queen. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” Quint gritted out. Had she completely lost her mind? A gaming hell in that part of town was no place to go alone, lady or no.

“Weren’t there even an hour before he came out and started toward the corner. I followed at a distance so he wouldn’t scent me. Then this big fellow come out from an alley and pulled a knife. Lad put up a good fight, but the fellow got in a couple good swipes before I came alongside.”

Quint removed her second boot and hurried to slide her arms out of the topcoat. “And where is this fellow now?”

“Dead, more ’n likely. I put a ball in his head, picked up the lad, and came straight here.” Jenkins chuckled. “The lad knocked that big ox off his feet. Never seen anything like it. Swiped his boots right out from underneath him. That’s a brave one right there, my lord.”

“Yes, very brave,” Quint muttered from behind clenched teeth. “I’ll take over now. That will be all, Jenkins. And thank you.”

“Happy to help, my lord.” Jenkins stepped back and Quint pressed on Sophie’s thigh to staunch the flow of blood. Quiet footfalls were muffled by carpet as Jenkins departed; then the door closed.

“Please do not be cross with me,” Sophie whispered, her voice quivering with pain.

“Cross does not begin to characterize what I am experiencing right now.” White-hot boiling rage. Paralyzing, debilitating fear. Frustration at his worthless inability to protect her. Regret he had not informed her father of these outings. So much emotion bubbled up inside him he thought he might choke.

“I am not seriously injured, Quint. A few nicks. I bumped my head on the ground when I fell, and it made me a bit dizzy.”

“Oh, is that all?” he drawled.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips. “I am relying on your levelheaded reasonableness. Do not get upset over something so trivial.”

He was not feeling particularly levelheaded or reasonable at the moment. “You are bleeding all over the coverlet. I would not call that trivial.” Using one hand, he loosened her cravat to make her more comfortable. “I shall wait for your maid to remove the rest of your clothing.”

“Not necessary.” She yawned, likely an aftermath of the energy expenditure as well as the concussion. “Do what you must. I need to return home before I am discovered missing.”

He stared at her, studied the dirt and smudges marring creamy skin. Exhaustion etched her fine features, while the bedclothes turned crimson with her lifeblood. Someone had tried to
kill
her. Quint had known the risks, yet allowed her to carry on regardless. This was every bit as much his fault as hers. “Aiding you in this deception has lost its appeal, considering what happened this evening. Perhaps if you are discovered missing, it will prevent future acts of harebrained recklessness.”

Her lids snapped open, the brown irises cloudy with pain. “You would not dare. If I were found here—”

Taylor knocked and entered, thankfully cutting off Sophie’s objections. Whatever her argument, Quint did not want to hear it. Taylor set a large tray down on the bedside table, and a maid came in to light the fire. After asking the girl to hold the towel on Sophie’s thigh, Quint busied himself by taking stock of the strips of linen, salves, and herbs. The butler had wisely included a bottle of brandy. “Bring me a knife, Taylor.”

Quint strode to his chambers and thoroughly scrubbed his hands with soap and fresh water. When he returned, he found Sophie’s lady’s maid by the bed, pressing the cloth on Sophie’s wound. Sophie’s lids were closed, her skin pale. He knew she was in pain, yet she was admirably determined not to show it, her body clenched to bear the agony. A fire now blazed in the long-forgotten hearth to bring some warmth to the musty space. A small knife had been placed on the stack of linens.

He uncorked the brandy and splashed a large amount in a glass. Selecting a vial, he sprinkled some powder into the liquid, stirred it, and handed the glass to the maid. “See that she drinks it.”

The maid sniffed it. “What is it?”

“Peruvian bark.” Knife now in hand, he moved to Sophie’s side.

“Pardon me for asking, my lord, but shouldn’t we give her laudanum instead?”

“With a head injury, I’d rather not. The opiate will slow her responses. And we’ll accomplish more in a shorter amount of time if you follow my instructions without questioning them.”

“It’s fine, Alice,” Sophie rasped. “I’ll drink it. I trust his lordship.” The maid helped Sophie raise her head enough to throw back the brandy in one mouthful. Quint would have wondered over Sophie’s familiarity with spirits if he weren’t so petrified about her bleeding out on the bed.

He put the blade to her trousers, preparing to rend them.

“No!” Sophie said. “Do not cut my clothing. Pull it off instead.”

“Which will be infinitely more painful for you. Do not be ridiculous, Sophie.” He raised the knife to the wool once more.

She made a feeble attempt to clutch at his arm. “Quint, stop. I need my clothing to wear home.”

His gaze locked with hers. Stubborn, maddening female. He was of half a mind to let her stumble home dishabille. It would serve her right for embarking on the mad scheme in the first place. “Please,” she whispered.

“Remove her clothing,” Quint ordered the maid and moved to the far side of the room.

He stood with his back turned, listening to fabric rustle and Sophie’s gasps of pain each time she was forced to move. With anyone but her, Quint would have felt vindicated by those tiny expressions of abject misery. But the sounds she made twisted his insides, the idea that she’d been attacked strangling him.

A thump followed a grunt. He heard the maid move the bedclothes. “There, my lord.”

Spinning, he found the injured side of her body exposed, while bedding covered the rest of her. Skin gone the color of flour, Sophie’s eyes were screwed shut. She panted in obvious torment. The wound on her shoulder had started bleeding again, while a steady stream of blood dripped from the cut on her thigh.

“Was it worth it?” He picked up a fresh cloth and pressed it to her leg.

“Yes,” she gasped, turning even paler.

“Liar.”

Working efficiently, Quint cleaned the wound thoroughly. Then he stitched it neatly, Sophie gritting her teeth with each pull of the needle. When he finished, he bound the leg tightly. Thankfully, the cut on her shoulder was shallow and did not require stitches, merely cleaning and bandaging.

He handed the jar of salve to her maid. “Use this on the wounds when you change the dressings, but you absolutely must wash your hands each time. Do not touch her unless you’ve done so.”