Sin (17 page)

“Ye’d better ’ave that brandy now, madam.”

Venetia found herself reaching for it, before she remembered he was a servant. What had become of her that a masculine voice had her automatically obeying? “Thank you…”

“Polk, madam.”

She said, as austerely as she could, “That will be all, Polk.”

She knew this man was shocked by the death too—he banged his tray against the half-open door in his haste to leave and muttered a ripe curse. There was a strange, nervous quickness in his step and he pulled the door shut behind him with a too-loud bang.

Someone had throttled Lydia Harcourt, deliberately, cold-bloodedly, and boldly. Someone whom she had threatened had turned on her. Someone in the house had killed.

She downed a glass of neat brandy, and found herself caught up in the heated dizziness left by the drink, her throat burning, but her entire body shivering. The most horrible thought settled on her. Evil. Selfish. Terrible. But it stuck there and she couldn’t dislodge it.

She was safe. Her sisters, Maryanne and Grace, were safe. Her entire family was safe.

Someone had saved her family.

And, heaven help her, she felt relief.

“It’s the gypsies. Bloody thieving gypsies.”

Marcus let the sheet drape over Lydia’s destroyed face, surprised to feel a twinge of sympathy for both the victim and the gypsies Chartrand claimed had killed her.

He leveled a cool glance at his host. “Gypsies? Bold to break in here in the middle of the morning. You believe they scaled the wall in the pouring rain to steal?”

Chartrand paced alongside the bed, arms crossed over his large chest. “They came through that window.” He jabbed a thick finger toward it. The wind snatched the paned glass panel and threw it back in place.

“Could that window be closed before it shatters?” Marcus snapped and a footman leapt forward to do his bidding.

Chartrand’s gaze locked into his, hollow, unblinking, shocked.

Of course. He remembered now—incredible to think he’d forgotten. The gypsies. Chartrand’s blank, stunned look. Chartrand’s first wife had been attacked in the woods by a gypsy boy and killed. The senseless murder had stunned the
haute volée
. He’d been a typical bloodthirsty adolescent, fascinated by the details. The lurid newsheet descriptions of the body, the blood, the wound—

God help him, but so had most schoolboys his age. And the gypsy boy had dangled on a rope.

He motioned for the footmen to help him move Lydia. “It was locked on the inside, Chartrand. I know, I locked it myself.”

“Might be appropriate if you don’t mention that, Trent.”

Sliding his hand beneath Lydia’s shoulder, Marcus stared at Chartrand, who wore a mulish, petulant look. “Appropriate if I don’t mention the truth?”

Chartrand wheeled around and stalked to the fireplace. Marcus turned his back on him. At this moment he had to move Lydia, lay her out on the bed in an unused room.

A clanging sound came from behind him. Chartrand idly striking the poker against the grate. “It’s obvious the gypsies got in some other way and had to use the window to get out,” Chartrand said. “It’s easy enough for the likes of them to get into a house. They all but destroyed Lydia’s room and took her jewels. Must have stole in another way—by the kitchens, or a first floor window. Don’t muddy the waters by making things look complicated.”

“Put that bloody poker down, Chartrand.” He didn’t want to direct Chartrand to take charge—Chartrand would be burning out the gypsy camp if he did that. “Have you sent for the magistrate? I want to have Lydia Harcourt’s room locked—and this one left untouched until I say otherwise.”

“Until
you
say otherwise?” This roused Chartrand from his corner by the fire. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor. “Lydia’s room will stay locked and the key with me.”

“I’ll need new rooms for Vixen and I.”

At this Chartrand’s bullish stance eased. “Of course, Trent. The girl’s suffered a bad shock. Rutledge will see to this.”

Chartrand rang the bell pull, but the butler appeared in the room almost instantaneously. “The green room is in readiness, my lord, for the body. I regret to inform, my lord, that it will be impossible for Lord Aspers, the magistrate, to journey here at this time. Reportedly the entire lower road is under water, the bridges destroyed. No carriages can enter or leave. Even travel of horseback would be impossible.”

“Bloody hell,” Chartrand groaned. Marcus agreed. They had a murdered woman on their hands, and no hope of seeing the law for several days.

“Do you require more men to assist in removing the body?”

“Under control, Rutledge. But my companion will require a new room.” Marcus scrubbed his jaw as he spoke. He didn’t trust Chartrand to act as the law. Hell, he had no idea exactly who Lydia was blackmailing but from the tension, the anger boiling amongst the men here, he’d guess every man in attendance.

Rutledge bowed and withdrew.

“Now that we know the magistrate isn’t coming—” Pointing, Marcus directed one brawny footman to Lydia’s shoulders, the second to her legs. “I’ll help lift, but you two are to carry Mrs. Harcourt upstairs.”

But before they moved her, he lifted the edge of the sheet and studied the wound in the throat once more. Neat and deeply gouged—a slice into her throat. A wire had been used, he guessed. He let the white cloth drop. “Take her up.”

He turned immediately to his host. “Chartrand—send Rutledge or someone upstairs to deal with the body.”

Now he wondered as he watched Chartrand shuffle out, looking a confused, beaten man instead of the bully he usually was. Was he racked with grief, remembering his first wife’s death? Or had Chartrand murdered his wife and Lydia had blackmailed him over it?

Marcus gave a grim smile as he was left alone. He’d loved the serial book,
Gentleman of Justice—Tales of a Bow Street Runner
, a romanticized work but with some sound thoughts about logical detection, including the lesson to not leap to conclusions.

A soft sound caught his attention and he glanced up. His heart lurched in his chest at the sight of Venetia trembling in the doorway, her hand checking to ensure her mask was still in place. He was in front of her in one quick step, and took her hands in his. Like ice. He stroked his hands gently all over hers.

“Sweeting, what are you doing here?” Marcus asked. “You need to be in bed.”

Venetia tried to look around Marcus’ large, solid body to see into her room. The brandy had left her a bit woozy, but revived. She hadn’t come in earlier while Marcus spoke with Chartrand and Rutledge. Shameful though it was, she’d listened at the connecting door.

“It’s horrible,” she said softly.

Marcus wrapped his arm around her shoulders, turning her back toward his bedroom. Gently, but the command was unmistakable. So easy to surrender…to rely on his strength to see her through…

“Marcus, I want to go in there.”

“What in Hades for, Vee? You’ve had a shock. You need to rest.”

She tried to resist—she wanted to go in
her
room. She would find the courage! “I want to see if there are clues to who did this. It wasn’t a gypsy who did this—it was someone Lydia blackmailed. Why—why do you think she was killed in
my
room?”

“I think it happened in your room simply due to opportunity,” he said gently.

“You mean they followed her here and caught her by surprise? But why not in her room?”

“She wouldn’t have screamed at first, when caught in here. She would have been afraid to give herself away.”

Venetia blinked away the sudden thought of Lydia Harcourt’s horror when she knew she would die. Poor Lydia. No one deserved that. No one deserved to be brutally killed.

Marcus propelled her through the connecting doorway. “This is not your concern. She did bring this upon herself, pet. No one deserves to die that way, true, but Lydia was a tough, surviving bitch, and would destroy anyone to get what she wanted. She teased tigers and they attacked.”

Pulling her hands free of Marcus’, Venetia stepped back and faced him. She’d thought him a protector, noble despite his licentious ways. Yet he seemed to be blaming Lydia for being the victim. Frowning, she pointed out, “Lydia was worried about her future, just like I am.”

She stood on the threshold between their rooms. She faced two choices—retreat into obedient safety in his room or confrontation in hers.

“Lydia is not at all like you, sweeting. You aren’t hurting anyone else with what you’re doing.” He met her gaze, his eyes questioning, confused. “How can you champion the woman? She set out to destroy you.”

“She had to survive,” Venetia protested. “What was Lydia going to do when men wouldn’t pay her any more? Yes, she had to be scandalous. Yes, she had to break rules. But I can understand the desperation. I, of all people, have no right to judge her. And neither do you.”

He snapped back at that, those stunning, almost unearthly greenish-blue eyes narrowing. “And just what do you mean by that?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to be desperate.”

“Nor do you.” A dark anger rumbled in his voice. “You had other options, sweeting. The truth is that you didn’t like them. I do know what it is like to be desperate. Hell, I know what it is like to be willing to kill.”

“W
ho were you willing to kill?” Venetia asked.

What in hell had possessed him to say that? Marcus reached out to Venetia, to turn her abruptly by her shoulders and direct her to his bed, but she darted free of his grasp. She rushed back into her room and ran right for her bed—where Lydia had lain.

She might have been raised as a proper young lady, but she most definitely hadn’t been molded into one, and in more ways than just her unrestrained sensuality. She was too blunt, too direct, too questioning, and most definitely the daughter of the parents she’d described—a rebellious lady and a flamboyant artist. She began lifting the pillows, searching through the sheets.

“Stop it,” he snapped. “You are not to involve yourself in this.”

“There must be some clue…” She bent and slid her hands under the mattress. “Do you mean you killed a man in a duel? That isn’t the same thing as being truly desperate and afraid.”

“It wasn’t a duel.”

She glanced up, frowning. “Then why did you do it?” She frowned. Pushing—like a fencing opponent driven to draw first blood.

Should he just answer her and be done with it? Say simply ‘I killed my father’ and ignore the rest of the inevitable questions? Instead, he snapped, “Blast it! It makes no difference why, but it was over a point of honor. A matter of decency.”

But it hadn’t been. It had been blind rage driving him.

“You took charge in there,” she said. “You took control away from Chartrand. Are you going to search for Lydia’s killer?”

“I’d leave that to the magistrate. Let the law deal as it should.” His only concern was protecting his sister, his family’s name. His only plan was to search again for that blasted manuscript.

Venetia stood. “But will the law also dismiss Lydia for what she was? A courtesan. Will they care?”

“Stop this.” Marcus grasped her hands and drew her away from the bed. She still wore her mask, and he untied it and pulled it away. Her face was stark white. Her eyes enormous.

She clapped her hand to her mouth. “She spoke of a manuscript at dinner!” she cried. “What if she brought it with her? What if everyone’s secrets are there? What if mine are? I must look—”

“You will stay here. In my room. I will search for Lydia’s manuscript.”

“But we must go now! What if someone else finds it?” She bit her lip. “The room is probably locked—”

“I have a lock pick.”

She frowned. “A lock pick?”

“A tool designed to spring locks,” he explained, as though it was normal to bring one along to an orgy. “I searched Lydia’s room last night. I didn’t find a manuscript, a diary, or any sort of journal. Admittedly, I had to abandon the search before I was caught by her maid.” He fought to keep his voice cool. To appear detached. He couldn’t let emotion show—couldn’t let her guess that Lydia Harcourt knew his family’s secrets too.

“You searched her room last night?” Ingenuous innocence shone in her green-flecked hazel eyes. “For me? You weren’t having sex with other women?”

He read the uncertainty in her voice—knowing he’d been faithful had been a relief. Did it mean she wanted more from this experience than he could offer? “No, I was not having sex with other women. And if the book is in Lydia’s room, it’s cleverly hidden. Or she didn’t bring it. I want you to stay in bed—my bed—and do not go into—”

“Oh no, her book is precious to her,” she broke in. “Lydia wouldn’t trust it at home. What of fire? Or some other disaster? Her housekeeper certainly knew she was blackmailing, so would guess she had valuable secrets. I know how one worries over creative work—I’m certain she brought it with her. I am coming with you to search.”

“You are definitely not. You’ve had a bad shock—”

“And I want to get out of this room! If there is one thing I’ve learned it is not to cower and wring my hands, but to take action. And I’m a woman. Did you ever search for your sister’s diary?”

An arrow lanced his heart. He had, but not to tease Min over it. “All right. I admit it. I did and I never found it.”

“The killer must have found it!” Venetia forgot to whisper as her heart sank to her slippers. Lydia’s room was utterly devastated. Her gowns and corsets tumbled out of the standing wardrobe. The sheets had been ripped from the bed.

Marcus slid the slim metal tool—the lock pick—into his coat pocket. He shook his head and explained in a low voice, “This looks like a hurried search. There’s a chance the searcher didn’t find it. Ensure you leave things as they are—we can’t move things before the magistrate arrives.”

The magistrate! Venetia froze in shock, one of Lydia’s gowns drawn tight by her clenched hands. The horror of the morning had kept her from seeing the danger. To prove their innocence she would have to reveal to the magistrate that they had been witnesses to that bondage display.

And the magistrate would insist she take off her mask. All her secrets would be revealed.

“Jewelry box.” Marcus lifted a large cream and gilt box inlaid with winking stones.

Legs trembling, Venetia looked over and let the gown fall. Lined with velvet, the box was empty but for one glinting bit of gold. An earbob stuck in the bottom corner.

Venetia’s thoughts whirled as she sifted through the gowns, searching for pockets, for a book. She couldn’t face the magistrate. She was going to be ruined. Her family would be ruined.

She searched the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the escritoire, the back of the cheval mirror. Nothing. She explored each gown—feeling the bodice, kneading skirts between shaking fingers. After that she rummaged through the undergarments in the drawers.

Marcus flipped up the lid of one of Lydia’s trunks. “I didn’t have time to thoroughly search this one.” It was filled to the top with books. Frowning, Marcus lifted one.

“
Tom Jones
.” He picked up another. “
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“She read.” Her voice wavered on even just the two words.

After flipping through the pages, he stacked each volume on the floor. The trunk was empty. “Novels. Biographies. Nothing else.” He felt around the interior of the trunk and she stared in surprise.

“Checking for hidden panels.” Grimly, he shook his head and stood.

Venetia searched the mattress, feeling beneath it, as Marcus stretched to search the bed canopy. He splayed a hand on the mantle and leaned into the unlit fireplace. Venetia crouched at his side, peered in too. A cloud of soot rained down. She shut her eyes, felt it dust her face. She spit out the taste of the ashes. Opening her eyes, she saw Marcus’ black-streaked face. “Goddamn,” he muttered. “Oh, Vee—” He brushed at her cheek.

She slumped back, sprawling onto her bottom. “It’s gone. And my secrets along with it. My sisters’ futures will be ruined. And Mother…after defying my mother to come to London and paint, I’ll bring disaster to them all. You were absolutely right.”

“We don’t know that anyone else has the book yet, sweetheart. And if someone took it, I promise I will get it back.”

She could not do it. Venetia realized she could not just simply rely on Marcus’ promise and not worry about her own future. She stood by her new bed, in her new bedchamber, spine stiff, hands fisted.

Marcus massaged her shoulders, firm, sensuous, until the tension in her back melted away. Until she sagged back against him. “Perhaps she didn’t bring her manuscript,” he said.

If only she could believe that. “I fear she did. But I keep praying that the murderer didn’t find it. Lydia must have expected her victims to try to steal the book. Perhaps she hid her work with extraordinary care.”

He slid his arm around her chest, just below her breasts, and cradled her. His arm pressed sensually against her curves, but his touch was meant to be tender, she knew.

She’d survived the threat of poverty. She could survive scandal. She need only think!

“We must search Lydia’s b—” She broke off, unable to say the word.

“I searched her body, love. I would have noticed something large in her dress or underclothes. There was no book, no papers, no mysterious key. I also searched her carriage.”

“We need to know who she was blackmailing. We need to discover who killed her.” She bit her lip.
Think. Think.
“We must question her maid! Servants know everything.”

“Later, sweeting. You need to rest, relax, to recover from shock.”

Venetia moved his arms away and stepped toward her escritoire. She wanted to hide in his arms. She couldn’t. “I heard Lady Yardley warn Lydia she would end up throttled to death.”

“
Lady Yardley?
” Marcus followed Venetia. He couldn’t imagine sultry Sophia, Countess of Yardley, as a murderess. On the other hand, how much would Sophia pay to keep her licentious lifestyle out of print? “I doubt a woman strangled Lydia—”

He broke off. Inclined his head. “You are absolutely correct, sweeting. An enraged woman could have killed her, with the advantage of surprise. Or Lady Yardley could have hired a man to do it. I don’t know all the men here.”

Venetia sat on the small chair. “But you know many of them.” She drew out the inkwell, a pen, sheets of paper. “I think we should make a list.”

He frowned. Perhaps this was healing for her—to keep her mind busy. He realized she wouldn’t rest. Many women would have taken to their beds, but not Venetia.

He moved to her side, leaned over the chair, so his chest brushed her shoulders. He wanted to be close to her. “Montberry was Lydia’s most prestigious protector, but it was rumored he didn’t satisfy her. Chartrand was her lover once—he bought off her contract after only two months. Gave a generous settlement. To the best of my knowledge, Brude and Swansborough were never protectors but they bought time with her at events like this. For the right price, Lydia would play any game.”

“What about Mr. Wembly?” she asked.

“He was her protector for a year, I believe. He became famous. Lydia adored that, and overlooked his lack of title. He threw her out when he became a favorite of Prinny’s.”

“At dinner, Lydia spoke to him a lot of Princess Caroline,” she mused, tapping pen to lip.

“Which would irritate any friend of the Prince Regent.”

“But what secrets does he have?” she asked. “Who has secrets that are worth killing over?”

I do.
But Marcus pushed that thought away. He dropped to one knee, resting his hand on her delicate forearm. “Chartrand’s first wife was strangled—supposedly by a gypsy boy who raped her. Fifteen years ago.”

“S—strangled?” She went tense in her chair. Her beautiful hazel eyes met his.

“There were rumors—quickly stopped—that he killed her himself. Either deliberately, or by accident. He enjoyed rough sex and he forced her to play.”

“But how could he escape prosecution?” she cried angrily. Her pen threw splatters of ink on the page. “Could he really have had an innocent man hanged in his place?”

“Easily enough, I’m afraid. But as for the others, I don’t know their dark secrets.”

She wrote with quick, sloping strokes. “The characters reveal themselves like a painting. They can be pigeonholed, yet the simple words to describe them hint at their conflicts and secrets.”

She intrigued him—this woman who was logical and artistic, pure and wanton. He breathed in her spicy perfume as he watched her write.

Montberry—duke and war hero.

Chartrand—the sporting Corinthian who might have strangled his wife.

Lady Chartrand—the submissive wife.

Lady Yardley—the wicked widow.

Lord Brude—the brooding romantic poet.

Mr. Wembly—the jaded dandy.

Lord Swansborough—the dark, dangerous lord.

He was about to give his approval when she tapped the pen against her lip. “I could include myself,” she said and she set about doing so.
Desperate virgin.
So that was how she saw herself? “But, of course, I didn’t kill Lydia.”

Perversely, he said. “You should add me.”

“But I know you are innocent.” Still she wrote his name.
Lord Trent
. He waited to see what would follow.

Protective, seductive earl.

That surprised him. Of course, she thought his only motive to strangle Lydia would be to protect her. She knew nothing of Min, his father, the secrets of his family.

Tipping her head, she looked at him. He bent to nuzzle her neck, so he could avoid her inquisitive gaze. “There may not be any special secrets, Vee. Lydia might just have threatened to expose the affairs she had. Chartrand and Montberry are married.”

“But would someone kill over that? It must be a very valuable secret, to warrant murder.” She stared down at her list. “Lords Brude and Swansborough could not have killed her. We saw them pleasuring that girl with dildoes.”

“They couldn’t have strangled her by their own hands but they could have paid someone—if the motive was to silence Lydia. Someone who followed Lydia to your room.”

She frowned. “Did you find any clues in my room? Anything to help point the way?”

He shook his head—the truth—but she fixed him with a suspicious glare. “I suspect you wouldn’t tell me if you did. I understand the danger, Marcus, but I must protect my family.”

Her words resonated through his soul. “This is what I saw, Vee.” He gave her as much as he’d taken in. The window open. No dirt or water on the floor. No signs of a search, except that Venetia’s trunk had been out of place, dragged out but not opened.

“Thank heaven,” she breathed.

He hesitated as he described Lydia. “Her bodice was ripped but the bed wasn’t torn up enough to indicate she fought on it. I think she was strangled standing and then laid out on it.”

“She wasn’t…raped?” Venetia asked.

“No. I wondered why the killer had gone to the trouble of arranging her on the bed. Quicker to let her drop to the floor, and then run. She was strangled with a garrote or a thin cord—but given that every room here is filled with cords for use in bondage games, the weapon used doesn’t point to the killer.”

“There are the women, too.” Venetia poised her pen over the paper once more. “What about the other prostitutes here? There are a dozen or more! You will have to help me,” she added pointedly, “I only know three by name. There’s Rosalyn Rose. ‘The aging madam.’ Surely Rosalyn wouldn’t strangle Lydia because they were rivals. Trixie—the saucy young jade, who seems willing to do anything to entice men. Did she have secrets?”