The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two

  Crispin was feeling wonderful. His bed had been destroyed, his house had almost burned to the ground, his life had almost been taken from him—and might yet be in four days—but he could still hear Sophie’s laughter in his ears and still taste her on his tongue from their kiss good-bye. “Being in England agrees with me,” he responded evasively as he sat down. “Or at least some aspects of it.”

  “Aspects such as Sophie Champion?” Lawrence asked with real interest, and then burst into laughter when he saw the expression on Crispin’s face. “My god, you are in love, aren’t you?”

  “Are you trying to get me to commit so you can start taking bets in your red book?” Crispin asked with a raised eyebrow, narrowly avoiding the question.

  Lawrence ignored this distraction. “It figures that you would fall in love with one of the only interesting women in England and not even bother to admit it. But I want you to know that I am not jealous. And I approve entirely.”

  “I cannot tell you how relieved I am,” Crispin said sarcastically. “However, what I—”

  Lawrence interrupted him. “I know it is not in your nature to recognize such things, but Sophie Champion really is marvelous, Crispin. She almost took my breath away when I saw her here for the first time, when I saw that little crinkle in her left cheek when she smiles—”

  “It’s her right cheek,” Crispin corrected.

  Lawrence raised his eyebrow. “Right cheek. Anyway, I thought she was lovely, but it was only at Newgate, watching her reduce those guards to quivering masses of fear, that I saw how really remarkable she is.”

  “She was pretty spectacular at the prison, wasn’t she?” Crispin mused with a smile, despite himself. “Did you see how that guard cowered when she just looked at him? I don’t think he would have followed us even if I hadn’t knocked him unconscious.”

  Lawrence nodded. “And what about when she refused to leave unless we brought all the other women with us? I don’t think my arms have recovered from the pummeling I took before I could convince that one called Helena that I was trying to help Sophie, not hurt her. According to Elwood, your Miss Champion was already quite a hero to some people, but that prison break was the cream on the pudding. She is practically immortal in their eyes.”

  “Would that she were,” Crispin replied, recollecting his errand. “Someone tried to kill us both in bed the other night, and damn near succeeded.”

  “What?”

  “Someone shot flaming arrows into the canopy of my bed last night and set the entire thing on fire. Clearly their idea was to kill me. And Sophie. I want to know who did it, and I was hoping you could tell me.”

  A frown passed over Lawrence’s brow. “Someone used arrows to light a fire in your room?”

  “Yes. Ingenious devices, they must have been specially made for it. Somehow they managed to keep the fire burning even as they were shot through the air. I suspect gunpowder, but I have never seen anything like them before. I saved one to send to my brother, Ian. Anyway,” Crispin went on, “I thought you might know who had developed such a weapon. Or might have heard something about someone trying to kill me.”

  Lawrence shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know anything about either the arrows or a contract on your life. Do you have anything else to go on?”

  “Just the name of a bank. Loundes and Wainscot. Have you ever heard of them?”

  “Damn stodgy bunch of toads,” was Lawrence’s reply. “They once told me, in not so many words, that they would not touch my money. Something about having principles. Bastards,” Lawrence muttered.

  “Where are these paragons based?”

  “North counties somewhere.” Lawrence waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the rest of England. “Newcastle maybe? I have blocked it from my mind. Why do you ask?”

  “Something someone said made me think they might be mixed up with this.”

  Lawrence’s head was shaking back and forth violently. “Not a chance. There is not a man among them who would have the imagination to set fire to a bed.” His tone changed, becoming more jovial. “Are you quite sure it wasn’t you and Miss Champion?”

  “Your mind, Lord Pickering, is wanton.”

  “You are the first person to say so, Lord Sandal,” Lawrence said smarmily. “Most people consider me a paragon of propriety. You are just sore because I saw through your little secret before you even knew it yourself. But you can’t hold it against me. I am quite an expert on love these days.”

  Now it was Crispin’s turn to look hard at his friend. “An expert on love? Are you in love? Lawrence Pickering in love?” Crispin asked incredulously. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true,” Lawrence said, smiling so radiantly that Crispin could no longer doubt.

  “Who is she? How did it happen? When did it happen? Why am I the last to know?” Crispin demanded in a torrent.

  Lawrence was almost blushing. “She is someone I have known for a long time, and long admired, but it is only very recently that we have considered a more permanent arrangement.”

  “A permanent arrangement?” Crispin repeated with disbelief. “Does this mean you are getting married?”

  Lawrence nodded. “If eve—”

  The door of the office bursting open stopped Lawrence’s confession. Before he could resume, his deputy, Grimley, strode to the middle of the floor. “My lord, I must speak to you,” he said breathlessly. “I need your advice, my lord, badly. It’s—”

  Lawrence interrupted him, nodding toward Crispin. “As you can see, Grimley, I am already engaged.”

  Grimley’s eyes settled on Crispin for the first time, and he made an awkward bow. “I beg pardon, my lords, but this is most important. Lord Pickering, I really must speak to you. In private.”

  Crispin, unwilling as he was to part from Lawrence in the middle of their interesting conversation, understood the none-too-subtle hint and rose from his seat. “I’ll leave you two to your important and private business,” he said with a grin. “But I promise you, Lawrence, I’ll be back to hear the rest of your tale.”

  Lawrence smiled broadly at his friend as Crispin crossed the threshold, but as soon as the door shut, his face wore a deep, troubled frown.

  The message was delivered shortly after Crispin left, not by a footman, but by Octavia, in person. She was ushered up a secret back passage by Thurston so that her visit would not be known to anyone. Sophie, seated at a wide desk in the library carefully tossing dice, did not hear the concealed door open, and only looked up when Octavia’s feet echoed on the wooden floor. At the sight of her friend, a warm, welcoming smile spread across Sophie’s face and she rushed forward.

  “It is wonderful to see you, Octavia,” she said, coming around the desk to embrace her. “Did you get my message?”

  It took Octavia a moment to reply. She was not sure what she had expected, but after receiving one cryptic message from Sophie delivered by a prison guard, and another by the Sandal Hall footman, and having heard about the fire in Sandal Hall the night before, she had assumed that her friend would at least be careworn, if not entirely haggard. Instead, she looked radiant. “Sophie, are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Sophie answered positively. “I feel wonderful.”

  “And the Earl of Sandal?” Octavia asked. “He is treating you well?”

  Sophie blushed. “Very well. His cook is very good. Don’t tell Richards, though.”

  Octavia nodded with astonishment. When a discreet messenger had delivered a note to Hen House telling her that Sophie was safe and hiding with the Earl of Sandal, she and Emme had been worried. For two years, one of Sophie’s principal amusements had been to read aloud the stories about the Earl of Sandal, pointing out, with minute precision, all the ways in which he was a mealworm or a caterpillar or, on particularly bad days, a tick. They had concluded, therefore, that
finding herself in his clutches would be worse than boiling in oil to Sophie, worse than being stung by a hundred bees, worse than a life without orange cake. They imagined Sophie pacing impatiently, cursing Satan’s knockers a thousand times as she bashed a toe or knee into a piece of furniture, railing against the louse and his house at the top of her lungs.

  But Octavia found Sophie wearing one of his robes, naked beneath it, happily playing dice games at his desk. If the errand that brought her had not been such a painful one, Octavia would have been inclined to laugh.

  Instead, she said, “I think we should sit down.”

  The broad smile on Sophie’s face vanished as they moved toward a silver-and-burgundy-striped divan. “What is it? What is wrong? Did something happen at Hen House?”

  Octavia shook her head, pushing a lock of light blond hair behind her ear with an unsteady hand. “Everything is fine at Hen House. You will be glad to know that Helena has settled in nicely.”

  “Helena?”

  “You know, the young woman who escaped from prison with you.”

  Sophie nodded, remembering now.

  “The others all had places to go,” Octavia explained, “but Helena asked if she could stay. Richards has begun letting her do the roasts. She says Helena has an extraordinary sense of smell, which makes her indispensable with seasonings.”

  “Richards lets her in the kitchen?” Sophie asked with a mixture of surprise and envy.

  “Yes. But that is not what I came to tell you about.” Octavia hesitated for a moment, gnawing on her lower lip. She kept her eyes aimed at her lap as she went on. “Sophie, this is very difficult for me to tell you. I did not respond to your message yesterday, because I did not know what to say. Finally, Emme told me I owed you the truth.”

  “My message about the meringues?” Sophie was puzzled. She had only asked where they came from and when they had begun arriving.

  Octavia took a deep breath. “You see, I ordered the meringues. From Sweetson, the baker.”

  “Good,” Sophie said, trying to be encouraging.

  But Octavia only looked more miserable. “It is not good. I did not want to. I—” She paused, then raised her eyes and rushed on. “I am being blackmailed. A letter came, hinting about something in my past, and with it was a billet which explained that if I did not want duplicates of the letter sent to my friends and clients, I would accept the subscription which would be offered to me within the week. And then Sweetson’s man came and offered me a subscription for meringues at a hundred pounds a month.”

  “A hundred pounds a month?” Sophie repeated with surprise.

  “I did not take all of it from the household funds,” Octavia assured her quickly, but she had misunderstood.

  Sophie’s surprise was not at the size of the sum, but at the fact that, multiplied times twelve months, it was the exact amount of the bill Lord Grosgrain had asked of her. For a subscription. Was Lord Grosgrain being blackmailed before his death?

  “But that makes no sense,” Sophie said aloud without realizing it.

  Octavia looked at her. “That I used my dress money to pay the blackmail?”

  “No, no, I was thinking about something else,” Sophie apologized. “You could have used the household funds. You could have used any of my money. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I was afraid.” Octavia looked miserable.

  “Afraid?”

  “Afraid that if you found out, if I told you and Emme what the note said, you would make me leave.”

  Sophie was aghast. “Nothing anyone could tell me about you would do that.”

  “Not even if they told you I murdered a man?”

  Sophie did not miss a moment. “No. Not even that.” She leaned forward and asked with excited interest, “Did you?”

  Almost sorry to have to disappoint Sophie, Octavia shook her head. “I did not murder anyone. But it certainly could have looked like it. It was while I was with Lawrence Pickering, and—”

  “You know Lawrence too?” Sophie interrupted.

  “Have you met him?” Sophie nodded, and Octavia went on. “Yes. For a time”—here Octavia’s eyes left her friend’s—“for a time when I was very young, he and I were lovers.”

  Octavia could not help but smile when, raising her eyes, she saw the expression on Sophie’s face. It was one of pure, unmitigated shock.

  “You were Lawrence Pickering’s mistress,” Sophie paraphrased.

  “If you prefer to put it that way,” Octavia agreed, and pressed on. “While we were together, a man was killed, a man whom I was known not to like, and the evidence pointed at me. Lawrence found the real murderer, but with all the tension, things between us soured then and I left for the country. Where I met Emme. And then you.”

  “Have you told Emme this? About Lawrence?” Sophie asked with concern.

  “Yes. She was not happy, but she understands. It was fourteen years ago. He was eighteen and I was only sixteen.”

  “Were you in love with him?” Sophie asked.

  “In love?” Octavia echoed. “I suppose I thought I was, at the time. Now, in retrospect…”

  Sophie did not press her, putting aside the thousand other questions she wanted to ask about intimate relations, in the interest of finding out more about the blackmail. “Why did you decide to accept the subscription? Why not tell them that you were innocent and refuse to pay?”

  “Can you really imagine the Duchess of Ivry having her dresses designed by someone who might have been a murderer? Or even someone associated with Lawrence Pickering? It would have ruined my dress business.”

  “I would have supported you,” Sophie put in, almost hurt. “I would have given you as much money as you needed.”

  “More, probably, knowing you, but it was not about money. I design dresses because I love to, not for the money.”

  Sophie nodded absently, her mind back on the knotty question of what Lord Grosgrain could possibly have been blackmailed for. From what Octavia had said, she realized that the reason for the blackmail need not be a real crime or indiscretion, but she still had a hard time imagining what damaging information anyone could have had about her godfather. She had not yet stopped thinking about it when their interview ended and Octavia disappeared back down the secret passage.

  It was this question that compelled her to go and see Sweetson, the baker. She needed to better understand how the blackmail worked, needed to learn if the people issuing the subscriptions had the injurious information themselves, or if they were just agents for someone else. And, if the latter was true, who that someone was.

  Donning Don Alfonso’s outfit and, with Thurston’s assistance, a new mustache, she had set out for Sweetson’s to get her questions answered. In order to avoid being seen by too many people on the streets, she used smaller byways to traverse the city, until she found herself behind the baker’s shop. She knocked and got no answer, but the door gave under her hand and opened of its own accord.

  There was no one in the back storehouse, unless they were well concealed as a bag of flour, nor in the adjacent kitchen. It was when she reached the front room that she saw him, seated in a chair in front of a large table with his face lying in a pile of flour.

  Her initial surmise that he was asleep was quickly put to rest by the blood, now dried brown, which had drizzled out of the corner of his mouth and stained the flour.

  Sophie was staring at the corpse, unable to move, when a voice spoke from behind her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I should have known I would find you here, Don Alfonso,” Crispin said dryly. “You have a way with corpses.”

  “You are a fine one to talk.” Sophie swung around to face him. “I only seem to find them when I am with you. What are you doing here, anyway? Are you following me?”

  “Fol
lowing you, in those breeches, is something I would very much enjoy, but I came here on my own. And you? Aren’t there enough baked goods for you at Sandal Hall?”

  “How can you joke in front of him?” Sophie gestured toward the dead man.

  “I assure you he is well beyond hearing. I am assuming that you had nothing to do with his death, but I would like to hear it from your lips.”

  “Are you accusing me of murder, again?” Sophie was appalled.

  “No.” Crispin shook his head. “Merely pointing out the strange coincidence of finding you here and him dead. You did not kill him, then?”

  “I arrived only a few minutes before you did,” Sophie answered distractedly.

  Crispin, noting her failure to answer his question directly, circled around to look at the corpse without moving it. “If that is the case, then you are certainly not guilty. This blood has been dry for hours, if not a full day.”

  Sophie nodded, not really paying attention to this absolution. The bet was weighing heavily on her mind. If Crispin did not know about the blackmail then she did not want to tell him, but if he did, perhaps he had information that could be useful to her. In the interest of finding Lord Grosgrain’s murderer, she decided to take a risk. “How did you find out about the blackmail?”

  Crispin spread his hands. “Informers,” he replied vaguely. “And you?”

  “Octavia. She was forced to subscribe for meringues.” Sophie leaned toward him. “Did you know that she and Lawrence Pickering were lovers?”

  “Octavia your friend and Lawrence my friend?” Crispin asked with real surprise.

  “Yes. Years ago. That is what she was being blackmailed about.”

  “Octavia,” Crispin mused to himself. “Really.”

  Sophie nodded. “Yes. I guess there was something about a murder. You see, the blackmailers send a letter—”

  “I know all about it. Very neat scheme. Did she have to subscribe to Tottle’s paper too?”