A Most Naked Solution (4 page)

C
HAPTER
S
IX

C
amden sagged exhausted in the rickety chair. Across from him, Gabriel Huntford, Bow Street Runner, ate some bread and cheese, his attention never leaving the door.

“You could have waited for me to come home. You didn’t need to track me down in the streets of London.”

But he had. Time was wasting. He needed to convince Huntford to investigate before he lost too much time from his studies.

And before his uncertainty about Sophia drove him mad.

He briefly recounted the facts thus far.

“You took your suspect to interview witnesses?” Huntford asked, a brief grin flashing over the weary lines of his face. The momentary humor lifted years of harsh living from his face, making him resemble the young man Camden had known at Oxford.

Camden sighed and picked up his tankard, grimacing at both his stupidity and the vileness of the ale.

“Trust me. This is one of the better taverns on the west side,” Huntford said.

The barmaid sauntered back to the table, a plate of mutton in her hand. “Compliments of the house, constable.”

Huntford shook his head. “I don’t think—”

The coy look disappeared from the maid’s face. “Please, Mr. Huntford. It’s the least I can do. If it weren’t for what you did for my Melvin—”

Huntford cut her off with a coin pressed into her hand. “I’ll take your fine food. But I insist on paying for it. Your little ones need to eat, too.”

The maid blinked through red eyes as her hand closed around the money.

Huntford shifted uncomfortably as the woman walked away. “Shall we walk and talk at the same time? I have work I must do.” He wrapped up the mutton in a handkerchief.

The London air crowded Camden’s lungs, heavy with smoke and soot as they left the inn. He turned up his collar and Huntford followed suit.

“I suppose this would have been easier if I’d waited till morning.” But once the idea had occurred to him, he’d acted. When he decided something needed to be done, he was incapable of not doing it.

“Or you could have written,” Huntford pointed out.

“Would you have left London?”

Huntford sighed. “Perhaps not, but I could have met you in a better neighborhood.” He pulled the napkin from his pocket and handed it to a small girl huddled in a doorway. She sniffed it suspiciously before a grin lit her haggard face. She took a bite. Her eyes closed, and she chewed slowly, savoring the morsel of stringy meat.

Surely they could do better for the child. But Huntford stopped him before he could retrieve any coins. “The other children will beat her for the money. It’s better to leave her alone.”

Camden’s hands fisted. The large meals that had gone uneaten while he’d worked now seemed obscene.

“So the widow is your primary suspect?” Huntford asked, bringing Camden back to the reason he had come.

“I no longer know.” Camden explained about the shooting that morning. Morning? Hell, it had been a long day.

Huntford glared at the prostitute who’d started slinking toward them. The woman shuffled off. “Could she have arranged for the shooting to make you doubt her guilt?”

Camden hadn’t even considered that. He shifted through possibilities in his head. “No, I do not think so. She had no idea I was coming to visit her. I gave her no notice. And I saw how shaken she was. I don’t think her reaction was feigned.”

Huntford nodded. “It also wouldn’t have made sense for her to stay around after the murder. Why not return to London or to her family?”

“So you’ll investigate?”

“I don’t leave London often.”

“Weltford is only two hours from here. Think of it as a holiday.”

“I see you still think you’re humorous.” Huntford paused briefly to peer into a dark alley, then continued on.

Camden shrugged. He no longer expected anyone else to think so.

“I might be able to come in a day or two. I have to testify in court tomorrow.”

“The sooner I can hand off this bloody case, the better. I wasn’t meant for this.”

Huntford drew deeper into his jacket. Camden cursed his words. Huntford hadn’t intended to become a Runner. He’d been forced into it by his sister’s murder. “I’ll come when I can,” he said.

Camden wasn’t free yet, then. Someone had tried to kill Sophia. He couldn’t simply sit back and do nothing for several days. “I’ll continue the investigation until you arrive.”

He reworked his schedule in his head. If he investigated during the day, he could work on his equations in the evening. If he worked late, he wouldn’t lose too much time. He knew from his years in the army that he could get by on three hours of sleep a night for several days. By the time he keeled over from exhaustion, either he would have found his suspect or Huntford would have arrived. “Any tips to save us both trouble?”

Huntford laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “Why are you so interested in this case? Investigation isn’t your responsibility as justice of the peace.”

Camden skirted around a dead rat. “I have an issue with unsolved problems.” At least that’s what it had been. Now his desire for the truth warred with his desire to find out more about Sophia.

Huntford suddenly reached out and grabbed a man walking past them by the collar. He shoved him up against a brick wall. “Jessup. I’ve been looking for you.”

The wiry man swore, struggling wildly against Huntford. “Ye haven’t got a thing on me, ye bloody, ruddy beak.”

“That’s interesting, because those false guineas came from your workshop.”

Camden almost missed the dark shape that loomed on his right. He reacted without thinking, his arm swinging up and blocking the cudgel angling toward the back of Huntford’s head. He yanked away the piece of wood, slamming it into the ribs of the heavy-set attacker. While the man was doubled over, Camden grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, pressing him against the wall as well.

Huntford’s head whipped over. “Fint, I should have known you’d be lurking behind Jessup.” He nodded his thanks to Camden. “You might be better at this work than you give yourself credit for.”

They forced the struggling men to the nearest night watchman’s box, where they were tied while Huntford arranged for them to be transported to the nearest prison.

Huntford kept close to them as they awaited the prison wagon. Bleakness returned to his eyes. “If it’s Lady Harding that interests you”—he held up his hand when Camden would have protested—“I should warn you that most of the time, the murderer is someone your victim knew and most likely knew well.”

Like Sophia.

Hell.

Camden nodded, ignoring the churning in his gut. Simply because the girl had once written him a love letter didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of evil. She was obviously hiding something. And just because she inspired loyalty in those around her, that didn’t mean she’d earned his. “You think it’s Lady Harding?”

Huntford shrugged. “I’ve never met the woman. I can only tell you the patterns I see every day.” He rechecked the ropes on his prisoners.

A young man ran to the night watchman’s box, his face flushed and damp with sweat.

Huntford straightened. “Kent?”

The earnest, fresh-faced constable braced his hands on his knees for several seconds before he could speak. “A murder.” He gulped in a breath. “Girl strangled. In a white nightgown. At St. Gertrude’s.”

“Kent, stay to help with these two.” Huntford was halfway to the door before he looked back at Camden. “Do you need a place to stay for the night? You are welcome to sleep at my home.”

But Camden could see Huntford straining toward the door as he spoke. “No, I’ll return to Weltford.” If he rode out immediately, he should be able to arrive home shortly before dawn, allowing him a few moments to work on his equations before collapsing. Then he could sleep until it reached the polite time for morning calls.

Then he’d press Sophia hard.

In a perfectly non-physical sense, of course.

Huntford disappeared into the darkness only to suddenly reappear in the doorway. “Keep in mind if Lady Harding isn’t your killer, then she probably needs your protection. Either way I’d take this opportunity to become well acquainted.”

Camden exhaled, an unaccountable excitement pouring through him. Huntford was right. She might need his protection. Before he surrendered to the comforts of home, perhaps he should pass by the Harding estate and make sure all was well.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

S
ophia drew back deeper into the shadows as a drunken farmer stumbled out of the tavern. If Lord Grey found her, he’d undoubtedly send her to prison without a second thought. Thankfully, he spent his evenings buried in his studies.

Good heavens, how much could a man drink? She knew Tubs had gone into the tavern at ten o’clock this morning. He had to go home eventually, didn’t he?

She needed to find out what he knew. She’d seen the way Lord Grey’s eyes had darted to him this morning when he was speaking of his source. The information must have come from Tubs.

If only she could approach him in the tavern, but she feared news of the conversation getting back to Lord Grey, and that was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

Hence, her present position huddling in the cold behind some withered bushes. She brushed a stray raindrop from her cheek.

What did Lord Grey think of her? After the shot this morning, she thought he might have softened—she rejected the musings. She no longer cared what men thought of her. She pulled the shawl tighter about her shoulders, wishing she could shield herself from the memories as easily.

Sophia crept through the corridor toward her room. No one would notice if she disappeared from the ball for a few minutes. True, the ball was supposed to be in her honor, but after the obligatory dances from her father and brothers, she’d spent the last two hours wilting in her mother’s shadow, bored out of her wits. No one would notice if she slipped away. They never had before.

“Confound it!” The quietly uttered oath stopped her.

Her brothers and father were back in the ballroom and that voice had been unmistakably aristocratic. Perhaps someone had gotten lost? Or was looking for a place to tryst? They had better not select her room. Eww.

The thought gave her the courage to round the corner. It was Richard, Viscount Harding. Blond, refined, and currently disgruntled. Not how she had dreamt of their first meeting. She tried to jerk back out of sight but it was too late.

“Lady Sophia?”

She desperately wished for a fan to hide the heat in her cheeks. Yet he knew her name.
Don’t ruin this. Please, don’t ruin this
, she begged herself.

“It is Lady Sophia, is it not? I’ve seen you watching me.”

She would die of shame now.

“Do not be embarrassed. I find it flattering. I apologize for wandering your home, but I seem to have spilled some sherry on my waistcoat, and I’m sure you understand that I cannot be seen blemished.”

He was perfection—with or without the stain. “I’m sure everyone will be too fascinated by you to notice.” Foolish. Foolish. Why did she have to betray her feelings to men who had no interest in them? Was she truly so pathetic? Yet she should try to see if she could lend aid. That was the one thing she did well. “Let me fetch a servant to see to your clothes.”

But Harding smiled and offered her his arm. “If my waistcoat proves salvageable, would you care to take a turn with me on the terrace?”

Shouldn’t he ask her to dance? But a thrill traced down her spine. This was it. Her chance to join his glittering crowd. She relished the thought of being seen on his arm and the looks of disbelief—perhaps even envy—that would be cast her way.

“Come, surely you’re not afraid to be alone with me.” Then he grinned. A wide, seductive grin meant only for her. “I wish to know more of you.”

The shawl around her shoulders was wool, not silk. Sophia escaped the memories by forcing her attention back to the sharp pinpricks in her toes, warning of impending numbness.

She’d been a fool. She’d feared being forever passed by and forgotten, so she’d leapt at a man who’d sought her out. Who always wanted her at his side, even if it was so she could shower him praise before his friends. It hadn’t occurred to her until far too late that that kind of relationship might eventually not be enough for either of them. Soon her words weren’t enough to sate his vanity, and in his opinion, that was her flaw—not his. She’d been young and in love enough to believe him for a while. She’d been nothing more than a pet so desperate to belong, it would take a kick and come crawling back. Just for the scraps of affection he’d toss her.

And that’s why she’d hated Richard most of all—for showing her how weak and cowardly she truly was.

But no more. She was changing. When she found a wall inside herself, she knocked herself against it until she emerged bruised, bloody, and stronger on the other side. She wasn’t there yet, but she would be.

The door to the tavern opened and Tubs stumbled out—or more accurately, Mrs. Haws shoved him out.

Sophia slipped around her bush and fell into step behind him. She hugged her arms tightly against the cold as she walked. She’d didn’t fear Tubs, but what if he did have information that proved her father or brother had been involved? Would she be willing to buy his silence?

Yes.

And if he refused, she’d go to Lord Grey and confess to the murder before he had a chance to make the connection to her family.

“Mr. Spat?”

Tubs whirled around, but his motion was too quick for his inebriated state and he toppled toward the wall of tavern. He laughed as it caught his shoulder, holding him upright. “Ain’t no one calls me Mr. Spat except Mrs. Spat. Hold still so I can see who I’m talking to.”

Sophia hadn’t moved.

Tubs blinked, craning his head from side to side. “Too scrawny to be Mrs. Spat.” He leaned forward, then had to reach for the wall again as he started to tumble forward.

“It’s Lady Harding.”

Tubs straightened. “Is it really? Well, upon my soul. Perhaps I did have too much drink for once.” He laughed, his whole body quivering.

“I had a question about what you saw in the tavern after my husband’s death.”

Tubs shook his head and backed up. “Ain’t no way I’m talking about those two. Might come back and off me, too.”

“You told Lord Grey.”

Tubs listed away from the wall, loudly smacking his lips. Sophia darted to his side and braced her hands against his shoulder before he could fall. If he hit the ground, she might lose him to sleep for the night.

“I did tell Lord Grey. He gave me a guinea for it, too. Will you give me a guinea?”

“Yes.” Actually she’d give his poor wife the guinea, but it amounted to the same thing.

“Oh well, then. I guess it can’t hurt. As long as you don’t tell them I told you.”

She grunted as his weight swayed back toward her, and she pushed desperately against him. Her shawl slithered onto the cobbles, but she didn’t dare risk letting go long enough to pick it back up. “I won’t say a word.”

“Well then, there were these two blokes—”

“You mean gentlemen?”

He tapped her soundly on the nose. “They were no more gentlemen than I’m the prince regent.”

She batted away the hand still thumping on her face. “How did you know they weren’t gentlemen?” She wanted to grab his fleshy cheeks and make him focus, to make him realize how vitally important his next words were.

“Their English were worse than mine. And they talked about getting paid to off the viscount. No offense meant, my lady.”

She shook her head both to forgive his words and to clear the buzzing.

“And why would a gentleman off a man for a few quid? He wouldn’t dirty his hands at all, most likely.”

They were innocent.

She followed Tubs’s example and planted her hand against the wall, gripping the cold, damp rock. Her father and brother were innocent. Her breath shuddered from her until she finally rested her cheek against the stone, sucking in the earthen, moldy smell.

Heavens, what had she done? She’d let all this time pass without doing anything to find the killer. Then she’d interfered with Lord Grey’s investigation.

Did her regret mark her as a hypocrite? After all, the murderer had accomplished the same goal: freeing her from Richard.

She pressed her fist against her lips. She’d hated Richard. He had been a cruel and insecure man, but was that excuse enough to kill him? The thought had occurred to her once or twice in her darkest times. Could she have killed him herself? The gun she’d bought was to be used to scare him. To keep him from touching her again. But what if he’d tried?

She owed Lord Grey an explanation.

With a groan like a heifer giving birth, Tubs toppled to the ground.

Bother. What was she supposed to do about him? She couldn’t leave him there. It was her fault he hadn’t walked straight home.

She poked him in the shoulder. “Mr. Spat?”

No response.

“Mr. Spat?” She shook him this time, although her effort didn’t move him. It did, however, loosen her bonnet and send it tumbling end over end down the street in a gust of wind.

Ignoring the alarming rate at which she was losing clothing, Sophia grabbed his arm and pulled, but she could barely lift that, let alone his entire body.

She glanced down the dark street. She had two options. She could either hurry home and wake her footmen and grooms to help carry him, or she could walk to the edge of the village and find Tubs’s house. Perhaps his wife and sons could help.

With either scenario, she’d have to explain why she was out unescorted in Weltford in the middle of the night.

Maybe she could leave him. After all, this couldn’t have been the first time he’d failed to make it home.

A raindrop plopped into her hair and trickled down her temple. She wiped it away with a sigh.

She couldn’t leave him. The man was lying with his mouth agape. He might very well drown before he awoke, although it would be a slow death; the rain was widely spaced but heavy, as if the drops had decided to band together before falling.

Standing over him while she thought, she tried to shield Tubs as much as she could. The most sensible thing to do would be to get his family’s help. This way, she’d be limiting the witnesses.

Perhaps Lord Grey wasn’t too wrong in thinking her a criminal. Hiding her deeds came far too easily. But then she’d perfected that for the past three years—skulking, hiding, giving partial truths.

“Lady Harding!”

She whirled around at the shouted voice, hollowed out by the wind.

Lord Grey.

Of course it was.

He sat astride a monstrous black horse, his greatcoat billowing in the wind. His hat was pulled low against the wind, obscuring his face.

“I would ask what you are doing, but I’m tired of lies.” The thin veneer of politeness that had smoothed their interaction earlier had been stripped away.

“I—” She opened her mouth to explain but then realized she had absolutely no idea how to start. With the apology or with the witness lying motionless at her feet?

“Is he dead?”

That snapped her out of her confusion. “No, he most certainly is not!” She glanced down at Tubs’s chest to make sure. It lifted and fell in slow intervals.

“What are you doing here?”

The apology apparently would wait. She’d start with an explanation. “I was talking to him when he collapsed from too much drink.”

Lord Grey swung down off his horse and stalked toward them. He paused directly in front of her, his gaze sweeping her damp hair and clinging black dress.

She suddenly wished he could see her to advantage just once. Out of her mourning blacks, which she knew suited her not all, and in pretty colors with her hair coiffed and styled. But no, Richard had been all about using looks and clothes to his benefit. The new Sophia no longer cared about being thought pretty and stylish.

Except a small part of her still did.

The same part of her that had desperately wanted Lord Grey to notice when she was fifteen.

He bent over and inspected the man lying on the ground, then strode toward the tavern. He returned a moment later, swinging a wooden bucket.

With a quick heave, he flung the water onto Tubs’s face.

Tubs sat up with a sputter and outraged gargle. “Whatever were—what am I doing here?”

Lord Grey offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. “Go home, Tubs.”

The man blinked at the two of them. “Why’d you have to ask me what I saw? Couldn’t you just have asked him if he were standing here?”

“Go home, Tubs,” Lord Grey repeated, his face blank, and Sophia wanted to beg Tubs to stay. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t beg. Never again.

Tubs shuffled off, holding his hand over his head as if that would block the rain.

Then Lord Grey advanced.