A Sense of Sin (28 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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Celia looked from one to the other and knew that the truth lay somewhere in between. “Tell me what happened.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Mrs. Turbot fumed. “Melissa hit her to keep from peaching on us and I finished her off. Just as I’ll finish you off, if you don’t do as I say right now.” She motioned with the barrel of the gun. “Bind her, Melissa.”
Upon which, Mrs. Bobbins bustled in with a tray laden with food and hot beverages. “I heard you had visitors, my lady, so I brought more chocolate and coffee.” She stopped abruptly. “Here, now, wot’s this?”
For a long moment no one, certainly not Celia, seemed to know what to do. Mrs. Bobbins frowned at Mrs. Turbot, her face as disapproving as a prune. Mrs. Turbot swung the gun back and forth between the two of them, uncertain as to who was the greater threat. And then, improbably, Mrs. Bobbins smiled and turned back to the tray.
“Lord, didn’t know it was
you
! Janey Wainwright, as I live and breathe. I didn’t know her ladyship was interested in the plays. His lordship don’t care for ’em. Still, I haven’t seen you in a whore’s age, Janey. Beg your pardon, your ladyship. Well, Janey”—Mrs. Bobbins straightened up with one hand on her ample hips—“how’ve you been keeping yourself?”
Celia looked from Mrs. Bobbins and her extraordinary speech, to Mrs. Turbot, who had turned the pasty white color of her namesake fish.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The gun was on Mrs. Bobbins now, and Celia wrapped her hands around the back of the chair, ready to throw it whenever the opportunity arose.
“Well, that’s a fine way to greet an old friend. It’s your old Fanny Bobbins, it is, Janey. We worked together at the Haymarket Theatre, we did, back in the day, ’till she got a bellyful. Here’s your pot, ma’am,” she informed Celia, handing her another pot of steaming hot chocolate, though the one on the table was still nearly full. She turned back to “Janey.” “So what are you working on now? Melodrama, is it? And who’s this with you? Oh, she’s the spit of you, she is.”
Janey Wainwright Turbot swung the gun wildly back and forth between the two women in front of her, before she settled again on Celia. “I’ll shoot the Viscountess.”
“Oh, that’s famous, that is,” Mrs. Bobbins crowed and clapped. “Bill would love this. Great one for the melodrama and the panto, is Bill.” She flapped her hand at Mrs. Turbot and turned away to the door. “Bill,” she bawled down the corridor, “you’ve gotta see this.” She came back to stand by the tea tray, the picture of happy anticipation.
Bill? Did she mean Gosling? But he was gone with Del. Celia had no idea if Mrs. Bobbins was truly mad or just crazy like a fox, but she noticed the cook had the lid off the coffeepot. Steam—scalding steam—rose in graceful, purposeful arabesques. Bless her ample heart, Fanny Bobbins was as daring as they came.
Her heart beating a wild tattoo in her chest, Celia followed suit, letting go of the chair and holding the pot of chocolate, ready to pitch it at Melissa.
Footsteps rang out on the servants’ stair and everything happened in a blur.
As soon as Mrs. Turbot swung the gun around to face whoever was coming to the breakfast room door, Mrs. Bobbins emptied the entire coffeepot of scalding liquid onto Mrs. Turbot’s hand.
Mrs. Turbot screamed, “You bitch,” and dropped the gun. Mrs. Bobbins, who Celia thought had fallen down in an apoplexy, but who had really grasped the corner of the carpet runner, quite literally pulled the rug out from under Mrs. Turbot. The woman crashed against the wall and the gun skidded across the floor.
Mrs. Bobbins picked it up and said, “Stupid cow, you never could act. Mrs. Turbot was my character, you cow.” She looked with disgust at the gun. “Bad stage prop—doesn’t even have a hammer.”
The house was then full of the sounds of running feet and doors bursting open, and the breakfast room was filled with men holding real guns, drawn and at the ready.
“Del! You came.”
“To save the day. Except it had already been saved.” Del looked at Celia. “You saved yourself. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks to your Mrs. Bobbins—wherever did you get her?” Celia turned to the cook. “You were magnificent.”
He crushed Celia to his chest, even as he leveled his gun upon Janey Wainwright, still stunned and prone, upon the floor.
“You wouldn’t shoot a defenseless woman,” she begged.
“Shut up, Janey,” Mrs. Bobbins instructed. “You’re quite welcome, my lady. Don’t get much of a chance to play to the balcony these days. By any roads, I couldn’t let Janey have the stage to herself, could I? Poor daft cow.”
“I think she’s Melissa’s mother, by the way, Mrs. Turbot is. Except she’s not Mrs. Turbot, who turns out to be a character from a play. According to your Mrs. Bobbins, she’s Jane Wainwright, an actress, formerly of the Haymarket Theatre, which she left, pregnant some eighteen and a half years ago, if I understand Mrs. Bobbins’ cant.”
“You’ve the right of it, my lady.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bobbins. I can’t thank you enough. My God, Celia, when I realized what I’d done, how I’d left you alone—and when we discovered they had flown, but only just—God’s balls, I don’t ever want to go through another half hour like that again. Took ten years off me.”
Celia pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re breathing awful hard.”
“I ran. I couldn’t wait for the carriage in all that traffic. So I ran to come back to you.” He pulled her hard against him. “Am I squashing you?”
“No.” Del was holding her very close, as if he would never let her go. Celia rather liked the feeling of being squashed up against his waistcoat, while he tucked her under his chin and kissed her forehead. Celia snuggled against Del’s chest for another moment while Mr. Younghusband and his constables had Melissa and her mother by the arms and were escorting them away.
“What will happen to her, to them?”
“Transportation if they’re lucky. Hanging if they are not. And all for bloody money.” His disgust was apparent.
“Yes, money, you bastard,” spat Jane Wainwright. “Only people who don’t need money can afford to sneer at it.”
“Madam, do not so much as tempt me to spare the King’s Bench the trouble of your accommodation.”
She scoffed. “Even you wouldn’t shoot an unarmed woman.”
“Women are never unarmed, madam. You forced your way into my home. I’ve shot strangers for less, and none of them killed my sister or threatened my wife. Take them away.”
Celia found her eyes hot with unshed tears.
“Don’t cry for them, Celia. They are not worth your tears.”
“I can’t help but feel sorry for them. We’re not all like you, Del. We can’t all just take the king’s shilling and go off and win our fortunes. They had to have something to live on, too.”
“That’s more of your willful kindness, Celia, my darling.”
“That’s what I’m supposed to call you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. My darling Viscount Darling.”
“Am I your darling?”
She smiled at him and felt his golden strength flow through her. “My darling Del. Do you know, it is not even eight o’clock in the morning? May we please go upstairs and go back to bed?”
“My Ravishing Viscountess, I should like nothing better.”
If you liked this book,
try Katherine Irons’ SEABORNE,
in stores now . . .
M
organ watched from the surf. Spending so long out of water this afternoon had taxed his strength, both in the energy needed to maintain the illusion that he was a human and the strain it took for him to breathe on land. He felt an overwhelming weariness of body and spirit.
Being in such close contact with the human woman should have dissolved the odd attraction he felt for her. Despite her quick wit and obvious intelligence, she was damaged, her health even more frail than the average land dweller’s. Although he couldn’t assess her physical condition without examining her, he guessed that she was paralyzed from the waist down.
Not that it would have been a problem if she weren’t human. Atlanteans had virtually no physical handicaps and possessed superhealing abilities. Short of the impossibility of replacing a missing limb that had been cut off in battle or eaten by a shark, almost any injury would heal in a matter of hours. They suffered from none of the viruses, heart disease, cancers, and various illnesses that plagued humans.
Leaving the cradle of life, the sea, brought with it many challenges for the human race. The earth’s force of gravity and the constant assault on the earth’s surface from radiation put constant pressure on the human species. Atlanteans, who had remained in the water, were both superior intellectual and sexual beings.
The sexual part was the problem. Unfortunately, heightened sensuality was one weakness that Atlanteans suffered from, both males and females. Although some couples mated for life and remained faithful to each other, the majority, like him, took sexual pleasure where they found it. Since his kind were bound by none of the artificial human rules of morality, adults finding pleasure whenever and wherever they pleased with other adults was the norm.
Morgan reasoned that he had acquired a desire for a woman that he was forbidden to touch. It was a rare occurrence, one that he personally had never experienced, although he’d heard tales of other Atlanteans struck by this same fever in the blood. Inflamed by the unsatisfied lust for a certain object of desire—even a human one—brought weakness and both mental and physical pain.
Claire was so human that he didn’t understand how he could be attracted to her. He should have felt pity for her. Instead, he wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to touch her skin, to taste it, to nibble his way from her delicate eyelids to the tips of her toes . . . to lave every square inch of her body with his tongue. He wanted to inhale her scent until he was intoxicated by it, to run his fingers through her hair, suck her nipples until they hardened to tight buds, and cradle her in his arms. Even now, watching her at a distance, Morgan could feel his groin tightening with need. He wanted her as he hadn’t wanted a female in three hundred years . . . perhaps five.
And she had been equally attracted to him. He had read the invitation in her eyes. Naturally, most sexually mature humans desired his kind. There were legends of those who walked the earth, breathed air, yet lived on the blood of their fellow humans. Vampires, they were called. It was said that vampires possessed the ability to bewitch humans with their sexuality, but the power of these bloodsuckers—if they truly existed—would be nothing compared to the sensual lure of the Atlantean race.
He sank under the waves, reveling in the powerful surge of the tide, savoring the tangy feel of the salt on his skin. This was his element; this was where he belonged. Venturing on dry land, even for a few hours, was dangerous in more ways than he could count.
But the pounding in his head and the pressure in his groin remained as strong as ever. He seemed tangled in a web of sorcery. No matter how much reason told him to leave this place, to forget her, he was incapable of doing so. He had to find a way to end this connection before it was too late.
Perhaps the only way to rid himself of his attraction was to make love to her. It would be risky. The laws against Atlanteans and humans sharing sexual favors were rigid and strictly enforced. If he was caught, he could be severely punished.
The thought that he already could have been caught watching Claire by his greatest enemy came to him. But he didn’t think Caddoc had seen him spying on the woman. It was more likely that his half brother had witnessed the near drowning of the boy. If Caddoc knew about Claire, he would have taunted him about it. Caddoc never had the self-control to hold his tongue. The offense, having romantic contact with a human, would be even greater than rescuing one from drowning.
Morgan clenched his jaw. Tonight, he would go to Claire. But this time, he would take her into his element. Once they were beneath the ocean, he could use his healing powers to temporarily give her back the use of her legs. She would be able to respond to his seduction, to feel his mouth on her body, to enjoy each shared sensation. And he knew he would satisfy her more than any human male she’d ever been intimate with. But then, sadly, he’d have to wipe away her memory of the evening.
He told himself that if she came willingly, it wasn’t really abduction, and if she didn’t resist, what they did together would harm no one. The argument was as full of holes as the
Titanic
, but he was in no mood to be rational. As impossible as it was to believe, Claire had become an immovable obstruction. If he was to complete his mission and return to defend himself in front of the High Court, he’d have to shatter the ancient laws and seduce her first.
And try
THE SHADOW GUARD
,
new from Diane Whiteside,
out this month from Brava . . .
M
urder cases frequently felt like a messy ball of string. But he’d always known where to find a loose end to pull for clues.
Forty-eight hours into the case—the grace period when he could usually at least guess where to look—every lead had led nowhere. And the public was giving him mountains more stuff to track down every minute.
He cursed under his breath and drained his latte. Dammit, maybe if he looked online he could find a lead. The coroner’s preliminary report might have something useful in it.
His cell phone buzzed against his hip, and he ignored it.
He frowned. How many people had the number to his personal cell? His brother Logan and . . .
The distinctive triple pattern sounded again.
He grabbed his phone and flipped it open.
Message from Andromache.
A slow smile spread across his face despite everything else demanding his attention. They’d played
Argos
together on the same server since the game had started six years ago. Now they were members of the same guild. He was a mage, who specialized in blasting bad guys with spectacularly efficient spells, which removed them faster than any court system. She was a very sneaky, barbarian warrior, notable for her boobs, black braids, and flying axes according to her online avatar.
He couldn’t count the number of quests they’d gone on. He wouldn’t have as many points if they didn’t game together so often.
Hey there,
he texted back to her.
Hi. Gaming tonight?
Sorry. Big case here eating up my time.
He kicked back in his chair, certain she wouldn’t want to chat about his job any more than he would hers. She’d probably figured out he was a cop, based on his responses to some very illegal suggestions on
Argos
boards. But she’d never said so specifically and she sure as hell had never been interested in any crimes.
The Belhaven knifing victim?
A cold wave rippled across Jake’s skin, faster than a trout rising for air. The number of people who knew exactly how small-mouth the mystery lady had died were fewer than he had fingers on his phone’s keys.
Why?
he asked and wondered how fast he could subpoena Andromache’s cell phone records, if she didn’t tell him.
There was a long pause.
An e-mail announced that the coroner’s preliminary report was available for review. Nothing helpful there; that doughty old broad had already phoned him with the results.
Jake started to compose a stronger demand for Andromache.
Do you have ANY leads to the killer?
His thumbs hung over the keypad and he gaped at the small screen like a stranded trout. Why the emphasis? Did she know how unusually hard this case was?
A million questions clamored in his head but he couldn’t send any of them on an open line. He settled for the simplest.
Why do you ask?
Seconds ticked past before an answer came, every letter emblazoned on a yellow flag like a giant warning sign.
I can help.
What do you mean???
Her answer shot back faster than the freight trains barreling into town.
Where can we talk? PRIVATELY.
Jake stood up so abruptly that his keyboard bounced onto the carpeted floor. Heads turned to stare and he glowered their owners back to their own business.
He could take her into an interrogation room but that would be recorded. Years of friendship demanded better treatment, at least until he knew whether she was willing to tell the truth.
He chose every Belhaven cop’s favorite hangout.
Duffy’s Tavern in an hour?
Sure. See ya then.
She disappeared without asking how to find Duffy’s. Only the trail of golden balloons and text across his phone’s screen confirmed she just might have something helpful to say.
He blew out a breath and shoved his phone back into its holster.
The pile of message slips seemed to sneer at him, all spurious innocence in its demand for his attention.
Dammit, his brain would rather race through a thousand labyrinths in a quest to discover Andromache’s secrets. Starting with what the hell she looked like.
His computer chimed. A small, orange square began to flash on his monitor’s corner.
Jake gave it the same narrow-eyed look he’d grant an open door in a drug dealer’s hideout. Then he clicked on it.
Hammond, I need you in my office now. The FBI is here. Over.
All of Jake’s previous arrogance about the Feds faded into cold mush at the bottom of his stomach, together with every other stupid boast he’d ever made. What the hell could they do for his case except slow it down?
He gritted his teeth and typed.
Roger that.
Maybe he’d catch a break, the second one of the day, and they’d only want to talk guard duty. Yeah, right.
“Hammond, these are Special Agents Fisher and Murphy of the FBI.” Andrews’ body looked more relaxed than Jake expected and yet his eyes were more perplexed. Around him, photographs of him with foreign and national dignitaries radiated confidence. Highly polished examples of every rifle the department had owned for the past two centuries conveyed lethal competence.
Jake shook hands with the two pin-striped strangers and tried to hide his wariness. Their well-tailored suits couldn’t disguise the weapons belts at their hips nor their direct assessment of him.
“Gentlemen, this is Sergeant Jake Hammond. He’s the head of our Homicide Unit and is personally leading the investigation into Saturday night’s murder case. He was the first detective on the scene.”
“Very glad to meet you, Hammond,” said Murphy, the taller of the two and a woman. “We’ll be working closely with you on Division Director Williams’s murder.”
“Division Director? Williams?” Shock thudded through Jake’s system and deepened his voice. “May I ask who you’re talking about?”
“Melinda Williams is a GSA division director who was reported missing in North Carolina five days ago,” Murphy answered quietly, her cool, black eyes measuring Jake like a surveyor’s sextant.
“Five days? If she drove directly back here, then three days in the water—” The calendar arranged itself in front of his eyes, dates sturdy as soldiers standing to be counted.
“And two days in the coroner’s office. Yes, the timeline fits neatly.” Murphy sipped her coffee as precisely as she’d folded the scarf at her neck. “Miss Williams took a rental car to Elizabeth City, since flights aren’t readily available there, unlike Raleigh.”
“But she was reported missing in North Carolina, not here.” Jake doggedly pursued the victim’s footprints.
“Because she didn’t tell her office or her family that she was returning. When she didn’t phone in, the search started at her North Carolina long-term rental apartment.”
Chief Andrews watched them silently, his fingers steepled like a rack of guns ready to go to war.
“Why do you think it’s her?” Jake pushed harder, determined to find all the secrets in the FBI’s arsenal.
“Miss Williams is very distinctive physically.” Fisher spoke up for the first time, his deep voice shadowing the room. “Height, weight”—his eyes met Jake’s and they shared a moment’s masculine response to those statistics—“and a small zodiac tattoo on the small of her back all matched your victim. Her fingerprints came back positive just before Murphy and I arrived here.”
“Good to know,” Jake murmured. They’d probably rushed the tests through. “She worked for GSA, you said. The General Services Administration, right?”
He kept his tongue, and hopefully his tone, away from dismissing them as the bureaucrats’ bureaucrats.
“Correct. She was in the Public Building Service, where Uncle Sam is the government’s landlord.” Fisher and Murphy’s utter relaxation confirmed that they, too, considered Williams and her group to be just ordinary public servants, not critical to the country’s protection.
“Report said that she was knifed, which is why we came over,” Murphy added.
“Since she’s a federal employee and disappeared while she was working, her death might be related to her job, making it an FBI issue.” Fisher peered into his mug’s depths, then unhappily swirled the dregs. “I never expected to find a vanilla latte with soy at a police station. Can we have another round of coffee, please, before we talk about today’s real problem—the upcoming arraignment of those terrorists?”
“Sure thing.” Jake pushed back his chair. He too could use a good drink.
Triumph flickered through the chief’s eyes for an instant. He swore gourmet coffee won more interrogations and political negotiations than any other bribe.
“Once we nail that down, we can chat about how to conduct a joint investigation into Miss Williams’s death. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to make sure we cover all the basics.”
Jake nodded politely and headed for the best stash of coffee fixings in the building. He’d need all the help he could get to wash down the FBI’s ideas of partnership.
Then get out in time to meet Andromache.

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