Sin (24 page)

“Tell me them all.”

“
The Page Turner
, for I like to imagine the next scene—when that innocent young woman finds herself penetrated by two aroused gentlemen. By another man and me.”

He heard her breath hitch. She stroked the brush up the center of his chest, along the line of his throat. “And I love
The Luncheon
, where an orgy has broken out at a proper outdoor luncheon. I can picture us like that, you lying on the table, me feasting on your juicy quim.”

The bristles touched his lips. Traced them. “Now, when I look at my work, I think of us…like that. Do you?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “When I look at all of your pictures, I think of you with me.”

She retreated, drawing the brush down to his navel, dipping in, then trailing down…down.

Closing his eyes, he savored the sensation as she brushed his ballocks. The pressure as the sable tip flattened had him jerking against his bonds. She drew the brush up and down the shaft of his cock until he moaned in pure hunger. A true sensual artist, she painted the sensitive head, swirled around the ridge, stroked the taut line of flesh at the back. She hit a spot that sent explosive pleasure rocketing through his skull. He howled, thrashing back against the ropes.

“Marcus…”

He felt her weight settle across his thighs. Yes. Pleasure and agony roared through him as she bent back his cock, preparing to mount. He kept his eyes shut and focused on the tight grip of her hand on the shaft, her heavy breathing, the brush of crisp hairs against the bulging head. His heart galloped with anticipation. Waiting to slide into her tight, sopping wet cunny—

A thunderous bang had his eyes open. A dark shape streaked in through the connecting door. Venetia screamed and fell onto the bed, but the assailant grabbed her, and dragged her to the floor. Marcus drove his arms forward, thrust his legs to the side, trying to break the velvet ropes. They held tight.

Dressed entirely in black, masked, the man hauled Vee to her feet. Her eyes were wide, face stark white. Wrenching her head back, the blackguard pressed a blade to her throat. A weak croak spilled from her lips. In a husky voice, he snarled, “Where’s that bloody book? Give it to me, else she gets her throat slit.”

Marcus ripped at the knots she’d tied. Damn, she’d played the game too well, she’d made him a true prisoner.

“Stop! Another move, milord, and I cut her throat.” Hand fisted in Vee’s hair, the man pulled her head back, forcing her neck to arch against the blade. Her whimper of pain ripped through Marcus’ soul.

Boiling with hatred, fury, rage at his position, he could only obey. Stay motionless.

“Ye’re looking less impressive now, milord,” the intruder sneered. He nodded toward the toys on the bed. “Do ye stuff all those into this tart?”

Marcus reacted from the gut at the words, arching forward. The villain pressed the knife tighter to Vee’s throat, making her gasp.

“I want the book, milord. Now.”

Hell, who was behind the mask? The accent was rough but the voice was disguised and muffled. It could belong to any man in the house. Clad in black, standing in shadow and shielded by Vee, the bastard appeared muscular, tall—a build that could belong to any of their suspects.

“The book is in her trunk,” Marcus said. “Untie me and I’ll get it for you. Let her go.”

“It’s locked—” Vee stopped, trying to pull back from the blade. “I…I can’t speak.”

Damn. Only Vee would protest. Only Vee would point out to a killer the idiocy of his actions.

“You can stay right where ye are, milord,” The man mocked and he pushed Vee forward, forced her to walk toward her room. “Now, let’s get that book, sweetie, and then I’ll be off.”

It gave Marcus time. Twisting his head, he tugged his right wrist hard against the bonds. She’d left slack at least. Enough to get his teeth on the knot. To rip, tear, pull, gnaw. His first tug tightened it, but not by much. Shifting, he found another spot to rip. The knot loosened.

From Vee’s room, came the sound of something dragging across the wood floor. Her trunk. Then her voice rose, filled with fear. “I’ve hidden the trunk key. Let me get it.”

A thudding sound followed. As though the villain was kicking the trunk while Venetia got the key.

The knot slackened, then opened. His wrist ached, his hand prickled and he flexed it quickly. He tore the next knot open. Ripped the ropes of his feet and slid off the bed, taking care to make no sound. Venetia, bless her, slammed the wardrobe doors open and made a loud attempt to find her key, swishing dresses, banging the doors.

Noise that made the killer nervous. “Keep it quiet,” he barked.

Pressed tight to the wall, Marcus peered around the doorframe. The villain’s back faced him—he didn’t expect a bound man to cause him trouble. Venetia had just dropped a gown to the floor, shaking in terror.

Did he have time to grab his thin sword from his walking stick?

“Ye’re stalling.” The arm lifted, the blade glinted.

Marcus launched forward. He tackled the villain and slammed his right fist into the man’s face from behind. The knife arm slashed back. He jerked to the side—too late. Cold metal slid into his flesh. Tore upward. Jerked free. Instinct and pain sent him backing off, the villain took the advantage to turn and slice up with the blade.

Expecting it, Marcus sprung back and the bloodstained tip slashed air. But he drove forward with his right fist, snapping the villain’s head back as his fist smashed into his jaw. He pushed his advantage, following with a left uppercut. His knuckles split on contact and came away red—smeared with blood from the killer’s nose. The villain’s hand went up in instinctive protection. Marcus drove his right fist into the bastard’s gut. He sagged back.

Marcus moved fluidly, the training from Gentleman Jackson’s ring guided him. He landed a volley of blows but the knife blade slashed wildly at him, forcing him back.

Venetia screamed. From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw her charge forward. A poker high above her head. Just a fractional hesitation. But the blackguard spun.

Venetia swung the poker down. It smashed into the floor and splintered wood where the killer’s feet had been. With a cry, she dropped the poker. Marcus lunged to grab it, but the assailant chose to flee rather than fight. As Marcus sprang after him, poker raised, the man jumped up onto the windowsill. The open window—the way he’d gotten in. It was a two-story fall.

Crashing and cursing met Marcus as he leaned out of the window. Bushes below had broken the fall and provided enough shadow to swallow up a man dressed in black. Moonlight slanted over the lawns but trees made wells of shadow. Marcus spotted movement several yards from the house, but the killer vanished again into blackness.

Blast. No point launching nude out of the window to take up the chase.

“Marcus! You’re bleeding!”

G
od, she had the hands of an angel. Leaning back on his bed, on top of folded sheets, Marcus groaned softly while Venetia cleaned his wound. The wet cloth felt strangely cold as it slid over his opened flesh, but it dulled some of the pain.

“Does that hurt?” she whispered.

“A little,” he admitted.

“I’m sure it hurts more than that.” Lashes soft as velvet screened her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For rescuing me.”

Against his will, laughter came. He remembered her wild swing with the poker, her angry, coarse curse of “Shite!” Pain lanced his side, but it was worth it. The laugh cleared his head.

He struggled to sit up. Her small, splayed hand tried to push him back. “What are you doing? It needs to be dressed. And laudanum—”

“No opiates.” Hell, he needed a clear head. He looked down at his wound. A glancing blow at his hipbone and the cut wasn’t deep. It hurt like the blazes. Had the blade struck higher, not hit the bone, it would have gutted him—

He eased her pale hand away, swung his legs off the bed.

“You can’t get up!”

“Sweetheart, I have to. He’s given himself away. I gave his face a good pounding and he’s going to show it. A split lip, bruises. All I need to do is round up the men on the estate and we’ve got our killer.”

“Now? Your wound needs bandaging.”

He met her frightened gaze. “I’m going to catch him. Tonight. It’s all over.”

She pressed a gauze pad to the slice along his hip, firmly, but gently enough not to cause pain. She moved his hand to it. “Hold that in place.”

Clamping the pad as she asked, he yanked the bell pull to summon Rutledge. Who could he trust to guard Venetia while he searched? The women? Servants? Some brawny footmen whose innocence he could readily judge—he would know they were innocent if they didn’t bear the evidence of the fight.

Marcus sank back to the bed. Blood loss left his legs shaky, but he fought the tremble in his muscles. Venetia firmly kept her hand on his shoulder—to keep him her captive—while she gathered up bandages and pins. Deftly, she wound the fabric.

The brush of her fingers over his skin was magic—not just sensual magic. Something different. Something he only vaguely remembered. Comfort. “You’re very good at this.”

Her gentle voice soothed. “Good works in the village. To keep us above reproach. Mother insisted that we must battle gossip about her absentee husband by throwing ourselves into charity work.” She pinned the snug wrap of bandages swiftly and neatly, the pressure easing pain.

He’d never seen this side of her, this gentle nurturing side. What a wonderful wife and mother she would make.

“Marcus, I—” Her face was stark white. Her eyes were deep green in the light, watery, like jade stones in a flowing brook. “I want to go with you.”

“No. Absolutely not. You’ll be safe here—I’ll post a guard.” He brushed a quick kiss to her trembling lips, then slid to his feet to yank on his clothes.

So softly he knew the words were meant only for her, she whispered, “I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Marcus rested his hip on the edge of Chartrand’s desk, holding the pistol he’d acquired from his host’s collection at his side. Loaded and primed, it was a reassuring weight against his palm.

A footman stood by the row of windows and Rutledge stood by the door. For once, the butler looked shocked and appalled.

“What in blazes is going on?” Wembly stormed into the drawing room, running his fingers through his tangled hair. “Trent, what do you think you’re about?”

Candlelight fell on Wembly’s face, revealing it clearly. Wembly’s face was unmarked. Not a bruise. Not a split lip. No sign of a beating.

Within ten minutes, Brude, Montberry, and Swansborough had barreled into the room, enraged at being hauled away from their sexual pleasures. They were debauched men—they’d continued to seek entertainment even though the orgy had halted.

Each man wore his innocence plainly on his face.

Time ticked by. Chartrand did not appear.

Montberry drew himself up. “Trent, what is the meaning of dragging us from our beds?”

“An assailant with a knife dragged me from mine. I thought I’d return the favor to the man responsible.” He watched his peers, saw no sign of guilt. But they were gentlemen all, accustomed to masking emotion. He gave out succinct details of the assault.

“And whoever attacked you will bear the bruises,” Swansborough concluded from the brandy decanter where he sloshed a glass full.

Marcus called out to Rutledge. “Where is Lord Chartrand?”

The butler stepped forward. “Not in his bedroom, my lord. I sent Roberts in search of him.”

And Roberts had not returned with Chartrand. The man who had reputedly murdered his wife was not showing his face.

“We search for him,” Marcus said grimly.

With the sentry on guard—Williams and Davis, two footmen with unmarred faces and barrel chests—Venetia couldn’t leave the room. She paced the floor in front of her fireplace. She was terrified for Marcus, and worse, she was left out of the action and adventure. It drove her mad.

She’d thanked him for rescuing her—he had saved her life and she was being churlish to actually resent him for it.

Resting her hands on the mantel and bowing her head, she knew she didn’t truly resent him. She was frightened. Not over murderers but of the stark truth staring her in the face. She’d come to London to rescue herself, determined to do it. And she hadn’t—the magnificent, powerful Earl of Trent had had his hands full rescuing her.

He’d rescued her from her career. Rescued her from ruination—or, rather, tried. Rescued her from landing in a cauldron of trouble by seeking adventure at an orgy. And he’d most definitely rescued her from death.

She’d wanted to believe a woman could rescue herself. She’d had to believe it—she couldn’t go blithely on pretending to hope that Rodesson would protect his family. And what had she done? She’d failed.

Which man had attacked them? She’d been close enough to smell his sweat and she still did not know. He hadn’t smelled or sounded like a gentleman, but that might have been a disguise.

Which of them? Chartrand? Brude? Wembly? Montberry? Swansborough? It was so hard to picture any of those arrogant gentlemen as the rough villain who had held a knife to her throat. It certainly hadn’t been a woman. He’d been strong. She’d felt his hard chest pressing against her back. And he’d been aroused—she’d felt that too.

Her stomach was churning and she rested her head on the carved mantel.

She lifted her head so quick her neck cracked. Her pictures. Would it help to look at them? She’d sketched every gentleman here. Perhaps studying them might stir recognition. Might give her a clue.

Unlocking her trunk, she pulled out her paint box. She’d jammed it hurriedly in before. As the lid opened and brushes and bottles tumbled out, she realized she’d forgotten to lock it. With a sweep of her arm she herded up the fallen equipment and dumped it back it. Locked the box with care, pulled out her sketchbook. Paused. Lydia’s journal was beneath it. They’d read it over and over and found no real clue. Each guest had a motive. Tentatively, she touched it. Marcus’ secrets were no longer there. Had Lady Ravenwood been the victim of incest? Had he been protecting his sister’s secrets?

Why did he believe his mother’s words that he was unworthy of love? Any man more worthy of love, she couldn’t imagine!

The red leather-bound book lay there. Outwardly innocent, but it was the most sinful thing she’d ever seen. Venetia dropped her paint box back in the trunk on top of the book and pushed the trunk under the bed.

That book had driven someone to the most unthinkable crimes.

Marcus crouched, ignoring Chartrand’s sightless gray eyes to study the ugly slash across his throat. The white of his windpipe showed amidst red, oozing flesh. Christ Jesus.

The dust of hay twinkled in the lamplight. Hooves clopped on stone as horses paced and tossed. Fierce snorts came from frightened animals, who smelled blood and death. A roan stallion threw his flank against the stall gate and sent the boards straining on the chain. The head groom caught his tether and began settling the beast.

The other two grooms—boys with thin chests and unruly hair—crowded around him and Chartrand’s body.

“Coo,” breathed one.

“Blimey,” added the other.

Straightening, Marcus sent Rutledge to alert the other searchers.

Chartrand’s body had been shoved into an empty stall, head landing against a bale. Blood had rushed from the slice at his throat, making a river of red along the floor.

The largest groom, a big man with gray threading his brown hair, came striding over and doffed his cap. “Can we move ’im, milord? The horses are spooked.”

Marcus nodded. No clues to the killer, other than boot prints smearing the long trail of blood, but those vanished at the stable door. If the knife blow had come from the front, the killer would be sprayed with Chartrand’s blood.

Who? Who was left? The women. Lady Yardley. Lady Chartrand. The various courtesans. He couldn’t believe a woman had done this. She wouldn’t have the strength to fight off Chartrand. Or to have fought with him in his bedchamber. And he was certain the bone structure he had destroyed with his fist belonged to a man.

“Were it the gypsies, milord?” asked the tallest lad, the one with spiky red hair.

“No,” the head groom said, “They packed up and left. Scared off.”

Who did that leave? Servants. Had one of the servants been paid? He’d have to get Rutledge to round up every man on the blasted estate. He asked the head groom, “Did any of your lads get in a fight tonight?”

The groom crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Naw, not one o’ mine.”

“Aye,” chimed in the redheaded lad, “But I saw a footman in the carriage house. Fetching something for a gent, he said. ’Ad a busted lip and the start of a shiner on one eye. Said he’d pinched the arse of the wrong wench.”

“There’s a curricle missing, milord,” the youngest groom added breathlessly. “And Mr. Wembly’s grays are gone too.”

“Which bloody footman was it?” Marcus barked.

On her bed, legs tucked beneath her, Venetia opened her sketchbook. Which one? Which one?

The first sketch—her naughtiest. John and Cole entwined after sex. Two limp cocks resting side by side, John’s head bowed on Cole’s chest. She turned to the next.

A portrait of Lydia. She lifted the page, intending to toss it over, then paused. Lydia had been very beautiful. Cupid’s bow lips—Venetia was proud of the way she’d caught the shape. The only odd feature was Lydia’s nose, straight but wide, with a rounded bump on the end. Large, round eyes. She had sketched in charcoal, so the eyes were rendered in black, with circles of white to show the reflection of light, the life, in them. Lydia’s eyes had been the color of the night sky just before dawn—midnight blue, rich with violet.

And the next. Lord Chartrand tapping Trixie’s curvy bottom with a riding crop while her hand had just smacked Mr. Wembly’s hard and nude derriere. Unfinished, capturing only their forms. Venetia nibbled her thumbnail. Could her attacker have been Lord Chartrand? Had he been that big and broad?

It had been such a blur. She’d been so shocked—

Or could it have been Wembly who was slight but tall, and blond? Could he have disguised his mocking, jaded drawl as a ruffian’s coarse voice?

She stared at her unfinished portrait of Montberry, captured as he watched a scandalous display—Lady Chartrand and Rosalyn positioned head to quim and lavishly licking. The war hero stood as tall as Marcus. Venetia was certain—almost—that the masked man had been shorter, but not by much.

She glanced at the clock on the mantel. A quarter of three. Was Marcus downstairs? Had he found all the men? Why hadn’t she heard anything yet?

She turned the page.

Another unfinished sketch. Lord Brude, dark, brooding, and gorgeous. With long fingered hands, and an unusually long tongue. Not the sort of thing to help identify a masked and gloved assailant when he stood at your back.

Or Lord Swansborough?

Her pictures weren’t helping at all and she was at the last one. Lady Yardley caught in a passionate moment with the raven-haired footman, Polk. A few strokes captured the poignant emotion shining in her ladyship’s eyes, the cocky triumph in his—

Why hadn’t she seen it before?

The footman’s face…Lydia Harcourt and Polk the footman had the same features. His were broader, coarser, more masculine, but they were the same. The same chin. The same nose. And the eyes—she was relying on memory—but the color of the eyes was the same.

It could not be a coincidence. Lydia and the footman were related. Quite closely, she guessed. Brother and sister? Her mind whirled. Polk had brought brandy to her room the day Lydia was killed. He was upset, agitated. Of course he would be, if his sister had been murdered!

Had Lydia come here seeking his help or protection?

It seemed a strange coincidence that her brother would be Chartrand’s footman—

The man who had attacked them had dark eyes, so dark they could have been black, like Lord Swansborough’s eyes. But given the faint light, the mask shadowing his face, they might have been midnight blue.

They could also have been brown.

Why would Polk strangle his own sister? His soon-to-be wealthy sister?

She must find Marcus and tell him. Tucking the sketchbook beneath her arm, she raced for the door. She turned the key in the lock. Blast. Her guards.

Well, their job was to guard her, they could just as easily do it while taking her to find Marcus. She pulled the door open. Two bodies sprawled in the hallway by her door. She saw crumpled crimson livery. Gleaming boots with toes pointing up.

She shrank back. Her arms wrapped around her sketchbook. As she stared down at the men, skirts came into view. Black skirts.

“I want me mistress’ book. Now.”

Venetia’s horrified gaze slid upward. A pistol was leveled at her chest. She stared into the cold, merciless eyes of Lydia’s maid Juliette. The grim faced woman who had shed tears over her employer’s death.