Sins of a Virgin (2 page)

Murmurs swelled again through the crowd until Baron Weltyn, a perspiring gentleman with a salmon-colored jacket and slightly bulging eyes, snorted. “But why would we want to bed an innocent?”

“While I may be a virgin . . .” She reached up and unbuckled the specially designed clasps on the shoulders of the gown. With a slight shrug, the dress joined the cloak on the ground, revealing her tightly laced black corset, matching satin drawers, and sheer stockings. “I’m definitely no innocent.”

Men jumped to their feet, some driven by outrage, some by lust. Friends pounded the elderly Duke of Avelsy on the back as he choked on his brandy.

She surveyed the uproar with satisfaction. The only bad reaction was no reaction at all. For this auction to succeed, the scandal needed to sweep London. The more this night grew in infamy, the better she would do. Madeline reached up and plucked the pins from her hair so the dark chestnut strands tumbled over her shoulders and cascaded down her back.

The room again quieted.

Desire pounded hot and almost palpable in the room.

“How do we know you’re a virgin?”

Finally, someone had the nerve to ask the question she’d seen burning in everyone’s eyes. She peered into the darkened corners of the room. Ah, the not-so-honorable George Glinton.

“You’ve been escorted around London by nearly every peer in this room. How do we know you’re still a virgin?”

“Can any of you claim to have bedded me?” She reached leisurely to her feet and retrieved her dress and domino, treating the men in front of her to the view of her breasts threatening to overflow the cups of her corset, while the men behind her watched the fabric of her drawers tightening over her backside. Satisfied that she had their full attention, she draped her clothing over her arm and held out her hand so Algie could assist her to the ground. With swaying hips, she walked toward the door.

“Wait!” another voice shouted. “You didn’t answer Glinton. How do we know you’re a virgin?”

She peered back over her shoulder and smiled that seductive smile she’d been forced to perfect during countless hours of training by the Foreign Office. “It is a gamble, is it not? And that, gentlemen, is why you will have to bid and bid well.”

Chapter Two

G
abriel Huntford kept his arms folded so he didn’t beat some sense into the man. “Of course it’s the same murderer.”

Jeremiah Potts, magistrate of the Bow Street Office, mopped his perpetually damp brow with a square of linen. “Girls are strangled in London all the time.”

“My sister’s body was arranged exactly the same.”

“In a nightgown in a bed. Half the blasted corpses we find have been murdered in their beds.” Potts sat heavily behind his desk. “Why would the murderer have waited so long to kill again? It makes no sense. Your sister’s case was put aside seven years ago.”

Only in the official records. Not a day had passed when Gabriel hadn’t searched for some clue he might have missed. Or for the mysterious gentleman his twin had mentioned before her death. Now he finally had suspects. Solid leads. Unfortunately, they resulted from another dead girl. “I’m the best Runner you’ve got.”

Potts sighed, the lines creasing his forehead suddenly more pronounced. “Not for this case. If it’s related to your sister’s—and I’m not saying I agree with you on that—you’re too close.”

“You hired me because of my work on my sister’s case.”

“It was either that or arrest you for disturbing the public peace.” Potts continued, “It took me over a year to smooth the feathers you ruffled. I’m not going to let you run roughshod through the richest, most powerful men in England based on the word of a half-blind, pensioned-off coachman who spends his days drunk in a tavern.”

“A tavern directly across from the school where the dead woman taught. The man does nothing but sit and watch people come and go. He’s a witness. He saw Miss Simm meet a gentleman and leave in his coach.”

“A rented hackney.”

“But the gentleman in the hackney had visited to the school before.”

“In a coach with a coat of arms containing some sort of animal. I know. I read your report. I also read that your witness had no physical description of the man other than that he was tall, well-dressed, and blurry. You will not accuse innocent men on such unreliable evidence.”

“In other words, you’d rather let a killer go free than risk questioning the aristocracy.”

“Those gentlemen are the ones who assign us a budget every year. You may not like it, but if they cut our budget again, we’ll lose two more Runners. Do you realize how many more criminals will remain on the streets if that happens? Besides, the Simm murder will be investigated. Just not by you.”

Gabriel reminded himself that he respected Potts on most days. And he didn’t envy him the groveling he performed to keep Parliament happy. But in this he was wrong. No one knew the details of this case or his sister’s as he did. He was the one who had interviewed the witnesses from both murders. He was the one who’d recorded every detail from the scene of the crimes. He couldn’t risk someone else not being as thorough. Or risk them not pressing hard enough because they were afraid to offend the high-and-mighty aristocracy. “I’ll investigate on my own.”

He’d finally been given what he’d searched for these past years. Suspects. After his sister’s murder, the only thing he knew was that she’d been seen with a mysterious gentleman. But now with this new murder, he’d been able to cross-check his list of the noblemen who’d been in London at the time of his sister’s murder with a list of men who had daughters at the school. And since the school, for the most part, housed bastard daughters of rich aristocrats, the list was quite small. When he’d further tightened the list to those with animals on their family crests, he’d been left with a list of seven names.

“Do you think your suspects will talk to you without the authority of Bow Street behind you? They won’t even let you in the door. And if you go against my word on this, you’ll no longer be . . .” Potts stared at something outside his office door, his mouth gaping.

Gabriel turned, curious as to what had rendered Potts speechless in the middle of one of his prized threats. The only time he could recall Potts at a loss for words was when that albino man and his camel—

Gabriel’s breath escaped as if he’d been punched in the gut.

A woman stood in the doorway.

No. That would be like calling the Holy Grail a drinking cup.

If his every dark, midnight fantasy had somehow come to life, they would have created this woman. And since she’d been drawn from his dreams, he already knew the rich, dark curls artfully arranged on her head would be silky to his touch. He knew when she turned, a few lucky tendrils would have escaped to tease the slender column of her throat. He recognized the pert, straight nose, ached to run his finger over the delicate curve of her ear.

But it was her lips he couldn’t look away from. Lips his imagination never could have conjured. Lush, sensuous, and dark, as if she’d just sipped a glass of fine red wine. He wanted to bring his mouth to hers, sample her flavor, and grow drunk on her sweetness.

A slight mocking curve of that mouth brought his attention to her eyes. After his intense study, it was a bit of a shock to find she wasn’t looking at him at all, but rather over his shoulder at Potts.

She stepped into the room, the small, graceful movement drawing Gabriel’s attention to her body. Her gown was no different from ones he saw every day in Hyde Park, yet it was infinitely more provocative. The bodice offered up the lush perfection of her breasts. The narrow skirt highlighted the tiny span of her waist and gentle flare of her hips.

“Mr. Potts, I can wait if you need more time,” the woman said, her voice the perfect mixture of sugar and seduction.

Potts lumbered out from behind his desk and caught the woman’s hand, bringing it to his lips as ruddy color darkened his cheeks. “No, Miss Valdan. I let time get away from me. We were finished.”

The name doused Gabriel’s lustful appreciation. Madeline Valdan. The courtesan’s name had been on every male’s lips for the past six months. Yesterday, with the start of her ridiculous auction, it had grown ten times worse. Hell, at the murder scene yesterday, the other constables had been unable to focus on anything save their lamentable lack of funds for bidding on her.

Potts led Miss Valdan to the worn leather chair across from his desk and motioned for her to sit, then turned to Gabriel. “Huntford, the matter is decided. You have other cases. Other people who deserve justice.”

When Potts said his name, Miss Valdan finally directed her gaze to him. It swept over him like velvet, leaving his skin hot and itchy. But Gabriel resisted the urge to straighten like a green youth; instead, he met her eyes with a glare. He had a murder to solve—a murder he would solve quickly if Potts would just see reason. But he now had to waste precious time as Potts fawned over London’s favorite courtesan, forgetting he was old enough to be her father.

“That will be all, Huntford.”

Potts might tolerate Gabriel’s arguments in private, but Gabriel knew better than to question the man in public. “Yes, sir.”

Miss Valdan watched them with amused tolerance, somehow making the cracked leather chair look soft and comfortable, as if she’d climbed onto the lap of a lover.

He had better things to do than provide amusement. Gabriel strode from the room, glad to be out of the stilted air of Potts’s office so he could pull oxygen more easily into his lungs.

Potts quickly shut the door behind him.

Chaos erupted as the criminals and constables alike regained their senses now that Miss Valdan was no longer in sight. The shouting started. The crying. The gruff orders.

Gabriel ignored them, locked his arms over his chest, and waited. What could she need? Help finding some bauble she’d misplaced? He had a murder to solve. Despite Potts’s denial, there was no doubt that it was the same murderer. Both women had been strangled and their bodies arranged in a cheap rented room. They had both been dressed in a white nightgown with a mourning brooch pinned at their throats. Gabriel fingered the brooch in his pocket, the one that had been pinned to his sister. It held a lock of her hair sealed under glass. The one pinned to Miss Simm had held a piece of hers. The brooch was a taunt by the murderer to show he’d known his victims in advance—known them well enough to get a lock of hair. Every day Gabriel was tempted to crush the damned thing beneath his heel. But he couldn’t. It was a clue, one of the only ones he had.

The door suddenly opened, and Miss Valdan appeared. “I shall expect him at eleven tomorrow.”

Potts bowed deeply from his place near the door. “It’s our pleasure, Madeline.”

Gabriel held his ground outside the doorway so Potts wouldn’t be able to avoid him. Miss Valdan would have to step around him to exit, but she could survive the slight inconvenience. Everyone else might bow to her whims, but Gabriel had more important priorities.

Yet rather than skirting around, Miss Valdan sauntered straight forward as if he weren’t there. For a second, Gabriel feared she might careen into him, but despite the possible collision, he wouldn’t scamper out of her way. She could damned well alter her course.

She didn’t.

Her chosen path brushed so close to him that her dress caressed his leg and the hint of vanilla in her hair teased his nostrils.

A small smile lifted her lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

She had to have been talking to Potts. Yet dread settled in Gabriel’s gut.

Potts cleared his throat. “You have a new assignment, Huntford.”

M
adeline handed the heavy bouquet of scarlet orchids to the wan-faced girl who waited at the kitchen entrance.

The girl’s eyes widened as she tucked the blossoms into her basket. “Lawks, miss. I doubt any of the fellows on the street will be able to afford this.”

Madeline tried not to notice the threadbare patches on the girl’s shawl. After paying her butler and coachman for the two remaining weeks of the auction, and her trip to Bow Street, she was about equally poor. Besides, advice was worth far more than her few remaining farthings. “You have two options. Either break it down into smaller bouquets or sell it to one of the flower shops. These are from the Duke of Umberland’s private hothouse. They’re the only ones of their kind in England. Don’t take less than a guinea for the bunch of them.”

“Thank you, miss.” Tears glistened in the girl’s brown eyes.

Madeline stepped back. Why did they always complicate things by becoming emotional? “Just make sure you don’t spend the money on trinkets. Use it to buy more flowers.”

The girl nodded, holding the basket to her chest. “Think you’ll have more flowers for us girls tomorrow, miss?”

“Undoubtedly.” Did the men of London think she wanted to drown in them? “Oh, and there’s a forbidding man standing at my front door. Can you leave without him seeing you?”

The child’s head bobbed. “I’m good at that.”

Madeline shut the door, aware of her butler hovering behind her. “Orchids make me sneeze,” she explained.

“And the roses, and the daffodils, and the peonies? I must say your sneezing was becoming bothersome.”

“Terrible curse.” Madeline crossed her arms and silently dared him to contradict her.

“Indeed, miss.”

Madeline eyed her butler, her eyes rising to the top of his head. “The feather does look better on you.”

Canterbury patted the ostrich feather on his hat. “Indeed, miss.” The jaunty trimming she’d given him fluttered over his high-crowned beaver, a new addition in his seemingly endless supply of unusual creations. “Thank you.”

She still wasn’t sure how her butler knew Wraith. Neither of them would speak about it. All she knew was that Wraith had hired him for her because he was trustworthy. And Wraith didn’t think anyone was trustworthy. “Well, as you said, it never suited my lavender bonnet.”

Canterbury glanced toward the doorway. “Shall I answer the door now, miss?”

Madeline walked in the opposite direction. “Give him another minute, then put him in the study.”