Wicked Company (54 page)

“You had no suckling babe when last we met, that’s certain,” he exclaimed, staring at her with curiosity. “Greetings, Sophie,” he added with a flourish. “The wanderer has returned!”

Startled by the noise and sudden movement, little Danielle pulled her head away from Sophie’s bosom with a jerk and began to wail at the interruption. Boswell flushed scarlet at the sight of Sophie’s swollen breast, and Hunter appeared no more at ease than his companion.

She smiled at them apologetically, soothed the baby, and urged her tiny daughter to resume nursing, pulling her shawl discreetly over Danielle’s tiny head. She beckoned the two men to take seats by the fire at the rear of the shop and called quietly up to Lorna to come downstairs and greet their guests.

“So, you’re back!” Sophie said, settling herself gingerly into a chair beside her visitors. “You must tell me everywhere you’ve been and everything you’ve done.”

“From what I gather, you’ve done quite a lot yourself, lassie,” Boswell said with a meaningful look at the baby.

“Oh, Bozzy,” she sighed, “so much has happened since we last saw each other.”

“Aye,” he replied, with a hint of melancholy.

“Jamie’s mother died in Edinburgh on the eleventh of January,” Hunter explained, casting a sympathetic look at his friend.

“Oh, I am so very sorry to hear of it,” Sophie replied softly.

“A letter from my father caught up with me in Paris as I was about to depart for home…”

Boswell’s slightly protuberant eyes begin to fill with tears. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled handkerchief.

“But you
must
tell Sophie about your adventures in Corsica,” Hunter interjected hastily. “He’s been consorting with desperadoes and revolutionaries and all manner of renegades. ’Tis sure to plague his father, if he should ever hear of our lad’s exploits!”

Boswell warmed to the subject of his romantic adventures all over Europe. His descriptions painted such vivid pictures that Sophie could almost imagine herself traveling beside him. After a quarter of an hour, she put the sleeping Danielle back into the padded drawer near the desk and then accepted a cup of tea brewed by Lorna. For an hour or more, Jamie regaled them with tales of meeting General Pasquale Paoli, a leader bent on freeing Corsica from the sway of Genoa.

“We could speak of everything, he and I,” Boswell said of the General, “politics, philosophy, history, marriage, even the intelligence of beasts. I dressed as a Corsican during my stay and they called me their English ambassador. I played the flute in public… Scot tunes, and they loved ’em!”

“And don’t forget Rousseau,” Hunter said admiringly. “Our Bozzy’s become an intimate of the great philosopher.”

The mention of Rousseau instantly transported Sophie back to the day when the clerics from St. Giles invaded her father’s book shop and she hid Rousseau’s
La Nouvelle Heloise
beneath chunks of peat in a box near the hearth. That was the day she first met Hunter.

“I have also become a devoted admirer of Rousseau’s mistress, Thérèse le Vasseur,” Boswell revealed impishly.

“To what degree are you ‘devoted,’ you scamp?” Sophie smiled.

“Quite
devoted,” he replied.

“Oh,
no!”
Sophie teased. “You don’t mean you—”

“Only twelve times,” Boswell said nonchalantly, and Hunter, Sophie, and Lorna collapsed with laughter.

“No wonder you’ve come to call…” Sophie chuckled, wiping her eyes, “…you were actually intending to visit the Green Canister, next door… now admit it!”

“Odds fish, I pray
not!”
Boswell retorted.

Just then, a stranger bundled in a cloak to combat the bitter cold entered the shop, and the resulting draft stirred the embers on the fire. The man of middle stature quickly shut the door behind him and unraveled a yard-long wool muffler he’d wrapped around his throat.

“I’ve word for Sophie McGann,” the man announced in a gruff voice. “A very rotund friend of hers what used to visit her aunt at Bedlam paid me to fetch her if the old lady should take a turn for the worse.”

“I am Sophie McGann,” she said, rising to her feet, a chilly feeling of dread clutching at her. “What is it?”

She recognized the visitor as the turnkey from Bedlam—Jackson—whom she’d paid handsomely the day she disguised herself as the fat old man in
The Milk Maids.
He was to bring her word of any trouble.

“I’m sorry to have to tell ye, m’lady… yer aunt’s dead. Slit her wrists this morning, she did, with the edge of one of them feeding tubes.”

“Oh, God,” Sophie whispered, feeling Hunter wrap his arm around her shoulder to steady her.

“Where is she now?” Hunter demanded.

“College of Surgeons, I expect,” the man said dourly.

Sophie felt her legs turn to jelly. Even so, she pulled away from Hunter and stepped closer to the woeful messenger.

“Does Bedlam make a profit delivering bodies to the medical school?” she asked in a low voice, her eyes glittering ominously.

“Old Dr. Monro collects a pound or two, I expect. There’s no one to stop him, don’t you know.” Jackson glanced nervously at this small-statured woman staring at him with furious intensity. “I’m sorry to bring you such ill tidings, surely I am, but the gentleman what’s called to see the old lady was quite insistent I find you the instant anything hap—”

“You’ve done exactly right,” Sophie interrupted. She strode over to her desk drawer where she located a shilling to give to the man. When he had departed, she quickly donned her cloak.

“Lorna, would you—”

“Of course,” her friend said, looking at her with concern. “Sophie…
please…
I beg of you… don’t—”

“I’m only going to see her,” she interrupted dully.

“I’ll go with you,” Hunter announced, gathering up his cloak. “Boz, I shall see you anon.”

“Right-o,” Boswell responded, appearing relieved to remain in such cozy and inviting surroundings. “I’ll just keep Lorna, here, company for a bit.”

Hunter took Sophie’s arm, guiding her toward the door.

“Quickly now… before darkness falls.”

The hired coach picked its way slowly through the driving snow and pulled up in front of the somber edifice which housed the College of Physicians and Surgeons.

Once inside, it didn’t take long to locate the morgue.

“’Tis common practice for bodies to be sent here when there’s no known family,” the orderly said meekly as he ushered them to the back of the building where the cadavers were stored. He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket, pointing to a document sent to him earlier in the day by Dr. Monro. On it were the words, “body unclaimed.”

“May I see her?” Sophie asked quietly.

“You understand the body is now officially the property of the College of Surgeons?” the orderly inquired carefully.

“It hasn’t been disturbed?” Hunter intervened.

“No,” replied the orderly. “Dissection studies are Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“I understand all that… may I see her?” Sophie insisted.

“Very well.” He shrugged, gesturing for them to follow him down a passageway where they entered a shadowy chamber at the rear of the large building. Inside, several corpses lay on long wooden tables. Sophie stared hollow-eyed for several minutes, searing the memory of her aunt’s rigid form into her brain. She recalled the vision of her father’s severed body lying in the operating theater at Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary. In the dim light surrounding the gray remains of Harriet Ashby, the purplish marks on the poor woman’s wrists looked like slender jeweled bracelets fashioned of amethyst.

“Thank you,” Sophie said faintly, turning to exit the chamber of death.

Hunter was relieved to find the hired carriage still waiting for them in the swirling snow.

“Bow Street,” he called up to the driver as he assisted Sophie into the coach.

Inside, Hunter pulled her rigid body against his chest, encircling her shivering shoulders with his own cloak. Sophie couldn’t seem to stop shaking, her body racked with waves of involuntary trembling.

“Ah… poppet,” Hunter said sympathetically, tightening his arms and kissing the top of her head repeatedly. “You’ve had so much to bear, haven’t you? I’m so sorry about your aunt…”

Sophie could feel the first sob welling up in her chest, and the second one behind it, threatening to burst forth like a swollen river in a rain-soaked glen. Scene after anguished scene during the years she had tried to care for the benighted woman assaulted her memory afresh. Those visions, compounded by the hurt and degradation she, herself, had endured at the hands of Peter elicited wrenching cries from her breast, and she wept for her family that was no more. The storm of tears lasted several minutes as Hunter continued to hold her close, brushing his lips gently against her forehead as if she were a child.

“Will you come home with me?” he whispered. “Will you let me care for you a while?”

The coach rocked along and a silence fell between the passengers inside. Sophie felt drained and exhausted and unable to think logically. The wheels crunched to a stop and Hunter helped her down to the narrow, snow-choked street that passed by Covent Garden Theater itself.

“You live
next
to the theater?” Sophie said, watching Hunter hand the driver some coins.

“No… I live
in
it,” he replied with a smile. “There’s a small lodging at the top of the house. They offered it to me as an inducement to come over from Dublin. See… I’ve my own private entrance, but many stairs to get there, I’m afraid.” He put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “Come… let me heat up a bit of soup… as I did for you in Bath.”

Sophie’s heart contracted at the memory of her first meal with Hunter in his lodgings on Pierpont Place. As they trudged up the stairs, she tried not to think of the events that had complicated her life so bitterly since that fateful day.

His tiny flat consisted of one room with a fireplace and a sleeping alcove curtained off from the principal chamber. He urged her to keep her cloak on until he could get a cheerful fire going.

“’Tis a stew, really,” he said, poised on his haunches in front of the fire while he stirred a thick, flavorful ragout in an iron pot. “The cook at the Nag’s Head on the corner always saves me a bit of whatever she’s brewing up for tavern fare.”

“Neither of us are very domestic, are we?” Sophie laughed mirthlessly. “Most of what I eat I make sure someone else prepares.”

“We’re artists!” Hunter joked. “We have to make allowances for our lack of culinary skills. Come, now… sit in my one decent chair and sup from my one decent bowl. I’ll eat from the pot.”

Hunter handed her the food and sat cross-legged on the floor at her feet. The two of them ate in companionable silence. The room grew warm and Sophie felt the knot in her stomach begin to dissolve.

“Some ale?” Hunter asked, extending his tankard.

“Mmm,” Sophie replied, accepting a draught and handing it back to him. She watched him finish his meal and sighed.

Hunter took the bowl from her and pulled her to her feet as he rose to his full height beside her.

“Better?” he asked, gazing at her intently as his thumb stroked the inside of her wrist in gentle little circles.

“A bit,” she nodded, as their gaze met. “I-I should be getting back to Danielle… she’ll soon be hungry and poor Lorna’s not equipped to cope,” she joked weakly, involuntarily glancing down at her swollen breasts. “You’ve been so kind—”

“You’re a lovely mum,” Hunter interrupted in a low voice, “and you’ve a lovely child… but right now, I can’t let you go back to Half Moon Passage.”

“No?” Sophie said, her gaze drowning in his.

“No,” he repeated firmly, pulling her body gently against him. “I don’t think you’ve quite thawed out from our coach ride.” His arms tightened around her shoulders and he rested his chin on the top of her head, making her feel small and protected.

“’Twas bitter cold,” Sophie mumbled into his chest

“Aye. Warmer now?” he inquired, deliberately pressing his thighs against her skirts. Sophie could only nod. “See what sharing a simple bowl of stew has done to me?” he whispered, nuzzling her ear. “I know I said I’d wait until you’d sorted out the coil you’re in… but I can’t.”

“You can’t?” she whispered back.

“Aye, wench, I cannot,” he said. “I confess it in front of God and this empty pot of stew… I want to keep you safe from harm and I want…
you.
Things can’t have changed so much between us… you can’t have forgotten that afternoon in Bath,” he murmured.

He plunged his hands into her hair, causing the pins securing her auburn mane to scatter to the floor. His lips sought hers with a fervor that demanded she answer his caress in the same abandoned fashion she had that first heart-shattering time they had made love nearly two years earlier.

“Remember how I taught you to do this?” he whispered, extending the tip of his tongue into the shell of her ear. “And you can’t have forgotten the pleasures of
this,”
he added, trailing hot kisses from her ear lobe to the base of her throat.