The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(92)

The last thing Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint needs is an intrusion on his privacy, especially from the beautiful, exasperating woman he’s never stopped wanting. A woman with a perilously absurd request, no less! For Damien is fighting a battle of his own, one he wishes to keep hidden—along with his feelings for Lady Sophia. Yet that fight is as hopeless as stopping her outlandish plan. Soon, all Quint knows for certain is that he will die trying to protect her....





Chapter One


February 1820


Padding the crotch of one’s trousers required a surprising amount of skill. Too big of a bulge drew attention. Too small and you risked the thing slipping down your leg.

Fortunately, Lady Sophia Barnes had enough experience to achieve the perfect balance. No one looking at her now would believe her a lady of twenty-seven, the daughter of a wealthy and powerful marquess—not dressed as she was, in gentleman’s finery from head to toe.

Just as no one would believe her spare time was spent investigating matters for a class of women most Londoners did not even want to think about.

The evening, though chilly and unpleasant, had been moderately productive. As Sophie approached the hackney, the driver jumped down to open the door. Her maid, Alice, sat inside, huddled under blankets. Alice waited until the door closed before she spoke. “Well, my lady?”

Sophie knocked on the roof to signal the driver. Then she pulled a folded paper out of the pocket of her greatcoat. “No trace of Natalia, but I did find this.” Beth, the girl who’d hired Sophie, was worried that ill had befallen her friend. Though Beth had now found herself a protector, Natalia still worked in a tavern near the docks, where extra coins meant taking a customer up the stairs. The two girls corresponded every week without fail, and Natalia hadn’t sent word for almost a month.

Tonight, Sophie had gained access to Natalia’s room and searched it. The only letter she found was in Russian.

Sophie stretched her unencumbered legs out in the small space as the carriage rumbled forth into the night. Breeches really were a spectacular invention. “I wish I knew what it said. Beth only speaks English.”

“We’d need to find someone who can speak Russian, my lady.”

A name came to mind. A name she tried not to think of more than five—or ten—times a day. She often failed even at that. “I do know someone who speaks Russian. Lord Quint. He gave a short lecture during a gathering at the Russian Embassy three years ago.” Sophie had attended, standing in the rear of the room. She hadn’t understood a word, but oh, he’d been glorious. Speaking on some recent scientific discovery, he’d commanded the attention of everyone present, even making the dour-faced Russians laugh at several points.

Alice clucked her tongue. “La, his lordship won’t be speaking it for long, that’s for certain.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Her sharp tone caught Alice’s attention. “I thought your ladyship knew. He’s near death’s door, that one. I saw one of his lordship’s kitchen maids three—no, maybe four days ago. Fever’s set in. His lordship won’t let any of the staff tend to him and won’t allow a physician in.”

Sophie’s stomach plummeted through the carriage floor and onto the dirty Southwark streets. No doubt Alice told the truth. The maid’s network of servants would put any foreign spy service to shame. Quint . . . near death’s door. Oh, God. She knew a bullet had grazed him that night at Maggie’s house, right before the fire had swept in. But she assumed he’d recovered. Everyone had said the injury wasn’t serious. Damn, if only she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her own life— Her fist banged the roof. The driver opened the small partition and Sophie barked in her low register, “Stop at the southwest corner of Berkeley Square instead.” Quint lived just down the square from her father’s town house so she would get out and let Alice continue on.

“What are you going to do, my lady?”

Was it not obvious? “I’m going to save him.”

Alice gasped. “You cannot very well show up at his front door”—her hand waved at Sophie’s attire—“dressed like that.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll not let a stranger inside to see him, even one dressed as a gent. And besides—”

“Do not even start lecturing me on propriety. We bid farewell to that ship eons ago, Alice. Not to worry, I’ll manage a way into his house.”

By the time she arrived at the servants’ door of Quint’s town house, Sophie had conjured a plausible story. A bleary-eyed older woman in a nightcap opened the door, a frown on her wrinkled face. “Yes?”

“I am here”—Sophie deepened her voice—“at the behest of His Grace the Duke of Colton to attend to his lordship, Viscount Quint.”

The woman held up her light, looked Sophie up and down. “You’re a surgeon?”

“A valet, though I do have extensive medical knowledge.”

“From a duke, you say?”

Sophie lifted her chin. “Indeed. And I do not think His Grace would appreciate you leaving me on the stoop to freeze.”

The woman stood aside to allow Sophie entrance. They went into the kitchens, where Sophie removed her hat and greatcoat. “Where may I find his lordship ?”