Chapter Seven
Quint stared at the basket on his stoop. A red woolen blanket covered the top, and there was a large paper pinned to the thick fabric that read: For his lordship. “Whom did you say delivered this, Taylor?”
“It’s unclear, my lord. The person departed before Cook answered the knock.”
Quint scratched his jaw, thinking. With the break-in a few nights prior, he supposed any number of things could spring out. “Better step back, Taylor,” he said.
The butler moved away and Quint lifted the edge of the blanket. He saw . . . brown fur. And legs.
He flipped the blanket off and found a sleeping dog. A puppy, to be precise. Light brown body with black fur surrounding its nose. A fat scarlet ribbon had been tied in a bow around its neck.
“Why, it’s a little dog,” Cook said, she and Taylor now peering over Quint’s shoulder. “And ain’t she a cute one.”
Quint grimaced. “Dogs are not cute. Dogs are messy, dirty, and exceedingly dumb. They demand attention and eat . . .” He drifted off as the creature began to stir, its legs twitching in awareness. It blinked a few times and rolled on its back to stretch.
“A boy dog, I be thinkin’,” Cook laughed and then quickly sobered. “Beggin’ your pardon, your lordship.”
“No need to apologize for drawing the obvious anatomical conclusion,” Quint said, rising. “The question is, what are we to do with it? We cannot keep it. Perhaps the boys in the stable—”
Cook gasped. “But, my lord, that dog is for you. Someone wanted your lordship to have him.”
The dog twisted to his stomach and stood up. His ears flopped over, they were so large, and he put his oversize paws on the edge of the basket and tried to climb out. “Yes, but I do not know the first thing about domesticated animals. How to care for it, what to feed it.”
“Why, it’s not hard, my lord. Once you get them trained properly, that is.”
Quint dragged a hand down his face. Christ, the animal would urinate—and worse—all over his house.
Taylor cleared his throat. “If I may say, my lord, I believe the dog would be a welcome addition to the household. The staff would appreciate the opportunity to care for it.”
“Oh, yes,” Cook added in a rush. “I agree, my lord.”
Now Quint looked an ogre if he tried to get rid of the thing. “Dogs need exercise. Who is going to take it for walks?”
“I’ll have a footman do it.”
“And I suppose,” Quint said to Cook, “you are going to tell me you shall feed the thing.”
“Indeed, my lord. We’ve got more than enough scraps for him.”
The puppy was still struggling to get out of the basket, though the wicker sides were higher than its head. Quint bent down and tilted the basket until the creature was able to tumble out. Tail wagging madly, the puppy bounded down the steps and began sniffing the earth.
Quint knew who’d delivered the puppy. She could not keep from interfering, despite the harsh words he’d leveled at her. Why was she so determined to poke and prod him? The dueling practice, the fencing . . . and now a dog. He did not have time for an animal. Every bit of his concentration needed to be in research and experimentation, in finding a way to return to his previous self. The man before the accident.
He still hadn’t decided what to do about her other identity, Sir Stephen. The whole thing would be amusing if it weren’t so incredibly reckless. Was there a purpose to her sojourns as a gentleman, or was she bored? And how had no one discovered her secret before now? Quint would recognize her no matter the costume, convincing or not.
The dog dashed up the steps and rose to stand on its hind legs, oversized front paws resting on Quint’s boots. The creature looked absurdly happy—his big, round eyes sparkling and vacant—and Quint wondered what a creature so stupid as a canine had to be so bloody jolly about. It seemed to want something from him, but Quint had no idea what he was supposed to do.
“He wants your lordship to pet him,” Cook said, gently. “Go on, then. Give him a scratch behind the ears, my lord.”
Feeling ridiculous with both Cook and Taylor watching him, Quint reached to stroke the puppy’s head with one finger. Soft. He’d never touched a dog before. His mother hadn’t allowed pets. He had studied animals out in the country and ridden horses, of course, but he’d never petted a dog. The creature seemed to like what he was doing, though, if the tail wagging was any indication.
Without warning, the puppy licked Quint’s palm. Quint snatched his hand back and straightened, then shook his head at his own ridiculousness. Licking was instinctual to animals in the Canidae family, both as a method of grooming and to show appeasement. Still, he wiped his hand on his trousers.
“What breed of dog is it, do you think?” Cook asked.
“A mastiff, I think,” Taylor answered. “And judging by the size of his paws already, a large one at some point in the future.”
“How much do you know about dogs?” Quint asked his butler.
Color rose on the young man’s cheeks. “I grew up in the country, my lord, and my family had animals of all kinds.”
“Excellent. Consider the dog your responsibility, then.”
The puppy scampered down into the yard once more, ears bobbing, and Quint wondered at this bizarre gift. A dog. What had she been thinking?
“I am pleased to care for him,” Taylor said, “but the honor of bestowing a name should be your lordship’s.”
“A name? By which to call it, you mean?” What did one name such a creature? Giving it an identity made him uncomfortable, as if he was treating an animal as a human being. And naming the dog would make it more difficult to rid himself of the thing.
Of course, if he gave it away, there was every chance Sophie would merely gift him another one. He sighed. Probably less trouble to keep the cursed thing at this point. “Canis horribilis.”
“My lord?”
“His name. Canis horribilis.” Quint pointed to the puppy, now digging under a bush. “Fitting, I think.”
Taylor’s mouth flattened, but he said, “An excellent choice by your lordship.”
Quint grinned. “I am glad you approve, Taylor. Now he’s all yours.” He spun and started for the kitchens. He’d taken one step when something thumped against his ankle. The puppy waited at his heels. “Go with Taylor, Canis.” Tongue hanging from the side of its mouth, the dog sat on the ground and blinked at him. Quint pointed at the butler, scowled at the dog. “Go, Canis.”
Nothing. The animal stared at Quint patiently.
Quint dragged a hand through his hair. If he knew Sophie, she was nearby, someplace close, to observe his reaction. So he certainly hoped she was enjoying this. Stepping forward, he brushed by Taylor and returned to the threshold. “Do not expect my gratitude,” he shouted into the dying light.
He swore he heard giggling before he disappeared into the house.
The distinctive odor of the Thames filled the carriage and Sophie turned toward the window. In the daylight, the docks bustled with rough-hewn dockworkers and sailors unloading cargo as well as efficient-looking customs officials on patrol. At night, however, the area had an eerie stillness to it. The revenue officers barred people from the docks in order to protect cargo against theft, so the men moved inland to the brothels and bars.
At last, the wheels slowed to a stop. Sophie threw open the door and climbed out. The driver jumped down and she experienced a moment of surprise at the man’s size. He hadn’t appeared so large up on the seat. She fished in her pocket for a few coins, handed them over, and started to leave. “I’ll be waitin’ for you over there, sir,” the driver said with a tip of his hat.
She paused. While she appreciated the gesture, it struck her as odd that he assumed her errand a quick one. “No telling how long I might be.”
“No worries, sir. I am happy to wait.”
Hmm. This was the first driver she’d hired who had not departed the second he’d been paid. Nevertheless, it would be foolish to argue.
Located at 259 Wapping Street, the Thames Police Office was an unassuming three-story structure on the riverbank. Having been established here some twenty-odd years earlier, the police surveyors were charged with seizing and detaining any offenders detected in the act of criminality in and directly around the Thames. While this may have started as a way to guard against piracy and thievery, the men’s responsibilities also included handling any bodies found in the river, the very reason Sophie was now here.
She knocked on the door. After several minutes, a man arrived, unlocked it, and allowed her in. He was short and wore spectacles. She guessed him to be in his late thirties.
“Good evening,” she told him, stepping inside on the rough wood floor. “I am Sir Stephen Radcliff. I should like to speak with someone regarding the unfortunate discovery day before yesterday.”
He peered over his spectacles. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we have many unfortunate discoveries here. To which one are you referring?”
“The girl. The one missing a hand.” She held up her right arm to demonstrate. “I fear she may be someone I know. I should like to see her, if possible.”
“Surgeon’s got her downstairs,” he said as he strode toward a large desk against the wall, “but there’s not much in the way to recognize her by now. Have you ever seen a body pulled from the water, sir?”
Sophie stood a bit taller. Or tried to, at least. “I have not, but I shall not be turned away. The girl may very well be my valet’s sister, and I mean to set the man’s mind at ease.” She slid a few coins across the surface of the desk.
The clerk wasted no time in pocketing the silver. “Of course, sir. Follow me.”
He came around the desk once more, a large ring of keys in his hand. There was a lamp on the corner, which he picked up as well. Sophie followed him to the door, which the clerk unlocked to reveal a set of steps. They descended, the soft light throwing shadows on the plain, dirty walls. Doors fitted with heavy locks stood on both sides of the corridor. They continued on to the far end, where the man used another key to open a thick, wooden door. “We keep it locked at night,” he explained and gestured for Sophie to enter.
This room was brighter than she expected, with multiple lamps positioned around the large space. Instruments covered every surface, a macabre silver reflecting in the glow. There were three long tables, two of which were covered with cloths. A young, bearded man with blood on his clothing—the surgeon, she assumed—leaned against the empty third examination table, a lit cheroot in his fingers. There were dark smudges under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in a very long time.
“This gentleman wants to see the girl pulled out day before yesterday, the one missing a hand,” the first officer said.
The surgeon tiredly lifted his cheroot and asked, “Do you mind? Might keep your eyes from watering if you’re not used to the other smell.”
She nodded, grateful. The underlying scent was already quite strong—a rank, noxious odor of decaying flesh. He gestured to a long table where a sheet-covered lump rested. “Right here.” He walked over and flipped the cloth with a flick of his wrist to reveal a bloated, pale naked form with an incision down the center of her body. Sophie had to dig her nails into her palms to keep from reacting. She’d never seen a dead body, let alone one pulled from the water. The skin was gray and loose, torn in places, the stomach distended. Her hair had been cut short, a rough, haphazard effort. Pity constricted Sophie’s chest as she forced herself closer.
“Couple of surveyors found her yesterday around noontime. Some boys were throwing rocks at something floating in the water near Horsleydown and the surveyors went to investigate. Pulled her out and brought her here.”
Sophie swallowed hard. “Do you know what killed her?”
He pointed to purple marks around her throat. “Strangled.”
“And her hand was severed.”
“Yes, very neatly, too.”
She walked all around, studying the body from various angles. The smell grew stronger and she fought the urge to gag. She took a handkerchief from her coat and held it over her nose. “That mark there, on her leg. Is that a tattoo?”
“Yes. It’s a small playing card, the queen of spades. Likely a mark from whatever house in which she worked. It’s not a common practice, but there are a few who do it.”
So not Rose, who had been employed at The Pretty Kitty. Sophie experienced a small measure of relief until she realized this meant another girl had been murdered. This made a total of four found in the last six months—and that still left Rose unaccounted for. She thought of Natalia, the tavern worker that had disappeared a few months back. Could she have been another victim as well?
“Anything else you can tell me about her, or any idea when she was killed?”
He blew a long, thin stream of smoke from his lips. “Generally takes at least two days in the water until they float to the surface, depending on the temperatures. Dead before she went in the water. Appears as if she was raped as well.”
Sophie closed her eyes briefly. A tragic end for anyone, prostitute or lady. “Thank you. I think that is all I need. May I leave money for a proper burial?”
That seemed to surprise him. “Leave it with the clerk, sir. I think she’d appreciate that.”
The door closed behind the young man, and the officer, who’d eavesdropped the best he could, stroked his beard. Sir Stephen, he’d said. No good reason for a fresh-faced gent to visit the Thames police in the dead of night. Came to see the girl, the latest victim in what the papers were calling the River Murders. He’d asked too many questions, in the officer’s opinion. Seemed he wanted to know more than just the girl’s identity.
Sir Stephen had asked the surgeon about the other victims as well. Why? His initial curiosity had been for the most recent girl—not all the others. So why had he lied?
One person in particular paid the officer good money to keep an eye on things on Wapping Street. Secret, weekly reports of the investigations and activities in the office, which the officer wrote without fail and delivered to the requested address. It was the main reason he preferred working the desk at night. With the constant stream of surveyors, watermen, and constables in and out of the office during the day, it was nigh impossible to piss without someone watching over your shoulder.
At night, however, the officer could do as he pleased. The surgeon might work late if a fresh body awaited, but he stayed on the lower floor. So there was no one to stop the officer as he picked up his pen and found a fresh sheet of parchment.
Quint stood just inside the terrace doors and watched as Canis gamboled away into the dark gardens, the puppy’s big ears flopping wildly. Two days since Canis had joined his household and Quint had to admit the invasion hadn’t been as bad as he feared. The animal hardly ever left his side and Quint found it . . . strangely comforting.
Not that he would admit it.
Taylor had the right of it; the staff had instantly taken to the animal, eager to participate in frequent walks and feedings. But Canis always returned to Quint’s side. The beast had attached himself to Quint, and there wasn’t a damned thing to be done about it.
How had she known?
Canis began barking happily. It was the same unrelenting sound when he wanted Quint to pay him attention. Someone was out in the gardens—and it did not take a genius to deduce who might be out there. This was beginning to be a habit with her.
“You may as well show yourself,” he called. “He’ll not let up until you do.” Tenacious did not even begin to describe the beast when he wanted something.
The yapping ceased and soon Sophie appeared, looking adorably sheepish, with Canis cradled in her arms. “I had not planned on disturbing you. I merely wanted to make sure you had not given him away.” She climbed the steps to the terrace, set Canis on the ground, and then drew closer. She wore a black cloak and bonnet, which he assumed were her skulking clothes.
“I ought to, but the staff have grown attached to the curst thing.”
“Just the staff?”
He did not care for the smug set to her lips. “I named him, did I not? What more do you want from me?”
“Does it feel better with your shoes off?”
He glanced down at his bare feet. Hard to say when it had started, this preference for the cold marble floor beneath his naked feet, but it helped him feel alive. A true gentleman would never be seen without shoes, yet Quint wasn’t about to put them back on. If she found it offensive, she was welcome to scuttle home. “It feels . . . bracing. As if the cold roots your legs to the floor. You should try it one day.”
She lifted her plain skirts to reveal brown half boots with black laces. Bending, she pulled the laces loose, then stood and started toeing off her shoes. Quint watched this with a mixture of fascination and horror. Was the woman truly going to remove her footwear? Propriety had never concerned him, but even he knew this was beyond the pale.
Two soft thuds and her stocking feet made an appearance. His heart kicked hard in his chest, and this time it had nothing to do with fear. Encased in thin stockings, her feet were small and delicate. She wriggled her toes and sighed, a sound that caused heat to unfurl in his groin.
Tools of bipedal locomotion, he told himself and snapped his gaze to the gardens. Nothing more. They were functional appendages that should in no way be tempting. He should not be thinking of running his tongue along the smooth instep . . . or wondering how the soft underside would feel as it slid along the backs of his thighs—
“I wish I could remove my stockings,” she murmured. “But even this feels heavenly.”
Quint swallowed hard and crossed his arms over his chest. The image of her sliding stockings down her bare legs was too erotic to dwell on—not if he didn’t want an obvious erection frightening her. “I am not surprised. Traipsing through the mews of Mayfair is exhausting business.”
“Indeed it is,” she returned cheerfully.
“Why have you returned, Sophie?”
She stared at her toes, moving them back and forth, clearly hesitating. No doubt attempting to fabricate a reason because she didn’t want to tell him the real one.
“The truth,” he said.
“It seemed a nice night for a stroll. You are generally up late, so I thought I’d see if you were still awake.”
He snorted. No lady strolled by herself in the middle of the night. “You are aware I live alone. That this is a bachelor’s residence?”
“Should I be worried? Are you planning to chain me to your bed and ravish me at your whim?”
He strove not to combine the words “ravish” and “Sophie” in his head; the idea only served to remind him of what he could never have. “Indeed. Merely allow me to remove the other woman there first.”
She chuckled. “That’s one thing hardly anyone realizes about you: how amusing you are.”
Only she would believe that. Amusing was not a word anyone had ever used to describe him. Odd, strange, and aloof were far more likely. “Not everyone appreciates my humor.”
“Admit you are fond of the dog, Quint.”
Never. “Did you know the Romans sent mastiffs into battle wearing armor in order to attack the enemy?”
She sighed, irritated with his evasion, and he hid a smile. “As always,” she said, dryly, “you are a wealth of information.”
“Actually, I find myself quite in the dark these days.”
Her eyebrow rose. “Oh? About what?”
“I cannot think of a single reason you should be sallying about London in the dead of night, dressed as a man, even if to visit the Thames Police Office. Would you care to enlighten me?”
“How . . .” She crossed her arms and thrust up her chin. “Are you having me followed?”
“Yes. And you should hardly be surprised. If any woman in the history of England ever needed constant supervision, you are she.”
“The driver. I should have known.” She rubbed her forehead. “I cannot fathom your audacity. You have no right to oversee my activities, and furthermore I am doing quite fine on my own.”
“Only because no one gets a good enough look at you. How anyone could mistake you for a man is beyond comprehension. You are a hairsbreadth away from the scandal of the decade, Sophie.”
“And you are wasting your time if you think to stop me.”
“I never said I wanted to stop you. If I did, I would write to your father and inform him of what I know.” He held up a hand as panic clouded her face. “I will not do so unless I feel you are in immediate danger. But that does not mean it’s wise for you to do this. Therefore, I’ve hired someone to drive you about and ensure your continued safety—no matter what you are wearing. But what I do not understand is why you are posing as Sir Stephen in the first place.”
He didn’t think she’d answer, the silence stretched so long. “You’ll laugh,” she said quietly.
“I sincerely doubt it. Tell me, Sophie.”
“I’ve fallen into a bit of a . . . diversion,” she explained with a wave of her hand. “I investigate things. For people—women—with no other resort. Prostitutes, servants, and the like. It started when my maid, Alice, her sister was accused of stealing the flatware in the house in which she worked. After I figured that one out, someone else came to ask for help and it kept going from there. We found I had an easier time dressed as a man, not to mention people took me more seriously.”
Though he wished such treatment were not the case, he did not doubt her. Women were not afforded the same accessibility as men in any culture. Still, this hardly set his mind at ease.
“Investigating. And here I thought you were not in immediate danger. It’s even worse than I feared.”
“It is not!” She stamped her foot. “I’m helping people. And I am careful.”
“Yes,” he scoffed. “Duels. Standing in as MacLean’s second. Visits to gaming hells.”
She pinned him with a hard look. “You are surprisingly well informed for a man who never leaves his house.”
“Shocking, is it not? Yet I remain current on all your antics. What do you think that means?”
“I could not begin to guess.”
“It means,” he said with all due seriousness, “that if I could learn of it, others could learn as well. Which is why I hired someone to protect you. God, Sophie. Do you know what could happen to you in a brothel? You could be dragged into any nook or empty room and be forced to do unspeakable things. Things a woman like you should never know about.”
“A woman like me.” She let out a brittle laugh, and he could see the flush of anger on her cheeks. “You have no idea what sort of a woman I am, what I know or do not know. And I do not require a guard. You are not my father, Quint, nor my husband.”
A well-placed blow, and he felt it keenly, his body tensing. He gave her a stiff nod. “Indeed, I am not. But that does not mean, as a friend, I do not feel responsible for your welfare.”
“Why?”
“Because if your repeated visits to my house are any indication, you seem to care for mine.”