The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two Page 3

  “I tried,” the familiar voice replied. “I did all I could.”

  She heard the other voice mimic comically, “I tried. I did all I could,” then snort and command again, “Get the girl.”

  The familiar voice sounded annoyed. “There is nothing we can do tonight. We will just have to wait.”

  It was the perfect time, Sophie decided. She would catch them off guard, take them by surprise. Drawing an enormous breath, she pushed open the door—

  And froze in her tracks.

  “Ah, Don Alfonso. We have been expecting you,” the familiar voice told her while the other cackled in delight.

  Horrified, Sophie looked from the smiling face of the man to the piercing gaze of his companion, and understood for the first time what she should have known hours earlier.

  She had been playing a game. Her opponent was cunning and ruthless. The stake was her life.

  And there was no end to her losing streak in sight.

  Chapter Two

  “—an arrogant, blustering, contemptible, disgusting slug,” Sophie concluded triumphantly, leaning forward in her seat as if to hurl the last word across the desk at the man. “Or rather, slugs. You and your vulture.”

  “It is a raven,” the man answered smoothly. “And I have to admit, I am disappointed. ‘Slug’? Surely you could do better. What about ‘clever devil’?”

  The raven, on its perch at the man’s shoulder, repeated “clever devil, clever devil,” in its rasping voice, and executed a jig.

  Sophie sneered at the bird, then at its owner. “I think you overrate yourself. Dragging women against their will to your house for your entertainment hardly counts as clever.”

  The man regarded her paternally. “Let us review. You followed me of your own volition. You broke into my house at your own initiative. And so far, you have not been very entertaining at all.”

  That was not strictly true. Indeed, he had to admit that the two hours he had just passed with her had been more diverting than any in his recent memory. Because Crispin Foscari had been having a very bad week. He had been forcibly stripped of his status as the Phoenix, accused of treason, and for all intents and purposes, dismissed from the Queen’s service. He had been given only fourteen days to find out who was angling for his destruction and stop them. He had already spent six days investigating, with no appreciable results. And his best source of information had been shot dead in the smoking room at the Unicorn. But despite all that, he now found that he was enjoying himself immensely.

  He could not decide which was more entertaining: watching the woman in front of him or antagonizing her. Fortunately, he could do both at the same time.

  “You know, you still have not really fixed your mustache,” he pointed out sweetly.

  “Not fixed your mustache,” the raven intoned, less sweetly.

  In her outrage at being tricked, Sophie had forgotten that she was still wearing the mustache, but this double reminder made it suddenly ten times itchier than it had been earlier. “And you,” she replied, her voice tight with the struggle to resist the urge to scratch her upper lip, “still have not explained what you want with me. Or, for that matter, even who you are.”

  “Why, this is my house,” the man answered simply, as if that settled everything. Then, seeing that the woman looked uncomprehending, he added, “Sandal Hall.” When she continued to regard him blankly, he quickly explained, “I am Crispin Foscari. The Earl of Sandal.”

  Satan’s knockers, he was a pompous termite. “The Earl of Sandal? I have never heard of the Earl of Sandal.” She was focusing hard on keeping her voice level, but not so hard that she missed the look of astonishment on the man’s face. She decided to push him farther. “How do I know you are not making the title up? That you are not one of those rakes who invent a noble-sounding name in order to con others out of their money or property?”

  “Like Don Alfonso del Forest al Carmen del Farmen al Carest?” Crispin suggested in a voice slightly tighter than usual.

  “Exactly.” Sophie pretended to cough then, in a desperate effort to keep from bursting into laughter. It was the first time in hours that she held the upper hand, and she found it so pleasant that the mustache ceased to bother her at all. “How can I even be sure this is your house? Given the way you have behaved tonight, with unscrupulous disregard for the truth, I would not be shocked to learn that you had purloined it.”

  Sophie did not know it, but she had done something quite incredible: she had surprised him. Indeed, as one of Queen Elizabeth’s most secret operatives, surprise was something Crispin could ill afford if he valued his life. He was not a vain or haughty man, but he had assumed that his name and title would be well known to her. After all, it was well known to everyone. It had been years since he had been able to go anywhere incognito, to remain unrecognized or unacknowledged in any locale from a seedy quayside tavern to the papal court unless he was well disguised. And yet here was this woman, challenging not only his right to his house and title, but the very existence of the title itself.

  As she watched his bemusement, Sophie was thinking that her bluff seemed to be working admirably. It alone provided an antidote to the stinging mortification of her failure to recognize him at the Unicorn. For she would have had to be dead or locked deep inside Bedlam not to have heard of the Earl of Sandal, given the frequency with which his rakish exploits had been detailed in printed broadsides and ballads—complete with collectible engraved portraits—during the two and a half years of his exile. According to these newssheets, where he was retitled the Earl of Scandal, there was no challenge to which this peer of the realm would not rise, no woman he could not possess, no bedroom door that would not fly open at the merest hint of his smile, nothing he would not casually wager for the bare thrill of it. A recent number related how he had bid an outrageous sum for a stable of racehorses one morning, only to hazard them at cards that night against a worthless necklace to which his mistress had taken a fancy. (As usual, he won the necklace, but gave up the horses to the loser anyway in what was described as a wildly gallant gesture.) Other editions touted his prowess with arms by pointing out that only one of Europe’s leading swordsmen could seduce so many married women and live to tell about it. It was just such behavior, in particular a duel over one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, that had gotten him exiled two and a half years earlier, and all London was alive with speculation about his current reinstatement in Her Majesty’s good graces.

  Everyone knew that as one of the Arboretti, the six co-owners of the most successful shipping company in Europe, the Earl of Scandal had to be worth at least as much as Queen Elizabeth herself. This information, coupled with the general opinion that the earl had renounced his Scandalous ways and returned to England to be married, caused deep stirrings in the hearts of every English mama with an unbetrothed daughter between the ages of two and forty. Indeed, Sophie had herself invested in silk and lace that week on the Royal Exchange, correctly assuming that such rumors would prompt a flurry of dress orders from the scheming mamas hoping to catch the Sandal eye by outfitting their daughters in yards of the latest continental fashions. But she was certainly not going to tell Señor Scandal about the one thousand pounds in profit she had reaped from those investments, any more than she was going to admit that he was better looking than the engravings had led her to believe. And also smarter.

  In fact, this was the most annoying part of all. What was goading Sophie so painfully was that she had been tricked—twice—by, of all men, the one she had always regarded as a brainless, pleasure-obsessed tick. Who, she realized with further annoyance, was again addressing her.

  “So you see, Don Alfonso,” Crispin was saying, “it really does not matter whether you believe in my identity, because the constables certainly will, and will have no qualms about arresting you for the murder of Richard Tottle on my order.” He smiled that annoying smile. “Now, you asked why you were here. I need som
e information, and it seems likely that you have it.”

  Sophie tried to keep her eyes off his smile, and especially his long dimples. “I have already answered all your questions,” she told him haughtily. Then she had an inspiration. “In fact, I will not say another word to you.”

  “How gracious. Your wishes tally with mine exactly. I have always been partial to quiet women.” He almost laughed when he saw her struggling to pack all her emotion into the glare she leveled at him. “Besides, what I am looking for is not the answer to a question, but rather an object. An object removed from the murdered man. I suspect you have it somewhere on your person, so you will oblige me by removing your clothes.”

  Sophie’s glare turned to a disbelieving stare.

  “That is right. I am asking you to strip,” Crispin replied firmly to her unspoken question.

  The raven, who had been quietly cleaning itself, suddenly chimed in “Strip! Strip, strip, strip!” and then resumed its preening as if nothing had happened.

  Sophie treated it to a glance that would have killed a lesser bird, then broke her vow of silence. “Why should I comply with your wishes?”

  “Because otherwise I shall turn you and this”—Crispin held an object up for her to see—“over to the constable.”

  Before realizing what she was saying, Sophie blurted, “Where did you get my pistol?”

  “Where you left it.”

  Sophie was horrified. “You stole it from my house?” Only then, when the words were out, did she remember the silver plaque on the hilt of the weapon. The pistol had been presented to her by the gunsmith, a gift of gratitude for dowering his bride, and he had recorded his appreciation on the plaque.

  “ ‘For Sophie Champion. In Everlasting Thanks,’ ” Crispin read aloud. “In the future, Miss Champion, you might remove all identifiable markings from your murder weapon. It takes all the fun out of trying to learn your name.”

  “Murder weapon?” Sophie repeated breathlessly. “Richard Tottle was shot with my pistol?”

  Crispin nodded, noting how convincing her surprise sounded. “I found it right next to the body, and it was still hot from the explosion. But you know all that. Now, Miss Champion, if you will please remove—”

  Sophie interrupted him. “Why, if I were the murderer, would I leave my pistol lying next to the body?”

  “Why indeed?”

  “Clearly this proves that I did not kill Richard Tottle.” Sophie leaned forward in her chair. “Surely even you can see that is obvious.”

  Crispin leaned toward her across the desk, as if speaking confidentially. “I am not familiar with that particular use of the words ‘clearly,’ ‘proves,’ and ‘obvious.’ I would say the evidence points in the opposite direction. The obvious assumption is that the owner of the murder weapon is the murderer. Your gun was the murder weapon. You are its owner. And constables are notoriously obvious minded. So, while I might agree with your more figurative take on the situation, I am afraid they will see the pistol with your name on it as clear and obvious proof that you are the murderer.”

  Sophie ignored his sarcasm, leaping instead on the hint his words contained. “If you agree with me, that means you do not think I committed the murder.”

  “I have reservations.” The room fell silent except for an occasional grunt from the raven, and Crispin’s words hung between them. After a long moment, he continued, moving closer to his objective. “There is a way you can prove it to me. Or at least, make me relatively certain. You see, if you do not have the object I am looking for, I shall be forced to conclude that you did not murder Tottle, or at least not alone. I could hardly turn in a woman I knew to be innocent, even one as bothersome as you are.”

  “I told you. I did not take anything from Richard Tottle, dead or alive.”

  Crispin caught her eyes with his own and stared at her steadily. “Prove it.”

  Sophie’s eyes continued to meet his, but narrowed. “I did not think the famous Earl of Sandal would have to stoop to such tricks to get a woman out of her clothes.”

  “I did not think you had heard of the Earl of Sandal.”

  Sophie was too angry now to be upset by her gaffe. Her only interest was in provoking him, as he had provoked her. She strove to keep her voice neutral as she said, “I am not at all impressed by your means of seduction.”

  “I assure you, I had no such intention. I would rather seduce a porcupine than you, Miss Champion. Now, are you going to remove your clothes, or must I do it for you?”

  Sophie leaned across the desk again. “I would rather have a dozen of Her Majesty’s lewdest sailors touch me than you, Lord Sandal.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Crispin replied, unconcerned. “Even animals are most attracted to their own kind. But your predilection does make me wonder why you are so afraid of me.”

  “Afraid of you?” Sophie repeated, appalled.

  “Clearly. If you are innocent, as you claim, and do not have what I am looking for, your refusal to remove your clothes obviously proves that you are afraid of me.”

  “I am not familiar with your use of the words ‘clearly,’ ‘obviously,’ and ‘proves,’” Sophie mimicked.

  Crispin pretended not to hear. “Be honest, Miss Champion. Is it that you don’t think you can trust yourself around me? My charms are famously hard to resist.”

  He knew he had won then, even though it took another few moments for his victory to manifest itself. The striptease that followed was the least erotic striptease Crispin had ever witnessed, possibly the least erotic striptease ever, probably the only one conducted to the snores of a sleeping raven.

  And yet it nearly undid him.

  Sophie rose from her chair and, her eyes never leaving his, proceeded to remove her red velvet doublet. Her boots came next, then her leggings, until finally she was standing in only her hat and a thin linen shirt that ended just below her bottom. Reaching over her head, she deftly removed three pins and the hat, liberating a riot of long, ruby-colored waves that reached to her stomach. Finally, she loosened the ties at her neck and cuffs and pulled the shirt over her head. Her gaze left Crispin’s as the fabric passed across her face, and he had his expression back under control by the time she was done, so she never saw what passed through his eyes that first moment she stood before him completely naked.

  During his service for Queen Elizabeth, Crispin had learned that impulses, like emotions, made people vulnerable, which was only a half-step from making them dead. Containing his emotions was easy, and he had trained himself rigorously to overmaster the impulses of his body as well. He could hold his breath underwater for ten minutes, slow his heartbeat to appear dead, and stand stockstill for twelve hours. Compared to these feats, curtailing amorous urges was child’s play, and he had become so good at it that he had begun to wonder if he had not eradicated them entirely. He had completely lost interest in seducing women, finding the thrill and adventure of his secret commissions far more exciting than anything he experienced between the arms of even the most talented courtesans.

  Until now. Now it all came rushing back in a torrent that threatened to overwhelm him, to burst all his carefully crafted restraints, unseat all his rigorously upheld rules.

  Sophie stood before him, conscious only of his intense scrutiny. “Are you satisfied?”

  “No,” Crispin replied, but he was answering a different question than the one she had asked. When he realized what he had done, he cleared his throat and elaborated. “I want to look through your clothes as well.”

  It was the mustache that saved him. Only the mustache kept Crispin from forgetting what he was doing there, what his purpose was, what, for that matter, his name was. And even the mustache posed problems, particularly the way it drew the eye to her wide, sensual lips. Would they feel like silk brushing against his neck, or like velvet? Crispin found himself wondering and immediately instructed himself to stop. He had much more important matters to consider, he reminded him
self, than whether the mark over her lip was a birthmark or a shadow, and how the gentle curve of her waist would look from the back, and whether her head would reach to just under his nose so that he could rest his cheek on the crown of her hair, and what it would feel like to cup her full breasts in his hands, or have her legs twined around his waist or…

  Crispin rose so abruptly from his chair that it fell backward, startling both Sophie and the sleeping raven, who immediately began shrieking, “Get the girl!” while hopping on one leg. It took Sophie a moment to figure out what was happening, and by that time Crispin had crossed the room and disappeared through a set of double doors.

  Blazing with indignation, Sophie began to follow him, then stopped on the threshold. She had never felt so humiliated and foolish in her life. It was the first time she had stood like that, completely naked, in front of a man, and he had found it so distasteful to look at her that he had stormed out of the room. That was bad, but what was worse was how vulnerable it made her feel. Sophie Champion did not care what anyone thought of her, even in clothes, she reminded herself, and she certainly did not care for the opinion of an irksome tick like the Earl of Scandal. It must be the unsettling effects of the damned mustache paste again, she reasoned, and immediately felt better.

  Buoyed, she addressed him through the open doors. “If you are trying to lure me to your bed, it will not work.”

  Crispin emerged from the room carrying a red-and-gold silk robe. “I assure you nothing was farther from my mind,” he lied. She noticed that he did not look at her at all but kept his gaze firmly on something just past her right ear as he held the robe toward her and commanded, “Put this on.”

  Sophie hastily wrapped herself in the silk sheath. It was not until she was completely covered that Crispin returned his gaze to her, hoping that with her body not so palpably before his eyes, he might be able to control the direction of his thoughts. Such control was more important now than ever, since Tottle’s demise.