Engaged in Sin (40 page)

“Especially here.” He pushed up her shift as he dropped to his knees. He kissed the insides of her thighs. Silky and lovely, her creamy nether lips, half shielded by gold nether curls, were pure temptation.

“You can’t put diamonds there,” she admonished.

“I’m a duke. I can decorate my lover in any way I
wish.” He gently parted her thighs. He should stop.
She deserves to be more than a mistress, and you are expected to marry some proper young lady
. He shoved the damned thought away. He needed Anne. Needed her so much. He cupped her bottom and pulled her sweet quim to his mouth, then licked and suckled, and watched Anne squirm and arch in erotic abandon.

Anne grasped Devon’s shoulders. Slowly, his tongue swept all over her. Oh, this was devilishly wonderful. She loved the sight of his dark head framed by her thighs, his large tanned hands on her skin, the muscles flexing in his broad back. Now he could see everything too.

He moved away from her and his hand strayed down. He opened his trousers, drew out his erection, then stroked his thick shaft. Watching him excited her to her core. He touched himself so differently than she had. With years of experience, obviously. She drew her shift back up, aware of his hot gaze following the hem’s journey up her legs. Her heart pounded as she touched the damp curls at the apex of her thighs, as her fingers slid between her slick folds, and she—

Giggled. With nerves. With shyness. He winked at her and fondled his ballocks with one hand, as he caressed the taut head of his erection with the other. “Perfect, love.”

She watched him as she stroked herself, as he kept all his attention on her. Nerves melted. They shared a smile, then moaned together. His hand wrapped around his shaft, and he pumped hard into his fist. “Angel, it’s the most arousing thing I’ve ever seen. I want to watch you come. Night after night, I imagined what you would look like. Make yourself come, angel, so I get to see you. You’re on the brink, aren’t you?”

Between gasps, she thought,
How does he know?
Then her stroking fingers ignited her, and the climax broke upon her like a sudden summer lightning storm. Pure pleasure washed over her. Before her eyes, Devon gave a deep groan, then clutched his shaft. His head fell back, and his semen shot out, spilling onto his hand.

She fell against his chest. “Oh, dear, it is messier for you, isn’t it?”

His rich laugh filled the room. “Only you, angel, would think of that.” He kissed the top of her head. “Watching you was delicious, Anne.”

He drew out a handkerchief, cleaned his hand. Then pointed toward the bed. This was the master bed—one of dark wood and gold hangings. There was a lovely white-and-gilt bed in the adjoining room, which was to be her private bedroom. “Shall we try it out?” he asked.

“Already?” A glance down revealed he was growing aroused again. “Of course.”

He tipped up her chin. “Are you going to stay, Anne? You can run, and live in fear for the rest of your life, or you can trust me, and we can work together to find out the truth.”

If they found the killer, she could stay in England. She could stay with Devon—no, she couldn’t. She’d promised his sister she would encourage him to find a bride, knowing he could never keep her once he did. She couldn’t go back on her word. “I’ll stay,” she whispered.

But eventually she would have to go. How could she stay in London and hear of his marriage to someone else?

He swept her up into his arms. Startled, giggling, she was carried to the bed.

He left Anne and went to his investigator, Wynter, and then to Bow Street. After an interview with Sir John,
Devon headed to White’s. He had not been to his club since before he had argued with his father and left for battle. There, he encountered Tris, who urged him to go to a gaming hell on Curzon Street. He went but found he had no interest in deep play. Eventually, he and Tristan ended up in a tavern near the London docks, only yards from where he’d caught Anne.

“What’s bothering you, Dev?” Tris asked. “You’ve turned that whiskey around in your hand for an hour. You haven’t drunk a drop.”

“I’m thinking.” Of how close he had come to losing Anne. Of how Wynter, his investigator, had found Captain Tanner’s missing wife, but not his son, in the stews. He needed to talk about at least one of his problems or he would explode like a jammed rifle. He chose Anne, giving Tristan a summary of what he’d learned from the brothel. “The man wore a Venetian mask, beaver hat, and a cape with the collar turned up. The witness couldn’t give me any detail with which I can identify him.”

“Nothing?” Tris drained his drink. “Not a limp, a wooden leg, or maybe the tendency to drag his right leg behind him when he walked? What about a distinctive coat or cane? It’s not fair if the bugger didn’t give us any clue at all.”

Devon shot him a sour look. “I believe the murderer was Anne’s cousin, Viscount Norbrook, or a thwarted client. If it was a client—”

“Your mistress is cousin to a viscount?”

He gave a curt nod.

“So she was a lady at one time. Interesting.”

It burned on Devon’s tongue to point out that Anne was still a lady—at least in every sense of the word that should matter. “I’ve been trying to figure out the motive if it was a client. Would anger at not getting Anne be enough to drive a man to murder?”

Tristan gave a wry grin. “You tell me. You rode straight to London like a madman and chased her down on the docks. Clearly you’re obsessed with her.”

“I’m not obsessed,” he snapped. “I was protecting her.”

“You weren’t willing to lose her, Dev. Why not let her do as she wants—give her a good settlement and put her on a ship? You know, as do I, that obsessing over a woman is a fool’s game.”

“I can’t just hand her a wad of notes and send her on her way. I wouldn’t know for certain whether she was safe. If her cousin is willing to kill for her—”

“You don’t know whether that is the truth.”

“Who else?” Norbrook hungered for Anne, obviously, but was it enough to commit murder for her? Something about this bothered him. “Bow Street will not arrest a viscount without evidence,” he growled. “They were even reluctant to assign men to watch him, so I hired my own investigator to do it. But I need to confront Norbrook over this.”

“You aren’t going alone.”

“He’s not going to confess if I show up with you, Tristan. Of course I need to go alone.”

It was almost midnight when he returned to the house he had rented for Anne. A maid let him in, but Anne hurried into the foyer. She dismissed the young servant and took his hat and coat.

“Devon, you look exhausted. For heaven’s sake, it is late. You took a terrible blow to the head only days ago.” Her hands stroked along his shoulders, lightly massaging. Her touch felt so incredibly good.

He had to grin. He adored her like this—clucking over him like a mother hen. With her hand tight around his wrist, she towed him to the parlor and led him to a
chaise. She poured him a small amount of brandy, then held the glass over a candle flame.

He watched, bemused. “What are you doing?”

“What mistresses are supposed to do. I’ve also summoned a dinner for you. All this comfort is not only for me, after all—it is supposed to be for you to enjoy when you see me.” She frowned. “You look so tired your skin is literally gray.”

He was tired. Tired, dragged down by guilt. “I spoke with Bow Street today, but they will do nothing to your cousin until I have proof. I went to Norbrook’s home to confront him, but he ran for the country last night. His servants won’t reveal where he went.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, angel. I will find him.”

She caressed his shoulders again. He groaned in pleasure. “You’ve done everything you can.”

“I have not,” he said curtly. Suddenly he needed to talk to someone, just as he’d felt earlier today with Tristan. “I went to see Wynter, the former Runner I hired to investigate for me—”

“Yes. You told me about him.”

“There’s a great deal I didn’t tell you. There was a man, Captain Tanner. He was killed in battle and left behind a wife and a child. They had been thrown out of their home because they could no longer pay the rent. I hired Wynter to find them and help them. He has found the wife, but the boy, Thomas, is missing. Apparently Thomas was kidnapped off the streets of the stews. Wynter believes he might have been taken to a brothel. The boy is only twelve years old.”

“Heavens! Did your investigator search the brothels? Did he go to the one in Blackbird Lane?”

“No, angel, he hasn’t gone to any yet. I thought that street contained only opium dens.”

“It’s known for that,” she said, “but I heard, from the
gossip at Madame’s, that one of the houses also specializes in prostitutes—young male ones. The boys are chained to their cots so they can’t escape.” She blinked quickly, tears glinting in her eyes. “I used to think that if I could become a wealthy courtesan like Kat, I would help children like that. I would fight to close down such evil houses and I would stop the trade in children.”

She amazed him. She had gone through so much, but she had not lost her good heart. Any other woman might have ended up hard and cynical, but not Anne. Both Bow Street and her mad cousin hunted her, yet it was the plight of children caught up in brothels that made her cry. She had strength and courage that put generals to shame.

Her arms slid around his neck. “You do not have to do this alone, Devon. I know the stews. We could search together. I could help you. It would give me something to do rather than worry about whether a Bow Street Runner will knock on my door.”

ITHIN AN HOUR
, he had helped Anne disguise herself with a dark wig and a hooded cloak, and they were in his carriage, slowly rattling through the twisting maze of narrow, cobbled lanes off Whitechapel High Street. Anne had her face pressed to the window, and as they wound deeper into the stews, her breathing became swift and uneven.

“What’s wrong, love?” Devon asked gently.

She spun away from the window, her lips trembling, her hands fisted. He’d never seen her like this, not even when he’d chased her down on the docks. She looked ready to break down. He lifted her and planted her on his lap.

“Hundreds of children are kidnapped off the street and forced to work in brothels. I would like to tear down such places with my bare hands. I would like to kill the horrible villains who steal children—” She put her hands to her mouth. “I suppose, if I were to say that on the dock, no one would believe my innocence.”

“Angel, feeling rage at pimps and whoremongers is natural.”

She bit her lip. “The truth is, when I hit Madame with
the fireplace poker, I was so furious I wanted to hurt her. I didn’t want to kill her, but I wanted
her
to feel pain. It was pure luck that kept me from being a murderess in truth.”

“You feel guilty because you had murderous thoughts.”

Anguish showed in her dark-green eyes. “Yes. It makes me no better than she was.”

His sardonic laugh escaped before he could stop it. “You are as different from that witch as an angel is from a demon. As for what you felt when you swung the poker, Anne …” He sighed. In this he had a lot of experience. “Don’t think about it. That’s one thing I learned in war. You take action without doubt or regret and move on afterward.”

“
You
didn’t learn how to do that.
You
have nightmares.”

“It’s what a man with sense does. That’s why many men survived war without turning into mad, haunted wrecks.”

“You’re not a mad, haunted wreck.” Her feisty determination was fixed on him. Then her lips parted in shock. “Even though you have your sight back, you are still having nightmares.”

Devon shrugged. “I doubt they will go away. I doubt I’ll ever forget things I saw. Take my advice, love, and don’t torture yourself. You didn’t kill her—likely your good soul took charge and ensured you didn’t hit her that hard.”

Anne wanted to believe him. She was innocent, she hadn’t killed Madame, yet she felt guilty because she’d been
willing
to kill. She saw how haunted Devon was. Why had she assumed all the horrible memories of war had gone away simply because he had his sight back? “You don’t have nightmares about men shooting at you, do you? You have nightmares about the ways you had to kill other men.” She wasn’t expressing it well, but she
understood. “You cannot forget the things you were forced to do, just as I can’t. But, Devon, those soldiers were the enemy. You were expected to shoot at them. You had to—to save the lives of your men, to save England.”

His laugh was harsh, so full of self-recrimination it froze her blood.

“Devon, you would have been shot if you hadn’t fought in battle. For cowardice.”

“Anne, my angel, what bravery is there in shooting a boy who was probably no older than fifteen?”

She stared helplessly, unsure of what to do. What to say. What to
feel
. “What do you mean? You had to shoot a child?”

“He was a soldier, Anne. As the French lost troops in battle, they became desperate to replenish the ranks. They began to press younger lads into service. Our forces are not much different—boys of twelve go off to serve in the navy—but that knowledge doesn’t change the horror of pointing your weapon at a child’s face, knowing you are supposed to pull the trigger.”