Sin (19 page)

She glanced up at the door. If Marcus caught her sketching, there would be hell to pay.

M
arcus braced his hands on the back of Venetia’s gilt chair and watched her brush her hair. Each pass of the bristles through her long red-gold hair made his fingers ache to touch, to stroke, to play. The smooth oval glass reflected her face, ivory satin dusted with freckles.

“You deliberately disobeyed me at dinner.”

The brush landed on the marble vanity with a sharp rap. Her hazel eyes widened in her reflection. “I did what, my lord?”

“I expressly told you not to speak to the gentlemen. Not to question them.”

“They sought me out. To offer sympathy on my horrible experience. And I was very careful. They did not suspect a thing.” She stood abruptly, stalked over to her escritoire. “I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

He followed, irritated. “This is not a game, Vee.”

Blazing, her eyes met his. “I saw what one of these people did to Lydia.” She unlocked one of the drawers, withdrew a folded paper. As she laid it flat, Marcus saw it was the list she’d made. “Should we write down what we learned of their alibis? What of the Duke of Montberry?”

She plunked down on the chair and picked up the pen.

Of course, recording what they’d learned made perfect sense. And it involved no risk. He conceded defeat and paced to her side. “Montberry claims he was with Trixie and two other courtesans in the morning.”

“Goodness, he made love with them all? Very sprightly of him.”

Her dry tone made him laugh. “The women cavorted for his pleasure while he watched from within the wardrobe. The other two whores substantiated the story—though they could have been paid to do so.”

She wrote swiftly beneath Montberry’s name.
Morning of Lydia’s death he claims to have been making love with three women.

“Chartrand still blames gypsies,” she said. “Do you think that indicates guilt?”

He shook his head. “He might be innocent but not want to believe he has a murderer in his home. But he gave no alibi for the time of the murder. As for the women, Lady Chartrand was receiving a whipping from Captain Clarke—one of the bucks parading around in his regimentals. Helen craves a man in a uniform.”

“Helen?”

“I’d attended orgies with her for years—yes, we are on a first name basis.” He shrugged. “And Sophia—Lady Yardley—claims she was enjoying two lovers at the time. So was Rosalyn Rose. But, again, the men could have been bribed to lie.”

Venetia made quick notes. He leaned over her chair, unable to draw his gaze from the thick fall of red hair, the soft curve of her cheek, the solemn intelligence in her eyes.

“Lydia made hints at plagiarism to Brude, but we know he and Swansborough have alibis,” she said, and a flush touched her cheeks. “Mr. Wembly claims he was playing cards until dawn. He says he retired to his room and slept—with cucumber slices on his eyelids and a restorative mask of porridge oats on his face—until just before luncheon.”

“Porridge oats?” Marcus shook his head in disbelief. “An alibi that can’t be proven.”

“Brude, Montberry, and Lady Yardley tried to leave, but their carriages became stuck,” she said, “Do you think one of them found Lydia’s manuscript?”

A sharp rap at his door interrupted. Venetia followed him into his room as a sharp female voice called out. “I am Mrs. Harcourt’s maid. You wished to speak with me, my lord?”

At Venetia’s surprised look, he smiled. “As you said, servants know everything.” And with that, he urged her back into her room and closed the connecting door. But Venetia opened it and peeped in.

She felt a surge of pity for Juliette La Fleur, Lydia’s lady’s maid, as the woman stepped into Marcus’ room. Plain-faced and broom-thin, Juliette bore red-rimmed eyes and a defeated manner as she faced Marcus. He glowered with lordly command, but his first questions came in a low, engaging voice that seemed to make even Juliette sparkle.

“My lady entertained no men in her room, my lord,” the maid explained, plucking at her severe black skirt. “She left last night to attend to a special gentleman and told me she would not return until late. I did not see her again—” Juliette broke off with a choked gasp. “But why do you wish to know, milord?”

“What of her book? Her memoirs?” asked Marcus, arms folding across his chest.

“
Non
, I never saw my mistress’ manuscript. But it must be of great value—her memoirs. I believe there were many who did not wish to be named. There had been
accidents
in London.”

Hands on the door, Venetia trembled with excitement.

“What accidents?” Marcus demanded.

Juliette took a step closer to Marcus. “I am left without a position and suspicion attaches itself to me. What if I cannot get another post? But I could tell you more of these incidents in London. This knowledge I offer to you for a price.”

But Marcus, Venetia saw, was not willing to negotiate. He questioned Juliette until two tears rolled down the maid’s cheeks. Venetia’s heart lurched—she almost pushed open the door to beg him to stop. Juliette cried, “I do not know! I hoped for money. I don’t know who tried to hurt my mistress!” She spun abruptly and raced from the room. The door slammed behind her.

Venetia flung open her door. “Should we go after her?”

Marcus shook his head. “You look exhausted, sweeting. It is time for bed.”

To her surprise, he led her by the shoulders to his bed. His sensual hands reached around her waist to untie her robe. “What—what are you doing?”

“Tucking you into bed.”

He had shrugged when talking of Lady Chartrand, implying the intimacy had not mattered to him. Was that true? Was that worse?
I have never known greater intimacy with anyone than I’ve known in just a few days with you.

Rakes knew how to tug a woman’s heartstrings. She tried to remember that as he drew back the white sheets for her and she slid into warmed silken bliss. He paced around the bed to the other side. Lifted the sheets. Startled, she watched him climb in.

“But you don’t sleep with…share your bed with—”

His fingertip touched her lips, silencing her questions. “I want to hold you in my arms and keep you safe and protected.” He snuggled up to her side, pressing his wonderfully masculine, utterly naked chest, hips, groin against her. His muscular arm reached across her. She touched his hand, held his fingers.

He settled into the pillow with a sigh that whispered to her foolhardy heart.

Marcus stirred, stretched, yawned. Warm, naked feminine curves pressed against him. His sleeping cock rested against the pillow of Venetia’s hot derriere, his leg lay between hers, his arm casually fell across the lush curve of her hip. Her curls tickled his lip and he brushed a kiss against them as his senses returned. They were nestled in his bed like spoons in a drawer, beneath tousled sheets. The intimacy of it speared him. He had never felt such warmth, such bone-deep contentment.

With each deep breath he inhaled a magical blend of fresh washed hair, roses, lavender. He levered up on his elbow to watch Venetia sleep. Dark gold lashes lay against her cheeks, her lips curved in a smile.

She looked delectable.

He wished he could wake her by sliding his cock into her and slowly making love to her, rousing her on a wave of pleasure. His cock swelled as he entertained the thought, increasing the torture by wedging into her curvaceous bottom. He had to roll away.

She murmured as she began to wake. Her lashes rose slowly. Her smile widened as she saw him. “You did stay.”

“Of course.” His chest felt tight. Desire raged in him like a fire.

“Is it morning?” she asked, “It is terribly dark.”

“Still storming.” He was more abrupt than he intended.

Venetia nodded. “I can hear it now—the rain against the windows.”

She sat up, curls tumbling, sheets sliding down her lovely nude curves. “I want to search Lydia’s room once more. I thought of something last night. She had many books with her—why bring those to an orgy? She must have meant not to return to London for a long time. And her maid spoke of accidents. She must have brought her book with her.” She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I want to believe that it is still there—that no one else found it.”

Marcus clamped down on his desire for her. Was there any point in searching again? But Venetia wanted it and in that moment of intimacy and desire, he couldn’t have denied her a thing.

“How could we have missed this the first time?” Venetia stared in amazement as Marcus pressed on the metal banding that crossed the lid of Lydia’s trunk. It depressed with a small click. She waited, hopeful, expecting a panel to spring open. But nothing happened.

“Damnation,” Marcus muttered. “This activates something…but it’s not engaging.” His dark brows drew together. “Something’s stopping the mechanism…”

“Is it broken?”

He tipped open the trunk lid, ran his long fingers over the silk lining, his eyes thoughtful, intense. A smile came to his lips. He slid the lock pick from his coat pocket, held it out to her. Mystified, Venetia took it. “Turn it in the lock, as I press in on the band.”

Dutifully, she did. She watched his thumb push the metal strip down, heard the click, then the metal piece dropped down flush with the trunk lid and a second, louder click came. The lining of the lid seemed to magically drop open a half-inch.

Venetia pried the panel open another two inches, as far as it would go. “It’s here!” She pulled out a sheath of papers bound with a red satin ribbon. Heart pounding, she undid the ribbon, aware of Marcus at her side, aware of the warm feather of his breath over her neck. It made her tremble as much as the victory of finding Lydia’s book.

Venetia flipped through the first pages. “Goodness! She begins with meeting her first protector—she was only fifteen! And then she seduces the man’s son when she is eighteen.”

“Lord Craven and the next Lord Craven.”

“Yes. Aptly named.” Shock spiraled through her but she couldn’t resist reading about Lydia’s adventures at eighteen.

As soon as Lord Craven finished tying my ankles, he snapped his fingers. At once the door opened and three large men entered. Grooms from his stables—I knew them at once. All were nude—except the youngest still clutched his cap. And all had been selected for their gargantuan male equipment.

The new Lord Craven looked smugly down upon me. I was tied to his bizarre rack and quite unable to move. I was at his mercy. Me, an untutored girl of eighteen!

I could see at once how swollen and bloated his was—his modest member pushing at his breeches. He rubbed himself there as he explained his desire. He demanded that I rut with all three men at once. One in my cunny, one in my arse, and one for me to suck!

I’d never done such a thing, and was terrified. I even began to sob but my tears were to no avail. I had never allowed arse play with his lordship, even though he offered me a king’s ransom to do it. I suspected it would be painful. Lord Craven had me penetrate him once with an appendage I attached to my hips. There was blood! And how he did scream! And it was dreadfully hard work to thrust it, for his lordship was as tight as a virgin lass.

I vowed never to allow my own rosebud to be entered—but that night I was to be forced to delight in those craven pleasures, and taught to yearn for more—

Venetia skipped the next pages, face aflame, breathing unsteadily. She dared attempt to read again at the next chapter. “Oh my goodness, this passage is about my father.” Embarrassed, she shoved the papers toward Marcus. “You must read that. I cannot.”

Though it was worse to wait as he read through them all, for she kept envisioning a young woman tied to an evil-looking rack while three beautiful men surrounded her. Lydia’s ‘memoirs’ were erotic scenes prefaced by jaded observations about the men who had wooed her.

She watched Marcus read. From the brightness in his eyes, his slightly faster breathing, she knew when he’d found the racy parts. He spoke as he skimmed the pages. “There are a dozen chapters—detailing her affairs with Craven, Montberry, your father, and Brude. And since he paid, she makes no allusions to his plagiarism. Her passages on Montberry are mocking but include nothing dangerous. None of the other suspects were mentioned.”

Lydia’s affair with her father. Tears stung as she thought of her mother—hopelessly loving a man who sought Lydia Harcourt’s bed.

But there must be more. Where did Lydia keep her blackmailing secrets? Venetia worked at the panel of the trunk lid, but it definitely would not open wider. She slipped her hand in and felt around. She touched only smoothness. Did Lydia keep everything in her head?

“I know why Lydia blackmailed you—why she was so determined to hurt Rodesson.” Marcus spoke quietly, as quietly as the soft sound of the pages falling as he turned them. “She fell in love with him and, I gather, never recovered from it. He rejected her.”

More hopeless love. Two women with broken hearts—one who threw herself into good works, the other who became bitter and hard and wanted only revenge.

“Lydia speaks of a rival in the most bitter terms. I believe she meant your mother—” He broke off. “Have you found something?”

Straining to reach deep into the lid, she shook her head. “But why would he go to Lydia’s bed if he loved my mother? Why do men do that?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly.

Her fingers collided with a hard edge. Wiggling her hand in, Venetia felt the leather face of a book. Luckily her arm was slim, her fingers small. She caught the very corner of the book, drew it out. The moment the red leather cover came into view, she forgot herself. “This must be it! It must be a journal!”

Marcus’ warm hand covered her mouth in a heartbeat. She heard it—the slightest creak outside. The gentle rattle of the doorknob. Then footsteps, going away. Marcus moved his hand, put his finger to his lips. His eyes glittered, hard as gemstones. “Don’t look at the book. Put it down, don’t touch it,” he ordered in a harsh whisper.

She didn’t understand. Why shouldn’t she look at it? But she did as he asked, laying it on the floor in front of her. As though satisfied, he turned and stalked to the door without a sound.