A Most Naked Solution Page 3

  Sophia watched the backs of the two grooms riding ahead of them as outriders. Was it wrong to hope someone was trying to kill her? If the same man had shot at her and Richard, then it wasn’t her father.

  She let the breeze dry her tears of relief. After all, she didn’t yet know what was the truth.

  Her father and brother Darton had visited her three months ago, anguished and enraged. They had received a letter from her brother Bennett, telling them of Richard’s abuse. They demanded to know if it was true. And for the first time in her life she hadn’t lied to them. Her stomach clenched as she remembered her father sinking, ashen-faced, to the floor, guilt contorting his face. He’d demanded that she leave. But she refused. She couldn’t go yet—not because she hadn’t wanted to, but because she had to confront Richard first. She’d planned to do it that night.

  Her brother Bennett had whisked her away from Richard once before, and she’d been too weak in the face of Richard’s anguished pleas. She’d gone back, unable to stop herself from trying to fix things one last time.

  So when she’d told her father to wait for her in town, it was because she had to prove to herself that she was strong enough to leave on her own. Strong enough to walk out the door and not bend when Richard grew angry, or worse, when he wept and claimed he couldn’t do without her. Strong enough not to fear his fists when she defied him.

  Her father had sworn he’d put a bullet through Richard’s head before letting him set foot in this house again.

  Three hours later Richard was dead.

  The carriage hit a rut, rattling her teeth so hard she bit her tongue. The taste of blood in her mouth was so familiar she didn’t even wince.

  So had she been wrong all along? Her father was a famed diplomat. He praised negotiation and reconciliation. But she’d never seen him enraged before. In fact, she’d never seen him even slightly angered.

  Had she been too quick to think him a killer?

  Sophia closed her eyes briefly, shivering in the chill as the clouds swallowed the sun.

  The next rut drove her against Lord Grey’s shoulder, fleetingly reminding her of the time she’d accidentally brushed against him as he’d hurried up to the schoolroom to teach her brother. She hadn’t slept at all that night, trying to commit the feel of his arm to memory.

  Apparently, she hadn’t been as efficient as she’d thought. She didn’t remember the thickness of his shoulder or the smooth slope of muscle. Or perhaps that was new?

  She peered around his shoulder, trying to distract herself. “What are you studying?”

  “I’m trying to find a formula for the roots of a fifth-degree polynomial equation in terms of the coefficients of the polynomial, using only the usual algebraic operations.”

  She liked how he left it at that, expecting her to understand.

  Or perhaps he thought it too far beyond her and didn’t want to be bothered to explain.

  She watched him study the paper as they travelled, occasionally repeating a number aloud. Or shuffling to find another page to compare some equations. He often squinted and lifted a page closer to his face. After a few of these adjustments, he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, then pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket. He cleared his throat. “Some of the writing is hard to read.” He cut another quick look at her again before slipping them on.

  She could have told him he had no reason to fear her mockery. The spectacles only emphasized the masculine strength to his cheekbones and the keen brilliance in his eyes.

  When his long finger slid along a column of numbers, she felt it along her spine. She needed a distraction from her distraction.

  Who wanted her dead? That should be the real question occupying her thoughts. Richard had wooed dozens of mistresses and countless lovers, but he was dead. She couldn’t imagine why one of them would be trying to kill her years later. And Richard had stripped one thing after another from her until she’d been left with nothing. No friends of her own. No enemies, either.

  A disturbing thought occurred to her. “You don’t have any enemies, do you, Lord Grey?”

  “Hmm?” he asked, his attention on the paper.

  “Do you have any enemies?”

  He looked up, his mind obviously still elsewhere. She could see the exact moment when his concentration latched onto her, his gaze pinning her like a butterfly to cork.

  “Enemies? No.” But then he frowned. “At least none who know how to shoot a rifle.” A grin flitted across this face. “Ipswith wouldn’t know which end to point. I’m a mathematician, Lady Harding. We’re not precisely known for our violent tendencies.”

  She’d seen his face as he watched for her attacker. She didn’t doubt that he was capable of violence. “You were in the army.”

  He tucked the paper he’d been reading back into the folder. “As an engineer. And I’m by far the exception in the Royal Mathematical Society.”

  His arrogance reminded her so much of Darton that she couldn’t help smiling. Heavens, she was half-amazed the poor, neglected muscles in her face even remembered what to do. “That’s when you were awarded the barony, was it not?”

  After his last comment, she hadn’t expected him to be able to look humble, but he did a very creditable job, dropping his gaze and clearing his throat. “Yes. Although, really, the entire company deserved the praise. I may have designed the bridge, but they were the ones who had to build it.”

  The bridge had saved the lives of half of Wellington’s retreating army, if she remembered the story correctly. Then he’d helped hold off the French forces with rifle fire while the remaining few crossed.

  “Surely there had to have been officers jealous of your fame.”

  Lord Grey shook his head. “Envy does indeed strike soldiers, but I was given the title five years ago. And I’ve remained fairly quiet since then.”

  “No angry lovers?” Where had that come from? Definitely not something she needed to know about.

  He lifted a brow. “Lovers, yes. Angry, no. They tend to be rather satisfied.”

  As if she needed more thoughts of being satisfied by Lord Grey. She turned her face into the wind to cool the burning in her cheeks. “I’m trying to think of suspects.”

  All humor drained from his face. “The person intended to wound, if not kill you. Are you ready to be honest about what you know.”

  Camden wasn’t sure what he expected her to say. He knew there was slim chance of her actually cooperating, so he almost missed the brief moment of indecision that flashed across her face.

  Then she said, “Will you do the same?”

  Camden frowned. “I’m not hiding anything.” Except perhaps how oddly distracting he was finding her lips, but he was certain she didn’t want to hear that fact.

  “You think I had something to do with my husband’s death.”

  He paused. “I’m not certain, but I do think it’s possible. And I do know you are hiding something.”

  The carriage drew to a halt in front of the Dancing Pig tavern. Camden leapt down, then assisted Sophia onto the cobbles.

  Only a few men dotted the taproom as they entered, Tubs being one of them. The guinea must have been enough to convince Haws to allow him access to the ale again. The maid, Lottie, stood next to him, collecting his empty tankard.

  Haws shifted behind the bar, the rag in his hand slowing, wiping the same circle as they approached. “Lord Grey. Lady Harding. It’s a surprise to see you both again. So soon.”

  “I’ve come to ask again if you remember any strangers from around the time of Lord Harding’s murder. Lady Harding has come along to tell you how grateful she’ll be for any help.”

  Sophia’s smile was brittle. “Of course.”

  Haws slung the rag over his shoulder. “Well, er . . .”

  Mrs. Haws exploded out of the kitchen. A look passed between her and Sophia. And Camden knew, in that instant, that his plan would be an utter failure. He’d learn nothing even if Sophia swore on the Bible that she wanted
everyone to cooperate.

  Yet ever obstinate, he tried one last time. “I know two men were here after the murder. Two men from London.”

  Sophia paled. Disappointment dropped into Camden’s gut, a painful, heavy thing. “You wouldn’t know anything about two men from London?”

  A ragged party of farmers entered the tavern and claimed a table by the window.

  “I know many men from London, but not two who would have been in this tavern.” Camden had to lean in close to hear Sophia’s words, but even from a mile away he would have recognized her stubborn determination.

  He lowered his voice. “Then why does this investigation frighten you? What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.”

  Camden barely registered the growl coming from his throat until Sophia backed away from him, eyes wary.

  Good. Perhaps she’d rethink whatever foolishness was going on here.

  Cold ale sloshed in his face. Camden choked, wiping at the liquid stinging his eyes and running down his chin. “What the devil?”

  Haws shoved his cup-wielding wife from the room. “Sorry, sir. I have no idea—”

  “I’ll not have him scaring women in my tavern—”

  Haws put his hand over her mouth. “Too much time in the hot kitchen. Lewis, get Lord Grey a towel. Lewis? Damn it all, where is that boy?”

  The lad he’d seen yesterday skidded through the kitchen door, his blond curls hanging limply over his face. “Here.” His voice cracked halfway through. He ducked past Haws and grabbed a clean cloth, tossing it toward Camden, his expression sullen.

  Camden grabbed at the clean linen but missed. Sophia retrieved it and pressed it into his hand, amusement lighting the blue of her eyes.

  Lottie rushed over, hands planted on her hips, scolding Lewis.

  Camden sopped the remaining dampness from his face. His coat and cravat were a lost cause, clinging to him and reeking of a brewery. “You never had any intention of helping me, did you, Sophia?”

  She sucked in a small breath—whether from his question or his use of her given name, he didn’t know. “I did what you asked.” She took the rag from his hands and wiped under his right ear, then along the edge of his collar.

  His breath caught. “But their loyalty to you is stronger than that. Have you earned it? Or are you betraying it?”

  She wiped a puddle of ale on the edge of the bar before it dripped to the floor. “I don’t betray the people I care about.”

  He took the cloth back. “I’m sending you home.”

  “I thought you needed me to tell everyone to cooperate.”

  “I think we both know that will be useless. Go home so I can beat the truth from them.”

  She blanched. “I won’t let—”

  Camden scowled. “You truly expect me to hurt Mrs. Haws? Or perhaps it’s the elderly man who owns the livery stable? What kind of man do you think I am?”

  “The kind that thinks me a murderer.”

  “Lady Harding!”

  Camden turned toward the voice behind them. Sophia’s gardener hovered in the doorway of the tavern, hat twisting in his hand, wrinkled face flushed. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my lady, but you are needed back at the house.”

  “Did you find the shooter?” Camden asked.

  Wicken rubbed his disheveled tufts of hair. “No, nothing like that. Just a household matter.”

  Ah, this was a rescue then. “Go back to your house, Sophia.”

  Sophia’s lips thinned.

  “Unless you wish to tell me the truth.”

  “I do not know it.”

  With poise befitting a queen, she glided to the door, only pausing when Wicken stopped to ruffle Lewis’s blond hair.

  “Grandda.” The lad glowered up from where he was scrubbing the floor, but fondness underpinned the scowl.

  This whole investigation was taking far too much time. That fool Ipswith might have already devised an algebraic solution. The man would be unbearable if he succeeded first. And he’d use the clout to make sure the Mathematical Society studied worthless things each more esoteric than the next, continuing to keep their backs turned from people who had more practical needs.

  Camden wiped a remaining drip of ale from his temple. He wasn’t an investigator.

  But he knew someone who was.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Camden sagged exhausted in the rickety chair. Across from him, Gabriel Huntford, Bow Street Runner, ate some bread and cheese, his attention never leaving the door.

  “You could have waited for me to come home. You didn’t need to track me down in the streets of London.”

  But he had. Time was wasting. He needed to convince Huntford to investigate before he lost too much time from his studies.

  And before his uncertainty about Sophia drove him mad.

  He briefly recounted the facts thus far.

  “You took your suspect to interview witnesses?” Huntford asked, a brief grin flashing over the weary lines of his face. The momentary humor lifted years of harsh living from his face, making him resemble the young man Camden had known at Oxford.

  Camden sighed and picked up his tankard, grimacing at both his stupidity and the vileness of the ale.

  “Trust me. This is one of the better taverns on the west side,” Huntford said.

  The barmaid sauntered back to the table, a plate of mutton in her hand. “Compliments of the house, constable.”

  Huntford shook his head. “I don’t think—”

  The coy look disappeared from the maid’s face. “Please, Mr. Huntford. It’s the least I can do. If it weren’t for what you did for my Melvin—”

  Huntford cut her off with a coin pressed into her hand. “I’ll take your fine food. But I insist on paying for it. Your little ones need to eat, too.”

  The maid blinked through red eyes as her hand closed around the money.

  Huntford shifted uncomfortably as the woman walked away. “Shall we walk and talk at the same time? I have work I must do.” He wrapped up the mutton in a handkerchief.

  The London air crowded Camden’s lungs, heavy with smoke and soot as they left the inn. He turned up his collar and Huntford followed suit.

  “I suppose this would have been easier if I’d waited till morning.” But once the idea had occurred to him, he’d acted. When he decided something needed to be done, he was incapable of not doing it.

  “Or you could have written,” Huntford pointed out.

  “Would you have left London?”

  Huntford sighed. “Perhaps not, but I could have met you in a better neighborhood.” He pulled the napkin from his pocket and handed it to a small girl huddled in a doorway. She sniffed it suspiciously before a grin lit her haggard face. She took a bite. Her eyes closed, and she chewed slowly, savoring the morsel of stringy meat.

  Surely they could do better for the child. But Huntford stopped him before he could retrieve any coins. “The other children will beat her for the money. It’s better to leave her alone.”

  Camden’s hands fisted. The large meals that had gone uneaten while he’d worked now seemed obscene.

  “So the widow is your primary suspect?” Huntford asked, bringing Camden back to the reason he had come.

  “I no longer know.” Camden explained about the shooting that morning. Morning? Hell, it had been a long day.

  Huntford glared at the prostitute who’d started slinking toward them. The woman shuffled off. “Could she have arranged for the shooting to make you doubt her guilt?”

  Camden hadn’t even considered that. He shifted through possibilities in his head. “No, I do not think so. She had no idea I was coming to visit her. I gave her no notice. And I saw how shaken she was. I don’t think her reaction was feigned.”

  Huntford nodded. “It also wouldn’t have made sense for her to stay around after the murder. Why not return to London or to her family?”

  “So you’ll investigate?”

  “I don’t leave London often.”

  “Weltfo
rd is only two hours from here. Think of it as a holiday.”

  “I see you still think you’re humorous.” Huntford paused briefly to peer into a dark alley, then continued on.

  Camden shrugged. He no longer expected anyone else to think so.

  “I might be able to come in a day or two. I have to testify in court tomorrow.”

  “The sooner I can hand off this bloody case, the better. I wasn’t meant for this.”

  Huntford drew deeper into his jacket. Camden cursed his words. Huntford hadn’t intended to become a Runner. He’d been forced into it by his sister’s murder. “I’ll come when I can,” he said.

  Camden wasn’t free yet, then. Someone had tried to kill Sophia. He couldn’t simply sit back and do nothing for several days. “I’ll continue the investigation until you arrive.”

  He reworked his schedule in his head. If he investigated during the day, he could work on his equations in the evening. If he worked late, he wouldn’t lose too much time. He knew from his years in the army that he could get by on three hours of sleep a night for several days. By the time he keeled over from exhaustion, either he would have found his suspect or Huntford would have arrived. “Any tips to save us both trouble?”

  Huntford laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “Why are you so interested in this case? Investigation isn’t your responsibility as justice of the peace.”

  Camden skirted around a dead rat. “I have an issue with unsolved problems.” At least that’s what it had been. Now his desire for the truth warred with his desire to find out more about Sophia.

  Huntford suddenly reached out and grabbed a man walking past them by the collar. He shoved him up against a brick wall. “Jessup. I’ve been looking for you.”

  The wiry man swore, struggling wildly against Huntford. “Ye haven’t got a thing on me, ye bloody, ruddy beak.”

  “That’s interesting, because those false guineas came from your workshop.”

  Camden almost missed the dark shape that loomed on his right. He reacted without thinking, his arm swinging up and blocking the cudgel angling toward the back of Huntford’s head. He yanked away the piece of wood, slamming it into the ribs of the heavy-set attacker. While the man was doubled over, Camden grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, pressing him against the wall as well.