Pub. Date: May 26, 2015
Lady Sophia, at age 27, considers herself an unmarriageable spinster after she was duped by a rake during her first debut. Feeling oppressed by the limitations on women in society, Sophie decides to dress as a man in order to investigate matters for women whom society snubs. Her investigations take her through brothels, gaming hells, the docks, and other unsavory parts of the ton. Because Sophie is a good sleuth, she comes to the notice of some very dangerous people while she is investigating a serial killer of the Jack the Ripper variety. Sophia was a likable heroine, not of the dishwater miss variety that are somewhat common in historicals. Sophie flaunts convention to do what she believes is right, which is an admirable trait, but that leads her into danger more often than not. When she gets in over her head, she decides to approach Quint, whom she has admired for many years.
This story and romance was paced well, there was no insta-love (yay!) but a sweetly unfolding relationship as Quint helped Sophie and vice versa. Speaking of the relationship, there was some very steamy sexytime in this book. But, if you have read the rest of the series, you know that Ms. Shupe is not afraid to steam up the pages. Characters from earlier books take a back seat in this installment, as the focus is on finding a serial killer and forcing Quint over his fear of going insane. If you are looking for a heated historical, this series is a must read.
So when his jaw dropped, she braced
herself.
“Your second?” Quint’s
brows flattened. “You need me to serve as your second?
For a duel? As
in, ten paces in a field at dawn?”
“Yes.
Precisely that.”
“And
with whom in the name of Heracles would you be dueling?”
She nibbled her lip. What were the
chances she could avoid explaining it before he agreed? “Does
it matter?”
He traveled around the bulk of the
desk and stopped in front of her. Though she was on the tall side, he was a few
inches taller. She liked that he didn’t
loom over her. It allowed her to better see his face, and he had an interesting
face. Astute brown eyes with golden flecks. A strong, angular jaw. High, sharp
cheekbones that set off a nose too masculine to ever be called pretty.
His hair was shaggy, his clothes
rumpled and appallingly ill-matched. No, he did not inspire swoons in the
ballroom, but perfection had never interested Sophie.
And there was the root of the problem.
The man was intelligent in ways most
people couldn’t
even comprehend. They thought him odd. Unsocial. Aloof. He never danced or paid
afternoon calls. But those opinions, if he even paused to hear them, didn’t affect him as far as Sophie could
tell. He exuded confidence, unshakable beliefs that were based on
well-researched facts. His ability to recall the smallest detail he’d read fifteen years ago fascinated
her.
Quint folded his arms across his
chest. “Yes, it very much matters. And it’s not as if you can hide the other
party’s
identity, if I’m
to serve as your second—unless you plan to blindfold me. But
all of that is irrelevant as I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to go
through with a duel.”
Without a cravat, the strong column of
his throat shifted and rippled as he talked, and she was reminded that she’d once had the opportunity to
experience the power in his lithe frame. Had once shivered as he’d clutched her so tight she could
hardly breathe.
But that was long ago, years now, all
before he’d
fallen in love with someone else. A lump formed in her throat, regret nearly
choking her, but she forced it down. “And I cannot see how you can possibly
prevent it. I do not need your approval.”
Cocking his head, he studied her with
shrewd scrutiny. “What happens if I say no?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I
shall muddle through somehow.”
“If
you do, your reputation will suffer.”
“My
reputation has already suffered—which is why I have accepted the
challenge. To repair
it.”
He huffed a seemingly exasperated
laugh. “That is ridiculous.”
“Oh,
because I’m
a woman I cannot have honor?”
“I
never said that. Women can duel if they so choose, as far as I’m concerned. Stupidity is not ascribed
to gender. What’s
ridiculous is thinking no one will learn of it. Nigh on impossible to keep a
duel private these days.”
“Yes,
but you won’t
tell anyone. Neither will I, for that matter.”
“Your
opponent might, as could the surgeon who is taxed with removing a ball from
your chest. But it hardly matters because I cannot serve as your second.”
“Cannot—or
will not?”
A flush stole over his cheekbones. Was
he embarrassed? She’d
never, ever seen him blush. “Cannot,” he
said. “And you’d better not go through with it.”
Intolerable, high-handed males. Sophie
had suffered them her whole life. Between idiotic rules and unrealistic
expectations, an English woman’s
life was more constricting than stays after a five-course meal. “I
must. And will you tell me why?”
“No.
Will you tell me why you need to duel?”
She shook her head. “No. I cannot.”
He shifted, coming close enough to
send her pulse racing. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, the shadow
of tomorrow’s
beard on his jaw. Strong, wide shoulders, lean waist. Heat radiated off his
body to warm her in all the places ladies never mentioned—places
that Sophie happened to like quite a bit. He was such a complicated specimen of
brains and brawn, a combination she happened to find particularly appealing.
Not to mention he had full, strong
lips that she knew firsthand were quite adept at turning a woman’s insides to jelly. Well, hers, at
least.
“Cannot,
or will not?” he asked, refocusing her attention.
She hated having her words turned
around on her, so she ignored the question altogether and sidled away. “Will
you at least teach me how it’s done?” She peered at the stack of books on the floor behind his
desk, the ones he’d
hidden when she entered. They were all medical journals on . . . diseases of
the brain. Every single one. Now why hadn’t
he wanted her to see those?
“Dueling?
You want to learn how to stand on a field and shoot at another person?”
She glanced up at him. “Yes.
I’ve never even fired a pistol before.”
“Firing
is not the hard part. Hitting something is the trick.”
“I
thought the point of a duel was to miss.”
“Deloping
is considered ungentlemanly. Have you not even read the Code Duello?
The point of a duel is to restore your honor while not getting yourself killed.
And to place your bullet where it will do the least damage.”
“See
how little I know? You can teach me.”
“No.
I cannot involve myself in this. You should merely apologize to whichever lady
you’ve slighted and end it.”
“It
is impossible to apologize. And why can you not be involved?”
He placed his hands on his hips. “Many
reasons. Six, to be precise. Would you like them in alphabetic order or order
of importance?”
She sighed. This was going badly. She
had no one else to ask, no one with a chance of keeping her secret. And she and
Quint were friends . . . of a sort. Based on their previous history, she’d thought he’d agree. That he would, at the very
least, want to protect her. What could she do to convince him?
“Fine.
I shall ask someone else.”
He quirked an eyebrow, his expression
too knowing, drat him. “And whom shall you enlist in this
tutelage?”
She rapidly searched her brain for a
name, for any bits of gossip she’d
overheard. “Lord MacLean has been rumored in a
number of duels. He must know the way of it.”
“And he’s a rake. Burned through the entire
lot of Edinburgh innocents and had to come to London just to ravish more. Your
reputation would never survive it.”
“That
hardly signifies.” In more ways than one. “I
merely want the ins and outs of the thing. And if you will not show me, I will
find someone who can.”
His jaw hardened, but his eyes burned
into her, churning with an emotion she’d
never seen before. Was it . . . doubt? It gave her pause. Quint moved about the
world with ease, with no need to question himself because he was rarely wrong.
Any criticisms he encountered were for matters he cared little for, such as the
unfashionable length of his hair or his appalling sartorial sense.
But this was new. He looked . . .
uncertain.
“Then
you must do whatever you feel necessary,” he finally said, reaching to knead his temples with his
fingertips. “I apologize I am unable to fulfill
your request. Taylor will see you out.” He bowed and then headed for the door.
She watched him go, stunned at both
his rudeness and the expression on his face.
“Quint,” she
called to his back. He stopped but did not turn. “Are
you all right?”
“Never
better,” he answered and disappeared into the corridor.
“No,” she
whispered into the empty room. “Somehow I think not.”
