The Water Nymph Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 some 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