Ryder frowned down at her and lightly touched his fingertips to the bump over her temple. "Good God, you didn't tell me that someone struck you on the head."
"I forgot."
"All right, talk, but make it quick." When she'd finished, he was frowning. She opened her mouth, only to feel his palm over her lips. "No, now be quiet. Here's Jeremy. Emile was seeing to him while I talked to you."
The boy was on his knees beside her, stroking her filthy face, her hands. "Oh, Sophie, your feet! What happened? What did you do?"
She'd forgotten her damned feet.
Ryder yelled for a lantern. When a slave brought it, he lowered it and looked for a long time at her feet, saying nothing. Then, "From the top of your head to your very toes, you've managed to do yourself in. Jesus, Sophie, your feet are a mess. See that Coco bathes them when you get back to Kimberly."
Ryder watched Samuel drive away with Sophie and Jeremy. He himself had carried her to the carriage. He was hot and sweaty and covered with smoke and grime from the fire. He was also in a devil of a mess and in an equally foul mood.
Where the hell was that bastard, Thomas? Actually, truth be told, Thomas worried him more than Theo Burgess. At least Theo tried to keep up appearances; Thomas couldn't give a good damn about anything. Ryder had no doubt that it was Thomas who had struck Sophie and hurled the candelabra to the floor.
Ryder left Emile in charge of Camille Hall and took himself back to Kimberly for a few hours' sleep. When he awoke he was told that Miss Stanton-Greville was still sleeping. He frowned but said nothing. He was thinking about her damned bloody feet, curse her. Just after he'd finished eating breakfast, Mr. Sherman Cole arrived from Montego Bay.
Sherman Cole looked like the father of one of Ryder's mistresses, a draper in Rye who was greedy and sly. He was very fat, double chins wobbling over his collar, had a monk's tonsure of gray hair, very sharp eyes, and thick lips. The thought of him trying to kiss Sophie made Ryder want to gag.
Still, he shook the man's hand and offered him coffee. Mr. Cole wanted not only coffee, but sweet buns, which, when a tray was set before him, he eyed with more intensity than Ryder would have had gazing upon a beautiful naked woman.
Ryder merely sat opposite him and looked over his right shoulder, unable, for the most part, to look at the man's face. It was not an elevating sight. He listened to the man speak even though his mouth was many times full and thus his words a bit slurred.
"Yes, Mr. Sherbrooke, as you know, I am the magistr
ate, the man in charge of all civil and criminal disturbances. I am the law here on the island, the power of the law resides with me. I was shocked to learn that you were involved, that you had brought Miss Sophia Stanton-Greville back to Kimberly with you. I don't know how you came to be involved with her, but I am certain you will tell me soon enough. Please have the girl fetched here. I will question her now."
My God, Ryder thought, steepling his long fingers. He looked over them at the man who had just consumed four sweet buns. The man was not only a pig, he was also pompous, condescending, and thoroughly irritating. As to his manners, he had none. There were crumbs on his coat and on his chin. The man needed to be stripped and tossed to the crocodiles in the mangrove swamps. It would doubtless keep them busy for at least several days.
"I think not, Mr. Cole," Ryder said mildly. "You see, she is suffering from breathing in too much smoke and thus cannot speak without a lot of pain. Perhaps in several days you can return and she might be better."
Mr. Cole frowned. He wasn't used to having anyone go against his expressed wishes. He was the man in charge; he was a leader of men, truly the law here, and it was his word, his orders, that counted. "I want to see her," he said again, obstinate as a Pig.
"No."
"See here, Sherbrooke—"
"Mr. Sherbrooke, Cole."
Sherman Cole was quite obviously taken aback and becoming angrier by the minute. But he wasn't stupid. Was Sophia Stanton-Greville already this man's mistress? Was he set on protecting her? He pursed his lips. He held himself silent, having learned that a man or woman felt compelled to fill in silences and thus provide him with information, but this young man didn't say a word. He sat back in his chair, his fingers still steepled, and, damn his eyes, he looked bored.
It was infuriating. Mr. Cole drew a deep breath, looked quickly down at the tray but saw there were no more sweet buns there, and frowned again. Food helped him sort through his thoughts, it always had, even when he'd been a child. "I want her," he said.
"A pity. You must accustom yourself, sir. You will never have her."
"That isn't what I meant! My dear young man, I am married, my wife is a charming lady, really quite charming. I mean that I must speak to her, and I must tell you, Mr. Sherbrooke, that I suspect foul play here. I suspect that she murdered her uncle in cold blood and then set fire to the great house."
"This is a rather remarkable theory. May I inquire as to what brought you to this incredible conclusion?"
"The girl isn't what she seems to be, rather she is exactly what she seems, only her uncle wouldn't recognize it or accept it. You must have heard— perhaps you even have firsthand information—she's a slut, a high-priced harlot with no morals at all. I think her uncle finally realized the truth and she killed him when he threatened to toss her out. Aye, that's what happened." He stopped, gave Ryder a patented hanging judge's look, and announced, "I am here to see justice done."
Ryder laughed, a deep, rich laugh. "Your theory is beyond amusing, Mr. Cole. However, you must realize that it is also rather libelous."
"I have a witness, Mr. Sherbrooke."
"Do you now?"
'Yes, Thomas, the overseer."