The Water Nymph Read Online Free Page B

raven,” the man answered smoothly. “And I have to admit, I am disappointed. ‘Slug’? Surely you could do better. What about ‘clever devil’?”
    The raven, on its perch at the man’s shoulder, repeated “clever devil, clever devil,” in its rasping voice, and executed a jig.
    Sophie sneered at the bird, then at its owner. “I think you overrate yourself. Dragging women against their will to your house for your entertainment hardly counts as clever.”
    The man regarded her paternally. “Let us review. You followed me of your own volition. You broke into my house at your own initiative. And so far, you have not been very entertaining at all.”
    That was not strictly true. Indeed, he had to admit that the two hours he had just passed with her had been more diverting than any in his recent memory. Because Crispin Foscari had been having a very bad week. He had been forcibly stripped of his status as the Phoenix, accused of treason, and for all intents and purposes, dismissed from the Queen’s service. He had been given only fourteen days to find out who was angling for his destruction and stop them. He had already spent six days investigating, with no appreciable results. And his best source of information had been shot dead in the smoking room at the Unicorn. But despite all that, he now found that he was enjoying himself immensely.
    He could not decide which was more entertaining: watching the woman in front of him or antagonizing her. Fortunately, he could do both at the same time.
    “You know, you still have not really fixed your mustache,” he pointed out sweetly.
    “Not fixed your mustache,” the raven intoned, less sweetly.
    In her outrage at being tricked, Sophie had forgotten that she was still wearing the mustache, but this double reminder made it suddenly ten times itchier than it had been earlier. “And you,” she replied, her voice tight with the struggle to resist the urge to scratch her upper lip, “still have not explained what you want with me. Or, for that matter, even who you are.”
    “Why, this is my house,” the man answered simply, as if that settled everything. Then, seeing that the woman looked uncomprehending, he added, “Sandal Hall.” When she continued to regard him blankly, he quickly explained, “I am Crispin Foscari. The Earl of Sandal.”
    Satan’s knockers, he was a pompous termite. “The Earl of Sandal? I have never heard of the Earl of Sandal.” She was focusing hard on keeping her voice level, but not so hard that she missed the look of astonishment on the man’s face. She decided to push him farther. “How do I know you are not making the title up? That you are not one of those rakes who invent a noble-sounding name in order to con others out of their money or property?”
    “Like Don Alfonso del Forest al Carmen del Farmen al Carest?” Crispin suggested in a voice slightly tighter than usual.
    “Exactly.” Sophie pretended to cough then, in a desperate effort to keep from bursting into laughter. It was the first time in hours that she held the upper hand, and she found it so pleasant that the mustache ceased to bother her at all. “How can I even be sure this is your house? Given the way you have behaved tonight, with unscrupulous disregard for the truth, I would not be shocked to learn that you had purloined it.”
    Sophie did not know it, but she had done something quite incredible: she had surprised him. Indeed, as one of Queen Elizabeth’s most secret operatives, surprise was something Crispin could ill afford if he valued his life. He was not a vain or haughty man, but he had assumed that his name and title would be well known to her. After all, it was well known to everyone. It had been years since he had been able to go anywhere incognito, to remain unrecognized or unacknowledged in any locale from a seedy quayside tavern to the papal court unless he was well disguised. And yet here was this woman, challenging not only his right to his house and