The Darkest Sin (28 page)

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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Darkest Sin
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When he spoke, his voice was a low groan. “I think we're even now.”
She withdrew her mouth but maintained the rhythm of her hand, looking up at him, challenging him to his core. “Are you certain?” Their eyes met, easing the earlier desperation and replacing it with something else. Her lips were full and parted, and he ran a finger along the bottom lip. In return, she ran the flat of her tongue up the length of his shaft moments before he lifted her up to the bench, shoved aside her skirts and entered her with a single thrust. He brought her legs to his shoulders and watched desire cloud her eyes as he thrust into her until he heard her cry out loud over the sounds of the carriage wheels biting into the cobblestones.
When it was over, she lay perfectly still, a hand over her eyes, not looking at him while he adjusted his garments. The wheels of the carriage turned steadily beneath them. Several miles passed in hushed silence. “And what does that prove?” she asked finally, softly into the night. “That I am manageable ? That you can bend me to your will? If that makes you feel better, so be it, although for me it changes nothing.” Her voice had the ring of finality. She sat up seconds before the carriage slowed and rearranged her skirts as the carriage stopped at the mews behind her apartments. Neither was ready to talk, and Rowena ignored Rushford's hand in assisting her down from the carriage. She stalked past him and into the house.
Her hands shook as she stripped off her cloak. “This situation is out of control, and I don't care for it,” she said with her usual forthrightness.
“I didn't hear you protest.”
She threw her cloak over the occasional table in the hall. “You are vile.”
“And you are dishonest.”
“I am going to bed. Good night, Lord Rushford.”
His shoulders rested against the door at his back. “We've come to the end, Rowena,” he said.
She stopped in midstep, looking over her shoulder at him. “There was never a beginning, was there? Because you would not allow it.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, her scent still in his nostrils. “What are you saying?”
“You are still punishing yourself—and punishing me at the same time for something in which I had no part.”
“Do not bring up Kate.”
“And why not—when her ghost stands between us? It's true. You are always looking for the ghost over your shoulder. Always looking for the Duchess.” He did not disagree, but the flat gray of his eyes told her the truth. “It's the reason you can't allow yourself to trust me. The reason that the Baron can do with us as he wishes. Don't you see? I almost wish I'd known her,” she continued fearlessly, feeling that she had nothing to lose. “Maybe then I would understand what it takes to inspire that intensity . . .” she paused, “that type of love.”
“You don't know what you're saying.”
“I believe that I do. And if you could be honest with yourself and with me for once, you would see it also.”
“You can't begin to understand what transpired, and what's worse, your ruminations are entirely unproductive,” he said harshly. “I meant what I said earlier, Rowena. We have come to an end. This evening was the last time you will be required to pose as my mistress. And if you wish to help me and yourself, you will stay in these apartments until my return.”
“Please, Rushford,” she said suddenly, her eyes alight. “Why do you not allow me to help you? I don't believe that you cannot find it in yourself to trust me.”
Rushford pushed himself away from the door, and his face was neutral, his eyes as hard as stone. “Now please listen to me,” he said with soft but deadly intent. “Trust has nothing to do with these circumstances. Your continued involvement will only compound the difficulties for your aunt and sister. As a result, if you so much as think of doing anything impetuous, and unpredictable, as is your wont, I shan't be responsible.”
Rowena took an involuntary step back. “I don't know what to do anymore, to convince you.”
“There is nothing you can do. You are young and naïve and out of weakness, I allowed myself to believe that becoming further involved with you was wise when it was good for neither of us.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I should never have made love to you that first time. And when you returned to me, one year later, I should have done everything to send you on your way again. Not for me—but for you. We are at an end.”
“That's not true,” she burst out. “I told you I regret none of it. Not one moment. Even when I find myself wondering whether you would sacrifice those close to me for your own ends.”
Rushford cut her off with a look before she could continue. There was nothing left to say. “Very well,” she said, holding up her palms in a gesture of acceptance. His eyes bored into hers during a brief, tense silence, as if he were reading her mind. Then he exhaled, leaning back against the door. In a rustle of gray silk, she disappeared down the hall, leaving him in the atrium. He swore a savage oath, feeling winded, as if he'd just taken a blow to his stomach.
 
Rowena did not sleep that night. Instead, she paced the apartments, her mind whirling from one plan to the next, her heart hardening against Rushford. The day began with heavy clouds, and the sun made only a short appearance before setting again, suffusing the satin curtains of her bedchamber with what seemed an ominous glow. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since she had climbed the trellis behind Rushford's town house on Belgravia Square to enlist his aid. Yet, she told herself, despite her conflicting emotions, she was just one step away from Montagu Faron, and closer still to a possession he prized so highly. Gazing into the vermilion glow of the remnants of a fire, she heard the clock strike eight. Only an hour before complete darkness fell. She could hear her own rush of blood pounding in her ears.
It took her no time at all to fling off her day gown and change into a pair of trousers that she had asked Madame Curzon to make for her, smiling slightly at the memory of the older woman's shocked face when she'd learned of Rowena's preference for a riding costume. Rowena thrust the small, freshly oiled revolver into her pocket, wrapped a cloak around her, and tucked her hair beneath the hood. She had dismissed the maid and cook earlier in the day so there would be no witnesses to her leaving the apartments. Even so, she slipped out from the mews' entrance of the apartments, avoiding the main stairwell, and walked briskly for several minutes before catching a hansom. “Bloomsbury,” she said to the driver, not giving a specific address, and pleased he could not discern her trousers beneath the length of her cloak. She sat on the edge of the seat as the vehicle swung around corners, the team of horses making short work of the distance. Rowena wouldn't allow herself to think of anything but her immediate plan. She was determined to arrive at the British Museum ahead of the Baron's men.
The carriage came to a halt in the eerily deserted Russell Square, about half a mile from the museum. Rowena disembarked, wrapped her cloak more closely around her, and skirted the buildings flanking the square. During the day she knew the area to be filled with flower stalls, pigeon coops, and pie vendors, but as darkness settled she could hear only her own feet echoing on the cobblestones. It had been raining earlier, and the puddles glistened in the gaslight, the ground slippery underfoot. She ran through the narrow streets, past pitched roofs and narrow brownstones, cutting her way through Russell Square, heedless of the moisture that soaked the hem of her cloak, her eyes fixed on the corner of Charlotte Street ahead. Upon coming closer, she shifted into a doorway of a narrow series of buildings, pressing back into the shadows before looking up the street. It was dark now, the area curiously deserted save for a group of torches advancing. She fingered the pistol in her pocket, its coldness familiar to her hand.
When the men had passed, she emerged from the shadows, her heart thundering in her chest as she ran toward the monumental south entrance of the museum. Strangely sinister with its colonnades and pediments, it loomed like a Greek architectural colossus in the gathering dark. She skirted a huddled figure in a doorway and ignored a dog frantically barking from a stoop. Picking up her pace, she ran along Charlotte Street to the west façade of the museum, which was more modest in proportion. It was easy to make herself disappear into a niche in the stone wall.
Her breathing became more regular, and she allowed herself to momentarily close her eyes. Suddenly, the hairs on the nape of her neck rose, and her skin crawled. The low murmur of voices came incrementally closer, thinning her blood. Disembodied words catapulted her back to the dark fog of her abduction. The Baron and several other men.
Rowena held her breath, easily identifying Sebastian's voice. The footsteps came closer and then receded before she allowed herself to exhale. She focused instead on Meredith, Julia, and Montfort, her heart easing in acceptance of her fate. Her feelings for Rushford were really of secondary importance ; nothing would ever come of them, she knew. He had loved the Duchess, and Rowena Woolcott would always be a postscript, a burden, a responsibility that he had taken on, at best, without thought and, at worst, to staunch his grief for a woman who was lost to him forever.
She paused for another moment, her chemise and shirt sticking to her spine with perspiration from her exertions. Two or three minutes passed, stretching to infinity, while the Baron and his half dozen men moved around to the back of the museum. Rowena could not make out their words but only saw the Baron lift his arm in command before they dispersed, disappearing around the corner, their torchlight lifted high.
Still no sign of Rushford. She began feeling her way along the back wall of the museum, her cloak brushing along the stone until she came to a small set of stairs, clearly an entranceway, leading to a serviceable-looking door. Rowena did not hesitate. It was slightly ajar, an invitation to go farther, and she quietly slipped inside. Stopping on the threshold, she saw them at once at the far end of a cavernous subterranean vault, stacked high with long wooden boxes holding treasures of the museum that did not often see the light of day. Several sconces burned dully, but she identified the two men right away. Rushford and Lord Richard Archer.
To the left, she saw another set of steps leading to a narrow open walkway above. Wavering only for a moment, she moved silently to creep up the stairs, keeping herself low to the ground until she reached a small platform. She was afraid of what she was about to witness. She knew Lord Rushford was prepared to do what he must to defeat Faron.
“The wagon should be brought around shortly,” Rushford said. A chill swept through Rowena at his determined tone. She shifted as far back as she could on the small platform and into the shadows.
“Already done,” Archer replied. The two men put their shoulders to a large wooden box, scraping it across the stone floor, their progress slow. “We should be in Calais by early morning, ready to catch the ship out before sunrise.”
“The timing couldn't have been better to have your sloop in port.”
“I've informed the captain that you're simply on your way to Paris for a fortnight of carousing. Entirely plausible, I thought.”
“Always prepared to think the best of me,” Rushford replied, his teeth a flash of white in the dimness. “I shouldn't wish to endanger your captain. I think I can manage the
Brigand
on my own.”
“One should hope that ten years in the Royal Navy taught you something.”
“I won't lose her, don't worry,” he said, glancing at the doorway and the walkway overhead. Rowena sucked in her breath. Then he turned back to Archer. “While I am in France, there is the matter of Miss Woolcott.”
Archer, his hand on the crate, said, “She will be well looked after until your return. Never fear. Although I should hope you will have the courage to resolve the issue, Rush.”
“Nothing to resolve,” he said. “Once I've determined all is well, she can return safely to Montfort.”
“Without you?”
“You're as meddlesome as a granny,” Rushford said brusquely. “She will not need me to return to Montfort, and in the interim, the less she knows of this the better. Miss Woolcott is difficult enough to manage without her discovering her aunt's life hangs in the balance should this exchange not come off.”
Rowena bit her lip, hearing Archer swear softly. “Her aunt is involved? You intend to explain this added complication to me, I trust.”
“Not now. There's no time if I'm to meet the ship with the cargo at the appointed hour. Suffice it to say that Miss Woolcott's concerns for her family will be relegated to the past. In exchange for the cargo, Faron will desist with his threats.”
“How can you be certain?” Archer's voice in the darkness was somber.
Rushford shrugged and said, “Because I intend to kill him.”
For what he did to Kate.
Rowena's blood ran cold. She pressed herself against the wall at her back, the air suddenly inky dark and thick with dust. She could feel the nightmare terrors nudging at her mind. Once before she'd lain in the dark, the walls pressing down on her, before water had filled her lungs. She imagined Rushford's touch, his strong hands, pulling her back from the currents before she could lose herself in the nightmare again. She forced herself to calm. She watched Rushford closely and realized that he had, always at such moments, a perfect stillness that masked reservoirs of strength. His presence, when she heard the deep murmur of his voice, was like a lifeline unreeling through the darkness. She clung to the confidence of that voice, allowing herself to wonder why he was so necessary to her life.

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