One Night of Sin (2 page)

A volley of thunder in the distance stirred ancient memories of her earliest childhood at sea on Papa’s ship. She glanced at the lowering sky. Under normal circumstances, she wasn’t scared of much in life, but the shattering boom of cannon fire and the bloody, screaming, splintering destruction that she had seen those broadsides bring during the tenderest years of her childhood had left her permanently scarred with a fear of loud noises. Turning her face in to the wind, she brushed her blowing tresses out of her eyes and bleakly surmised it was going to be a bad night.

At that moment the storm broke in earnest, unleashing thunder crashes, lightning, and a torrent of rain. She let out a startled cry, the cold, sudden downpour jolting her into motion.

Dashing across the street, Becky took shelter in the first spot she found, trespassing or no. On the corner, a grand town house on the scale of a mansion offered a stately portico framed by fat white pillars. All of the windows of the house were dark at this late hour, and even if the owners were sleeping, she reasoned, they could not be so heartless as to mind her ducking under their portico to weather out the worst of the storm.

A moment later she was wiping the rain off her face and looking out at the elegant square from the mansion’s front porch.
It should suit well enough for the night,
she thought. The porch had low walls on the sides to help hide her if the Cossacks came past. A pair of spiral-shaped bushes in large urns flanked the front door.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she leaned against the house, then slid her back slowly down the wall in sheer exhaustion and sat on the flagstone floor. Shrugging deeper into her pelisse, she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, watching and listening to the rain.

How alone she felt.
Nothing new in that.
Scowling to ward off self-pity, she reached into her pocket and reluctantly took out her last morsel of food: a lone peppermint candy that she happened to have on the night she’d had to flee. Picking a piece of lint off it, she put the round hard candy into her mouth and sucked on it slowly, trying to make it last as long as possible. Her stomach protested at the meager offering.

She glanced at the locked, bolted door of the mansion-house with its fine, brass, lion-mask knocker and wondered about all the food they must have inside, the big, fluffy beds. . . . The thought made her even more miserable. Leaning her head back against the brick wall, she only meant to close her eyes for a moment or two.

She never intended to fall sound asleep.

The worst of the storm had passed an hour ago, subsiding into a vigorous, soaking pour. Watery spheres of gaslight from the wrought-iron lampposts along Oxford Street illumined blowing sheets of rain. The streets of the West End appeared deserted—but for one elegant black town-coach that came rolling through the bluster and blow, drawn by a blindered team of midnight-colored horses.

The mood inside the coach was one of wicked merriment, its passengers four of the undisputed rulers of Society, bon vivants of the first order: tall, athletic, good-looking men in their prime with a reputation for thrill-seeking and hedonism. Impeccably dressed, they sprawled on the silk-upholstered seats while the snug space of the carriage brimmed with their lively repartee.

“Will you stop rattling that damned dice box?”

“No! I’ve got to warm it up so I can win back what I lost on the Molineux match. I’m going to take your money tonight, my friend. And yours.”

“You’re not content with having stolen my mistress? How is she, by the way?”

“Fine, except you spoiled her utterly. Damned expensive wench. Do let me know if you want her back.”

“No thanks.”

Sardonic laughter abounded; the four archrogues were heedless of the weather.

Highborn libertines connected to the best families of England, they took their pleasures where they willed and were each entirely accustomed to the pampered life of the aristocracy, every whim catered to by armies of servants from the day they were born. They had met at Eton as lads and had been fast friends ever since. Despite the edge of danger they presented, having fought a total of some fifty duels among them—the collective number of females they had seduced ranged into the thousands—the high world courted them.

Their presence at a party made it fashionable; their snub spelled doom.

Tonight they had favored the hostess Lady Everley with their late arrival at her ballroom. The Everley ball was one of the last of the Season before the high world removed to Brighton for the rest of the summer in its restless search for pleasure.

Having graced the ball just long enough to set tongues wagging and to half scare, half titillate a few doe-eyed debutantes into nearly swooning with their subtly insolent attentions, they had finished their drinks and made their bows with their practiced air of bored superiority, which was, of course, largely for show.

In roguish manly company again, haughty pretensions cast aside, they were bound for Lord Draxinger’s town mansion in Hanover Square for a late night of cards and gambling.

Another carriage-load of their acquaintances would be coming along behind them, but the earl wanted to get home first to make sure his staff was up and awake, and prepared to entertain his friends with his usual lavish hospitality.

Later in the night, no doubt, they would send for the harlots.

Lord Alec Knight knew the routine because it was always the same.

Staring out the carriage window at the rainwashed streets, all dark and empty, the golden-haired leader of their set barely listened to his friends’ rowdy exchange.

Alec did not know what was wrong with him tonight.

He would have gone home if he thought he would have felt any better there, but he knew the malaise would only follow him.

“Are you dicing tonight with us or are you still sworn off hazard?” A pause. “Hullo? Knight?” An elbow nudged him in the ribs. It jarred him from his brooding.

Alec turned to Fort with an air of distraction. “Hm?”

“What is the matter with you tonight?” Drax exclaimed at his absent manner. “I say, you’ve been acting strange for days!”

“Aye,” Rush agreed, the raven-haired heir to a marquisate. “I thought you were going to skewer Blakewell, training with the épée at Angelo’s today.”

“If he doesn’t work on his parries, next time I will,” Alec said coolly.

“What about Harrington? You nearly killed him, too.”

Alec scoffed. “His footwork’s atrocious.”

“You must give him credit for trying. You’re too fast for him.”

“Then he’s got no business stepping into the piste with me.” Alec shrugged and looked away.

“Jesus!” Rush laughed. “It’s only practice, Knight.”

“Leave him alone, Rush. He’s in a mood again,” Fort said.

“No, I’m not.”

“He’s always in a mood these days.”

“I’m not in any damned mood!”

“What is it, then? A toothache?”

“How the hell should I know?” he muttered.
A rut,
he thought.

“If you ask me,” Fort told the others, clapping Alec on the back, “all the dear lad needs is a willing lady—no, pardon—a lascivious, rampant wench to dance the goat’s jig on his lap for an hour or two. Help him to forget a certain Miss Carlisle. I’m in earnest!” he protested as the others laughed and heartily assented.

“Good advice! Get wapt, my boy. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“Cheers, to a vigorous humping,” Drax declared. “ ’Tis the only cure for whatever ails a man.”

“You think I haven’t tried that?” Alec answered.

“When?” Rush demanded.

Alec heaved a sigh and looked away.

“Admit it, man! You’ve been a monk ever since her wedding, and that, to put it mildly, is unlike you.”

Drax leaned forward. “Tell us what’s the matter, old chap. We are your friends. Heartbroken?”

“Hardly. She is happy: I am happy for her. End of tale.”

“Problem with the tackle, then? Bit of the clap?”

“God, no! Jesus, Draxinger! Nothing like that.” Alec scowled and shifted in his seat.

“He’s not eighteen anymore,” the ever-loyal Fort said in his defense, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I’m sure we all know better than to go into battle without armor.”

“I daresay,” Alec muttered.

“Well, then?” Drax’s ice-blue eyes searched his face in concern.

Alec stared at him, and then merely shook his head. He had always been their leader in mischief, so how could he tell them that, these days, their constant pursuit of pleasure had begun to seem intolerably, well . . . pointless to him?

They all kept going through the motions, he knew not why. And unlike his mates, he had made mistakes—serious mistakes—spurred on by the nameless hunger that would not be satisfied, try as he may to chase down any reckless impulse of excitement.

But as lost as he might be, complaining seemed beneath contempt. All the world envied him and his friends their glamorous existence at the pinnacle of Society. Women wanted them, and men wanted to be like them. Surely this aching hunger for more was wrong. Even after his losing streak at the tables, Alec knew he still possessed more than a human being could reasonably ask of life.

Then again, when had he ever been a reasonable man?

His comrades awaited his explanation, but he shrugged it off, loath to discuss his disenchantment. If he did not speak of it aloud, perhaps it would go away. “No doubt you’re right,” he said after a long moment, a jaded half smile curving his lips. “I probably just need to dock a bit of prime tail.”

“Good lad! That’s the spirit.”

“Pemberton’s wife was throwing herself at you all night—”

“No, no, this calls for a professional.” Rush reached into his pocket with a grin and tossed over the latest edition of an infamous little volume called
The Whoremonger’s Guide to London.
“The evening’s bill of fare, my lord?”

“Here, have a drink.” Drax, owner of the equipage, opened the satinwood liquor compartment beside him, selected a bottle by the light of the tiny interior carriage lamps, and then passed Alec a crystal decanter of fine French brandy.

Alec accepted it with a nod and downed a determined swig, then passed the bottle on to Rush.

Meanwhile, Fort picked up the
Whoremonger’s Guide
and held it up to the little flickering lamp, squinting at the pages upon pages of names and addresses. “Ah, yes, now, let us plan the night’s menu,” he said cheerfully. “For the hors d’oeuvre, I believe I shall start with the Summerson twins—”

“Excellent choice,” Drax chimed in.

“And for the first course, hmm, this Spanish señorita called Bianca sounds intriguing—she’s new, but I’ve heard good things. As for the remove, Kate Gossett is always very tasty—”

“God, I love her,” Rush vowed. “What a dairy she’s got in her bodice.”

“Magnificent bosoms, yes. Second course, all four of the Wilson sisters, I should think—”

“No, no, I’m tired of them,” Rush protested. “Something different, something new.”

“Yes,” Alec echoed softly.
Something new.

As his friends’ jaunty arguing about nothing in particular resumed, he considered their advice. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps a night of lust was all that he required, for even more than gambling, Alec loved sex, relished sex, lived for sex. It was love that he avoided like the plague.

Drumming his lips thoughtfully with his fingertips, he mentally riffled through his long list of sophisticated ladies and love-starved Society wives who regarded a wild, sweaty night with him as the high point of their year.

Perhaps.

But he was even bored of the pleasant sport of cuckolding his betters, and that was a very bad state of affairs. The thought of another meaningless rutting with some hard-eyed harlot threatened to bring back his “mood.”

He would have never admitted it aloud, but whores as a breed made him uncomfortable ever since his own lucrative arrangement with Lady Campion some months ago; fallen women pricked, he supposed, what little conscience he still possessed.

He had laughed about his services to the wealthy baroness at the time, even bragged about it to his mates—she was delightfully insatiable and, better still, made his gambling debts go away. Their scandalous arrangement had raised eyebrows, but he had gotten away with it, of course. He was Alec Knight. He always got away with everything.

Unlike his recently exiled friends, Lord Byron and Beau Brummell, one felled by scandal, the other by debt, Alec had fought for and kept his golden throne as a ruling prince of Society in spite of everything. It was style and money and class that made the man, after all, hardly virtue.

His family also had been scandalized at his brazen affair with the infamous baroness, but they should’ve expected something like this when the clan’s patriarch, Robert, the Duke of Hawkscliffe, had cut off his funds in a final attempt to bring their wild baby brother to heel. Well, Robert giveth and Robert taketh away, Alec thought, but he refused to be controlled by his family’s wealth. No, with his expert bravado, he would never admit to a whit of repentance for having played the stallion for Her Ladyship.

And yet, somehow, these days, it wasn’t so easy to look in the mirror. Not when he knew damned well that his wickedness had cost him a fair slice of his self-opinion and the esteem of the only girl who had ever meant a thing to him.

After twenty years of unswerving devotion, dear, steady Lizzie, his younger sister’s best friend, had forsaken him for his old schoolmate Devlin Strathmore, with a final warning to Alec, her former idol, that he had better change his ways before he ran his whole life aground in pure self-destruction.

Well, there was nothing to be done for it now. Lizzie was a good girl, better off with Dev, and that was that.

Besides, as Alec cared for her like a sister, their flirtation had always felt slightly incestuous to him: Even a sinner like him had to draw the line somewhere.

Propping his elbow on the ledge of the carriage window, he lifted his hand with a heavy motion and wiped away some of the wet fog on the glass with the heel of his fist.