One Wicked Sin (27 page)

“Theo?” Lottie said. She glanced at Ethan. His face was dark and set. She saw a muscle pulse in his jaw. “But I understood he worked for British intelligence,” she said. Her world was falling apart, tearing at the seams. “Oh no, not Theo, too…” She could hear the pleading note in her voice.

“
Madame
is still such an
innocente
for all her experience,” Le Prevost said contemptuously. “Your brother
and I have worked together secretly for several years, to our mutual benefit. We deal in information.” He gestured toward the papers. “When there is intelligence like this to buy and sell we auction it to the highest bidder.”

“No,” Lottie said. She gripped the back of the chair more tightly, her fingers digging into the wood. “Oh no.” She thought of Theo coming to her in London, claiming to represent the British authorities when he had in fact been planning to double-cross them all along. He had appealed to her to betray Ethan, offered her empty promises and dreams. He had exploited her most fundamental fears and desires to achieve his aims, but it had not been out of patriotic duty. He had used her for no more than his own gain. She felt sick and anguished to think of it.

“Theo lied to me from the first…” she whispered, and felt her last shred of faith in her brother vanish like mist when she saw Le Prevost nod.

“Your brother sought you out in London so that he could persuade you to help us with our plans,” Le Prevost said. “He knew he could trade on your trust in him.” He smiled unpleasantly. “And so it proved.”

Lottie felt Ethan shift slightly. She glanced at him. There was compassion in his eyes.

“I wanted Theo’s love,” she said painfully, speaking directly to Ethan as though Le Prevost was not there. “He was the only one who cared for me since childhood and I wanted to please him.”

There was such a gentle smile on Ethan’s lips that she could feel her heart breaking. “You do not need to justify yourself to me, Lottie,” he said softly. “You
chose to inform your brother of my plans to protect what you believe in. The fact that you chose to trust an unworthy man is not your fault.”

Lottie bit her lip hard. Oh, she truly had chosen the wrong man in whom to invest her love and her trust. In the beginning she had wanted Theo to be her white knight, to save her from the trouble she had brought on herself. It had made her vulnerable to her brother’s manipulation. Ethan was right that in the end it was her principles that had prompted her to act; those wholly unlooked for, wholly unexpected and indeed completely unwelcome moral values that had forced her to betray him for the greater good of her countrymen. She could not regret her actions. But she deeply regretted that she had trusted Theo when he now proved himself a traitor.

And yet in some ways she and Theo were two of a kind, she thought bitterly. Both of them had seen their world crumble when they were no more than children. Both of them had grown up knowing they had to fight for everything they wanted. They had both sold themselves for money and security. They were more alike than she wished to admit.

“Most affecting,” Le Prevost mocked. “Give the plans to me,
madame
.”

“No,” Lottie said. “If you want them you will have to take them from me.”

Le Prevost shrugged. “If you wish to make it difficult. It makes no odds,
madame
. I shall have the information I seek and then…” A slight gesture with the pistol underlined his meaning.

“You cannot kill me,” Lottie said. “I am Theo’s sister! He would never countenance it!”

Le Prevost’s lips curled into a smile. “Alas,” he said, “you know too much,
madame.
Your brother will understand why I have to act as I do. Leave no witnesses, no hostages to fortune. You will both die—” He bowed ironically to Ethan. “I will have the plans and will sell them to the British at a very high price.
Enfin
—” his eyes gleamed “—so simple and so profitable.”

“I challenge you for the papers,” Ethan said. His voice cut through the thick tension that blanketed the room. He straightened up, strolled forward for all the world, Lottie thought, as though he was the one holding the pistol, not Le Prevost. Then she saw that he was armed. He must have picked up the sword they had taken from Gregory’s house that night in London, which had subsequently been left in the umbrella stand in the hall.

“Show some honor for once,” Ethan said to Le Prevost. “Take the challenge.”

Le Prevost threw his head back and laughed. “A good try, St. Severin,” he said, “but I have chosen my weapon and I am holding it. I would be a fool to accept the challenge of a man who bested me only last week on the practice field.”

And then Lottie heard a very faint sound outside beyond the orchard, the creak of wood as someone crossed the stream from the fields and stepped on a loose board on the bridge. She tensed, straining to hear. Was someone coming? And if they were, would it not simply be Theo, come to finish what Le Prevost had started? Le Prevost was taking aim now, his gaze
holding Ethan’s, that terrible, triumphant gleam still in his eyes.

“A poor end for a man who was such a hero,” Le Prevost murmured. “How amusing that I should do the British such a favor as to kill you, St. Severin, and for this they are not even paying me.” He jerked his head toward Lottie. “Any last words for your inamorata? A moving farewell?”

There was the sound of the chink of metal from outside. It could have been no more than the chain on the well stirring in the wind, or it could have been someone brushing past it as they approached the house. This time the men heard it, too, for they froze. For a split second Le Prevost’s attention was distracted. He turned his head and in that moment, with a strength borne of terror, Lottie picked up the chair she had been clutching and spun around. It caught Le Prevost under the chin and he fell backward. The pistol exploded and Lottie felt a sharp pain through her shoulder and grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself. Her legs suddenly felt as weak as water, slipping away from her. The light in the room wavered and dulled as her head spun. She fought desperately to hold on to consciousness.

There was the hiss of steel as Ethan drew his sword and Le Prevost scrambled to his feet. The blades rang against each other in a swift thrust and parry. There was desperation in Le Prevost’s strokes, controlled fury in Ethan’s. He forced Le Prevost back and back against the wall. Le Prevost grabbed the candlestick from the mantel and threw it at Ethan’s head. Ethan ducked. Le Prevost followed up with a punch that just missed Ethan’s jaw.

Ethan stepped back, recovering his breath. “You fight by no rules I recognize, Jacques,” he said silkily, “but then we knew that, did we not?”

Le Prevost’s response was a renewed attack but he was losing focus and skill now, and Ethan repeatedly beat back his blade. Lottie saw his guard falter, saw Ethan press the advantage, and suddenly the swords locked together, the men chest to chest, and she cried out as the blades wavered, then Le Prevost lunged forward with a mad shout and as Lottie watched he seemed to impale himself on his own blade and for a moment he hung there before he fell. She gave a cry as his body hit the ground and rolled over to lie against the grate.

Ethan discarded his sword and ran over to her.

“Lottie!” He caught her in his arms and she could feel him shaking as all the fear and tension and relief fused into one and he pulled her close. His mouth was pressed against her hair and he was murmuring endearments and she wanted to hold him tightly and hold him forever, but it hurt, it hurt so damnably badly that she could not repress a slight moan and he loosed his grip at once. In the firelight she could see his fingertips smeared with her blood.

“Lottie.” His tone had changed. “You were hit—”

“Just a scratch,” Lottie whispered. The room was wavering again. She felt light-headed and faint. Ethan was tearing up strips of some material—hopefully not her pink spotted muslin gown—to make a rough bandage. She could hear him swearing under his breath as he worked, as though if Le Prevost were not already lying dead on her carpet he would have sent the man to his maker a second time over. He ripped the dress from
her shoulder before she could protest and wrapped the pad around and under her arm, pressing it down and tying it tight, which seemed to hurt all the more. Lottie felt horribly sick.

“I have to get you to a doctor,” Ethan said.

“No.” Lottie struggled to sit up. Her head might be spinning but there was one thing that she knew with absolute clarity, and it was that Ethan had to get away. For his sake, and even more importantly for Arland’s he had to go now, before it was too late.

“Theo is coming,” she whispered. “You will be trapped, Ethan—if we tried to turn him in to the British no one would believe our word against his that he is a traitor. And I cannot let you kill him.” Her head felt so heavy; she rested it against Ethan’s shoulder and wished she had not for it felt so natural to be there in his arms, to curve into the protective shelter of his body. It felt so right, when she knew she had to give him up now once and for all.

“The British will hang you now,” she said. “You know they will. Either for conspiracy—” she gestured toward the plans, blood-spattered and crumpled on the floor “—or for murder. You have to get out whilst you can. Go now.”

Ethan had heard her out in silence, his eyes burning dark in his face. He bent to scoop her up. “If I go then you come with me,” he said, and his tone was uncompromising.

Lottie held him off. It was the hardest thing she had ever done when she wanted to cling to him. “No,” she said. “You know I cannot.”

He made a move toward her. “You can and you will.”

“I would slow you down,” Lottie said. She gestured toward her bandaged shoulder. “Be sensible, Ethan! We would not get beyond a few miles! Besides, they would be looking for us. A man and a woman and a boy traveling together—we would be spotted at once.”

Ethan’s jaw was set in the obstinate way she recognized. “I am not leaving without you.”

“You must,” Lottie said. She struggled to her feet. The room spun about her like a top. Her legs felt weak, trembling. “I cannot travel,” she said softly, “and I have no reason to run. But you…” She placed a hand on his chest and felt his heart beat against her palm. “Not only do you have to go for your own sake, Ethan. You know you have to do it for Arland’s sake.”

There was a silence. Ethan was looking at her and there was stubbornness and tenderness in his eyes, and she thought of all the men who had left her from her father to her husband to each and every one of her lovers, and she looked at this man who would not leave her and she felt her heart turn over out of love for him.

“You told me…” Her voice was husky with tears. “You told me that you had failed him,” she said. She clenched her hand against his shirt front. “This is your chance, Ethan. He is a boy. He needs you. You cannot fail him now.”

Ethan’s arms came about her and this time she did not wince. “Lottie,” he said. His touch was full of love and anguish and gentleness, and she knew his decision was made.

“I will come back for you,” he said fiercely. “I swear it.”

“I’ll come back for you
,” her father had said on that golden summer morning so long ago, and she had believed him. Now Lottie looked at Ethan and wanted to believe with all her heart. She felt the hope within her, the hope she had thought had been quite extinguished by the cynicism of experience, flicker and not quite die out.

“I know,” she said. “I know you will.” She forced her lips into a smile. “Now go.”

The words had barely left her when there was a rapping at the door.

“Lottie!” It was Theo’s voice. “Open up!”

Lottie gestured toward the window. “He’s alone. You go that way. I will keep him here to give you a good chance of escape.” She put a hand on his arm and felt the unendurable tension in him.

“Ethan,” she said.

He covered her hand with his, swift and sure. She could sense his eagerness, knew that he hoped she had changed her mind about going with him, even as they both knew it was hopeless.

Oh love, how shall I live without you…?

“Pass the letter to me,” she said steadily. “And also my pistol from the desk drawer. I will feel more confident when I speak to Theo if I have that in my hand.”

The hammering at the door was increasing and Theo’s shouts growing louder in volume. “I will break down the door!”

Ethan hesitated. “What will you do with the plans?”

“You know I cannot allow it to happen,” Lottie said. She met his gaze very directly. “I am sorry, Ethan.”

There was a small spark of warmth and laughter in his eyes and she felt it, too. So odd, when her heart was breaking.

“I understand,” he said. He crossed to the desk and took out the pistol, laying it on the table. She watched as he bent to pick up the papers. He did not hand them to her. He thrust them into the fire and watched the flames take them, watched them curl and burn and shrivel to ash.

“I am sorry, too,” he said, “but I could not betray my comrades. It will not happen now anyway. Not if I am not here to give the word.”

There was the sound of breaking glass. Lottie stood on tiptoe and kissed Ethan. For one long, endless moment they stood in each other’s arms and then there was the sound of rapid steps in the hall and Lottie stepped back.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

It was cold, so cold, without him beside her. Lottie picked up the pistol. It slid comfortingly into her hand. The door shuddered back on its hinges as Theo ran into the room. The window slammed behind Ethan. Theo’s gaze went to the lifeless body of Le Prevost and lifted slowly to meet Lottie’s. He made an involuntary movement toward the window and Lottie raised the pistol and he kept still.

“Good evening, Theo,” Lottie said. “I believe that you and I have matters to discuss.”

November 1813

“E
XCUSE ME, MA’AM
,”
Margery said. “There is a carriage drawing up outside. I do believe you may have visitors, ma’am. Are you At Home, ma’am? Shall I prepare to make tea?”

Lottie put aside the magazine that she had not been reading and smiled at the maid.

“How vastly exciting,” she said. “Who will it be today, I wonder? Yes, Margery, by all means put the kettle on.”

These days, Lottie thought, Margery had lost a great deal of her apprehension in dealing with the nobility, becoming almost as smooth as the best-trained butler. In part this was because the Marquess of Northesk had called several times in the past couple of months and was so gracious and courteous to Margery that she glowed with pleasure at each visit.

“I do believe that Margery is a little in love with you,” Lottie had teased Garrick Northesk on his most recent visit. “She does not make her rock buns for anyone else.”

Northesk had laughed. “I do tend to have that effect on maidservants,” he said.

It was Northesk who, in the dark days after Ethan
had escaped, had persuaded the authorities to allow Lottie to stay at Priory Cottage. Theo had disappeared; no one knew where he was, but Lottie had the oddest feeling that he would reappear one day, for better or worse. In the meantime she had her friends—rather more friends than she might have expected under the circumstances—and the surprisingly stout support of the people of Wantage helped a very little to ease the pain of losing Ethan. It made it easier, she thought, that she was totally respectable these days. She had absolutely no desire to run off with the curate because not only was he prodigiously unattractive but there was a space in her heart that only Ethan could fill, and without him she wanted no one else.

The ladies of Wantage still asked her advice on fashion and sometimes, shyly, on matters of the heart. Mrs. Ormond visited, bringing Mary Belle with her, “for where the Marquess of Northesk sets the tone,” she announced grandly, “I am sure that I am not too high in the instep to follow.” Miss Cromarty, the retired schoolmistress, made Lottie gooseberry jelly laced with brandy to ward off the chills of approaching winter. Mrs. Fenstone, the doctor’s wife, knitted ugly shawls for her.

“I imagine,” Lottie said to Margery, “that she thinks that if she forces me into hideous clothing so that I look like a frump, she believes that there will be less likelihood of me running off with anyone’s husband.”

Northesk had called the previous day with news; he had had word at last of Ethan and had heard that he had got Arland on his way to safety in America.

“Don’t ask me how I know,” he had said, with a faint smile, “but you may take it that it is true.”

“Thank goodness,” Lottie had said, but it felt as though Ethan was a long, long way away. She had fidgeted with her teaspoon and had avoided Northesk’s gaze as she asked, “Was there any word of what Ethan plans to do next?”

She had spoken lightly, pretending not to care, afraid of showing the depth of her loss and longing. Ethan’s last letter, scrawled in haste, had been intimate, private, full of love and it had lain next to her in bed these two months past until it was now so crumpled it was illegible.

Northesk had tilted his head to one side—a gesture so like his half brother’s that Lottie’s heart had missed a beat.

“There are rumors that Ethan has been sighted in places as far afield as Paris and Edinburgh, Cornwall and Spain,” he had said gently, “but I believe them all to be false. It is not even known if he is still in England. With Ethan there are always rumors, stories and legends.”

“I know,” Lottie had said, sighing. “He is like a will-o’-the-wisp. Sometimes I wonder if he is real at all.”

“I think he is real enough,” Northesk had said, giving her a dry look, and Lottie had blushed.

Northesk had risen to leave then, but as he took her hand to bid her goodbye he said softly, “I believe that Ethan is coming for you. Now that Arland is safely away, he will not forget the promise he made. You must be ready.”

He had smiled, that heartbreaking smile so like his
brother’s and was gone with a word of thanks to Margery on the deliciousness of the rock buns. Lottie had stood by the window, watching him walk away, and had wondered on the quirk of nature that had made Ethan and Garrick Northesk so similar in some ways, and yet she felt dizzy at the mere thought of seeing Ethan again, whilst Northesk, a fine man, a handsome man, left her entirely unmoved.

It would not have been so in the past, she knew. Once she might have invited Northesk to her bed, seeking from him the same comfort to ward off loneliness, the same elusive happiness that she had wanted from all her lovers. But now, having known Ethan, she could accept no counterfeit.

She shivered. Would she ever see Ethan again? Would he still want her? She knew what Northesk had said, but there were so many doubts and fears in her mind. They stalked her at night when it was dark and she was alone and the bed was cold and empty.

Bearing in mind that she now had other visitors, Lottie hurried to tidy up the little parlor, smoothing the covers on the chairs and pushing her latest piece of poor embroidery under a cushion.

“Lord and Lady Grant!” Margery announced from the doorway, and Lottie dropped the embroidery frame in shock and gave a cry.

“Lottie! Oh, Lottie!” Joanna Grant practically ran into the room and enfolded her friend in a vast hug. The first thing that Lottie noticed was that Joanna was hugely pregnant. Hugging her was like trying to get her arms around a barrel, but she tried her best, holding Joanna as tightly as she dared, which was not very tight
in case the baby popped out. She felt the tears sting her eyes and block her throat, and she tried very hard to swallow them but they kept rising up again. In the end she gave in to them and then she realized that Joanna was crying, too.

“Jo, darling…” She tried an approximation of her previous, languid style, but it was impossible. “Oh, I am so happy to see you again!” she burst out. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“I didn’t know!” Joanna grabbed the handkerchief that her husband, Alex, was proffering and dabbed at her streaming eyes. “Oh, Lottie, we were in Mongolia and I didn’t get your letters, and I had not heard what had happened to you and when we got back I was so upset and worried for you that I made Alex come out here immediately—” She ran out of breath.

“You look marvelous!” Lottie said, smiling radiantly at her, holding her at arm’s length. She smiled at Alex. “I can see that your marriage is a vast success.”

Joanna laughed, grabbing Alex’s hand. Her eyes met Lottie’s, full of mischief.

“Who would have thought it?” she said.

“I am very happy for you,” Lottie said sincerely. Joanna, she thought, looked much as she always had, elegant and stylish in a striped blue silk gown with the most adorable little spencer over the top, but there was a softer glow to her now than Lottie remembered. It was as though Joanna had lost her brittleness, she thought. Happiness had banished her sharp edges. She had grown into the person she was always meant to be.

Alex had discreetly withdrawn to let them talk and
had strolled over to the window, pretending an interest in the handkerchief-sized front garden. He was looking as handsome as ever, Lottie thought. It was embarrassing to recall that she had once tried to seduce him. Perhaps that was one memory that she would immediately expunge no matter how honest she was being these days about her past failings.

“How are you, Lottie?” Joanna said, an anxious little frown creasing her forehead.

“I survive,” Lottie said lightly. She looked from Joanna to Alex. “I suppose you both knew that I would one day come to this?” she said wryly.

Alex smiled at her. “I would never be so ungallant,” he said.

Joanna grabbed her hands again. “What can we do to help you, Lottie? Do you have enough food?” She looked Lottie up and down. “Or clothes?” she said dubiously.

“I know I look a frump,” Lottie said. “These days I do not regard it.”

“Lottie!” Joanna sounded horrified. “Now I know you really must have suffered!”

“How did you find Mongolia?” Lottie enquired as she rang the bell for refreshment. “I hear it is very…empty.”

“Oh it was dire,” Joanna said, waving her hands about expressively. “But I am used to these places now.” She flashed Alex a smile to soften her words. “And they did have the most delightful textiles. We brought back some beautiful carpets and rugs, and a jacket made of silk and brocade that I am sure will be all the rage next Season—” She broke off.

“Pray do not worry about my sensibilities,” Lottie said. “I am sure I shall never be an arbiter of London fashion again. Although I do believe that I have made a great difference in Wantage,” she added. “They are now only two years behind the trend rather than ten. And the ladies are flatteringly quick to consult me on their wardrobes.”

She was amused to see that the arrival of Margery with tea and cakes clearly reassured Joanna, who could see now that although her clothes might no longer be from Bedford House, at least she was not starving.

“So will you continue to live here?” Alex asked. “It is a charming little cottage, and the town seems very pleasant.”

“Oh, it is delightful,” Lottie said. “The Pallisers are content to ignore me and they have been prevailed upon to give me sufficient of a pension to enable me to live quietly.” She smiled at them both. “And I really am quite reformed. I have lost my taste for scandal.”

“Well, I suppose it is something that your father’s family finally agreed to help you,” Joanna said, wrinkling up her nose in disgust. “But they could have acted long ago. What a bunch of mean-spirited hypocrites! Oh, if only I had been here for you!”

“You are here now,” Lottie said. “That means a very great deal to me.”

“But can we do anything to help?” Joanna pressed.

“You can come and visit me often,” Lottie said. “It may not be as exciting as traveling to Mongolia, but Wantage has its charms.”

“Of course we shall!” Joanna said. A small frown
touched her forehead. “We had planned to stay a few days, at any rate. I understand, though, that the Marquess of Northesk calls….” She broke off.

“I am sorry,” Lottie said quickly. She was remembering the old scandals, and the link between Joanna’s family and the Dukes of Farne. “Northesk is a good man,” she said. “He is Ethan’s half brother and is the one who persuaded the Pallisers to pay me my pittance.”

“I know,” Joanna said. “I heard he had been very good to you.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I do not blame Northesk for my brother’s death, though I know Merryn still does. No…” She shook her head. “It is old history and I am only glad and grateful that he was here to help you when we were not.”

“How is Merryn?” Lottie asked. She glanced across at Alex. “And your cousin, Francesca? Did she enjoy Mongolia, too?”

“Oh, Chessie enjoyed the trip enormously,” Joanna said, laughing. “I think some of the Devlin spirit of adventure is in her blood! And Merryn is well. She has been staying with a bluestocking friend of hers whilst we have been away. They have been writing a history of the Welsh Marches from 1250 to 1350, so I hear.”

“Lud, how dull,” Lottie said, “though each to their own, I suppose.”

“You look blue-deviled, Lottie,” Joanna said, leaning forward to place a consoling hand on her knee. “Alex and I thought that we might go to the country fair at Uffington this afternoon. I hear it is marvelous fun. There is cheese rolling and even a balloon ascent! Why do you not come with us?”

“Why not?” Lottie said. It might be amusing to get out of the house for a little, she thought. It was a fine autumn day and perfect for a brisk walk up on the Downs. The days when she had considered a country fair beneath her interest were long gone. Really, she thought, she had once been the most unconscionable snob.

In the end the fair did prove to be rather fun. They all took a pony and trap from the livery stables and clattered up the track onto the Downs. The fair sprawled over several acres of Lord Craven’s land at Uffington and the air was thick with the scent of gingerbread and pipe smoke. There were acrobats, jugglers and a fiddler playing jigs and reels—and a contingent of soldiers from the Berkshire Volunteers to keep the peace as the drink flowed and the crowds became more raucous. There was a shooting gallery and a contest to climb a greasy pole.

“A pity that Gregory is not here,” Lottie observed to Joanna. “He would have won that one with ease.”

In the fortune-teller’s spangled tent she had her palm read by a gypsy woman who predicted that she would have many lovers, travel to distant lands and find a tall, dark foreigner whom she could not resist.

“I’ve already done all of those things,” Lottie sighed. “Are you sure you are not reading my past rather than my future?”

The balloon was tethered on the flat area at the top of the hill. Scarlet and gold, it rippled in the air, tugging on the ropes that bound it to earth. The men who had been attending it earlier were taking a short break at the
pie seller’s tent before the balloonist, a famous aviator called Thomas Howard, was due to give an ascent as the highlight of the fair.

“You would not ever get me in that thing,” Lottie said, transfixed by a combination of fascination and terror. “I am afraid of heights.”

Alex started trying to explain to her how the balloon flew but she could make no sense of the science and after a moment she stopped trying and allowed his words to flow over her head. It was odd, she thought, how she could miss Ethan at such random moments. Sometimes hours went by when she did not think of him and then some small circumstance would remind her, perhaps finding something he had given her, a scribbled sketch or a piece of music. The most painful reminder was catching sight of someone who bore a passing resemblance to Ethan. For a heartbeat she would catch her breath and feel her heart surge, but already she would have seen it was not Ethan and the disappointment would flood back.

Now, for example, she had seen a man in the milling crowd about the balloon, a man dressed casually in jacket, breeches and boots, who had the height, bearing and coloring of Ethan, who looked so like him that she waited for the customary flare of hope and excitement and the fall straight after. It did not come. She stared, whilst her heart started to race and her fingers clenched Alex’s arm so tightly that he fell silent.