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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Darkest Sin
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“All in good time,” he muttered.
She picked up the discarded wig, contemplated it for a moment, and then tossed it back down on the bed. “You are using me, Lord Rushford,” she said sweetly.
He was a man who generally had the power and the cunning to get what he wanted, and it amazed him that this young woman saw through him like a pane of glass. “As you intend to use me,” he said, keeping his voice even.
She lifted her nose. “I can afford to pay you for your time and expertise.”
“That's ridiculous, as well you realize. I've never taken money from a woman, and I don't propose to start now.”
“However, you have no qualms about using a woman, do you?”
As he had in the past. Again he wondered how much Rowena remembered in the shadowy recesses of her consciousness. His own memories, far too close to the surface, pierced him to the core. “It doesn't signify if we both get what we want,” he said bluntly, deciding on a partial lie. “I will concede that there might be some connection between the murder of Felicity Clarence and your situation.”
“But that's not why you've finally decided to assist me,” Rowena said with a surprising insight into his character, or lack thereof. “At this point, having a mistress on your arm could help you achieve your own ends, making it easier for you to move in Miss Clarence's and this Frenchman's circles,” she analyzed with an astuteness that was shocking in its cynicism. “It's clear to both of us that Galveston, horrible man though he is, doesn't understand the half of it.”
Rushford had underestimated Rowena Woolcott, but there was little use in holding back credit where it was due. “Well played,” he said, sensing that she wasn't quite finished. And he was right.
“I suspect,” she continued fearlessly, “that there is something more you seek, besides apprehending Galveston for the crime of murder. Something to do with this Frenchman.
Sebastian.
” She pronounced the name with the proper French inflection. And, although she didn't say it, something to do with his duchess. With Kate.
“We will discuss the situation further tomorrow morning, when you are rested,” he repeated, wondering if he sounded even remotely convincing. Rowena Woolcott managed to open doors that should remain firmly closed. “If you require anything”—he gestured to the bellpull by the bedside—“the servants will be pleased to assist you. Your possessions will be delivered to your new apartments post haste.” There was a studied formality to his tone, a suit of armor hastily donned.
And then he left her, just in time.
 
For the first time in weeks, Rowena slept deeply, undisturbed by dreams or nightmares, awakened late by a morning sun saturating the heavy curtains shuttering the bedchamber. Before she could rationalize her decision to remain at the Belgravia town house, a discreet knock at the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman in a mob cap, hesitation marking her face.
Rowena came instantly awake, murmuring her thanks and motioning the woman to place a tray holding a steaming pot of tea on the table at the foot of the bed. She pulled the sheets to her bare shoulders, aware that she was clothed only in her shift. Accustomed to informality with the servants at Montfort, she smiled brightly at the maid, who was busy opening the drapes and smoothing the counterpane.
The bedchamber was of grand proportions, its wide four-poster enveloped in a gold embroidered canopy, the furnishings glossed to a high sheen. As with the rest of the town house, the atmosphere was cold, as though the walls and rooms had never heard laughter, the footfall of children, or the barking of dogs. It was not a home, merely a residence where Rushford chose to abide when he was in London. As she made to leave, the maid bobbed a curtsy and pointed to the smooth, ivory vellum on a silver salver by the breakfast tray. “For you, my lady,” she said before gathering up the tray and disappearing through the door.
Rowena threw back the covers and sat cross-legged, reaching for the note and quickly scanning the contents. A carriage would take her in an hour's time to her new apartments in Knightsbridge. Rushford, it came as no surprise, had had his solicitors working quickly to ensconce his latest mistress in her new home.
Mistress.
Wide and largely unsupervised reading had taught Rowena the meaning of the term—the female lover of a man who is not married to her. A mistress was a kept woman, a courtesan, showered with extravagant clothes and jewels in exchange for sexual pleasures. A mistress existed in the shadows of the demimonde, expected to be educated and adventurous, a companion for theater, certain ballrooms, and, of course, the boudoir.
A strange concept to learn, however secondhand, in a household of spinsters, Rowena considered. She moved over to the washstand by the dressing room screen. In the eyes of the villagers living in the Cheviot Hills, Montfort was a grand fortress that kept safe three women, living without men, who managed well for themselves. No husbands, no brothers, no uncles, no amorous protectors. Rowena splashed cold water on her face from the washbasin, feeling heat and color spring into her cheeks. Too young and too wrapped up in herself, she had never looked beyond the surface of the pastoral existence that Meredith had created for them. Their aunt had never spoken of her past, their parentage, or the quiet life she had deliberately chosen for them to lead. They could well have traveled the continent, been launched into society, resided part of the year in London. Rowena now realized that those possibilities would only have invited the attention of Montagu Faron.
Her hands shaking, she dried her face with a fine linen towel, then quickly donned her corset, neatly laid out over the dressing screen, followed by crinolines and the velvet dress with its difficult hooks. Mrs. Heppelwhite had served as her dressing maid, but she would now fend for herself. Mercifully, as she was not going to be going about in public, the yellow wig could wait.
An hour later, she stood in the graciously appointed apartments Rushford had arranged for her. She might have expected a garish heap suitable for a fallen woman, but the series of rooms on the second floor of a Palladian mansion was exquisite. With a private entrance to the side, away from the prying eyes of Brandsome Street, marble steps led up to a wide, flat terrace, surrounded by a pale stone balustrade. Inside, the main salon was large with a high ceiling of cream medallions on a lemon background, and walls that were hung with shimmering peach-colored silk. The room held several wide divans, low tables and was fitted with cherry-wood paneling. The overall feel was of decadent opulence, entirely appropriate for its purpose, Rowena decided.
“All is well?” Mr. Smythson, Rushford's solicitor, asked attentively.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, trying not to be intimidated by the man with his high starched collar and dignified air. They had made small talk about the weather and the environs, just south of Knightsbridge. It was not too rarified and yet not too louche, the buildings well tended, the gardens neat and tidy with their rows of hedges interspersed by rose bushes.
Rowena glided across the marble floors to inspect two bedrooms, one the master chamber with an oversized bed that required a footstool to scale its high mattress and with walls obscured by ornately framed mirrors on every side. And in one corner, next to the dressing room door, stood her small trunk, delivered as promised.
The bathroom was charming, with a copper tub and porcelain washstand, and again, a repetition of the same ornate mirrors, reflecting every possible angle—. Rowena's face flushed, overcome with a sudden exquisite mortification. She scarcely recognized herself any longer. Rushford had inveigled himself into her thoughts and emotions in a way she could scarcely explain. She had behaved outrageously, even for her, allowing herself to give in to desire for a stranger, a man whose life and experiences were far beyond her ken.
The chamber was suddenly stifling, and she turned decisively back to the main salon where Smythson waited patiently for her. “If all is in order, then, Miss Warren,” he said, using the alias given him, “I shall take my leave presently. I should like to inform you that a cook and a maid have been retained as well. If they do not meet your approval, simply let me know and I shall make other arrangements. Permit me to add,” he said, turning his hat in his hands, “that Lord Rushford has asked me to engage a modiste on your behalf who should be arriving”—he glanced at the ornate ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel—“one hour hence.”
Rowena nodded her thanks, although not in the least grateful. She wished never to be beholden to Rushford in any way, and the thought of the expenses he was incurring made her distinctly uncomfortable. “Lord Rushford is too generous. He does nothing by half measures, it would seem,” she said.
“Indeed,” said Smythson, often referred to as the “vault” by those who knew how much he prided himself on his discretion and faultless service to two generations of Rushfords. Impeccably dressed in gray trousers and severely cut jacket and waistcoat, he had produced a rabbit out of a hat for Lord Rushford on a minute's notice. There was no hint of censure in his deferential gaze, which emboldened Rowena to ask, “Lord Rushford's parents—do they reside here in London or in the country?”
Smythson pursed his lips, spinning the edge of his hat in his hands. “I'm afraid, Miss Warren,” he said reluctantly, “they passed away many years ago, along with the elder son, when Lord Rushford was at Eton. A fever took them,” he added with appropriate solemnity.
Rowena felt a stab of sympathy and then quickly considered posing another question to the solicitor, driven by a hunger to learn more about Lord Rushford. “And no other siblings?”
Smythson shook his head. “Regretfully, no.”
They were both orphans of a sort, thought Rowena, finding the correspondence intriguing. Neither she nor Rushford had grown to adulthood having known their parents. The ghost of an idea coalesced, and she stopped on the threshold, the impulse to ask more questions strong. Smythson cleared his throat once more, however, recovering his full legal hauteur and clearly reluctant to disclose any more than necessary pertaining to his employer. “If you are finished with your inspection, Miss Warren, I have further instructions,” he said with a hint of awkwardness in his tone. “If I might suggest that I accompany you to the library.”
“As you wish.” She followed his tall narrow back to a rose and ivory jewelbox of a room with its shelves only half filled with books. A feminine escritoire sat in the corner upon which rested three heavy boxes, embossed with what she took, upon closer inspection, to be the Rushford crest.
“Oh, no, this is not necessary, Mr. Smythson,” she said, understanding dawning. “Totally unnecessary, truly,” she tried again, her protests trailing away.
“I have my instructions,” he continued, his hands making surprisingly quick work of the intricate locks on the first box. A choker of pearls, like rich cream, nestled in the silk lining. Smythson efficiently peeled back the silk to reveal another tray upon which lay a bracelet of rubies and emeralds. Then a diamond-studded pendant. A king's ransom, thought Rowena, blanching.
“Yours to use for the time being,” Smythson explained. “Upon Lord Rushford insistence, Miss Warren.” He added with an approximation of kindness, “No worries, of course. Important family jewels are not amongst the sampling here.” Naturally, Rowena thought, Rushford's mistress could not be seen wearing paste and borrowed gowns.
We must not arouse suspicion
.
Soon thereafter Smythson departed, having locked the boxes away in a recessed drawer behind the porcelain fireplace of the library, leaving Rowena little time to agonize over her next challenge: the modiste. Madame Curzon and her coterie of seamstresses invaded the apartments like a tempest. Instantly, Rowena longed for the warmth of Mrs. Heppelwhite, who had not regarded her with thinly arched brows and clenched teeth after ordering her to disrobe and stand in front of the bedchamber's many gilded mirrors. “I don't require too much, Madame Curzon, a few gowns, perhaps a day dress,” Rowena began before she was asked to stand on a hastily procured footstool to be surrounded by mirrors reflecting her from every possible angle.
Madame studiously ignored her words, ordering her acolytes to produce bolts of fabrics ranging from the softest silks to gossamer satins, which she then began draping around Rowena's shoulders. “I do not like overly fussy styles of dress,” Rowena said as her words were muffled by a swath of lace descending over her head and neck, “and I do not wish to incur too great an expense, preferring a style that is somewhat understated.”
Madame knit her brow, her fingers covering her mouth at the abomination. “Impossible. No great expense? Lord Rushford would have my head,” she said, her French accent faltering. Her eyes narrowed, making a quick reassessment of her newest client. “You are young,
alors
. Part of your charm, this hesitation.” She took a step back, a birdlike figure in black bombazine. “However, we do not wish you to be lost in a cloud of innocence, not for a man with the sophisticated tastes of Lord Rushford.”
Rowena stiffened at the implication, wondering not for the first time about Lord Rushford's late duchess. A beautiful woman, without doubt, one who could hold the attention of a complex and overwhelmingly masculine man. She saw again Rushford's bedchamber, and the small painting of the woman with the dark eyes and tumble of hair, which she had held in her hand.

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