Authors: Caroline Richards
The Darkest Sin (13 page)
Rushford listened patiently.
“I don't remember much after my abduction, about which I have already told you,” she paused, the moment heavy with guilt, fear, and desire. She placed her hands on her flushed face. “And the rest I can't recall other than this anxiety that I must somehow find Faron before he can get to Meredith and Julia. And yet, I wish desperately to tell them that I am still alive. Their anguish must beâ” Rowena could not finish, despising her weakness when Rushford reached for her and removed her hands from her cheeks. His face was blurred by her tears, and she blinked to hide the evidence of her torment.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I realized that once I recovered, I had no choice but to go to work as a governess. There was little else I could do to support myself and earn the means to find Faron.” She did not try to hide the hope in her voice. “And then I read about your exploits in the broadsheets.”
His hand tightened on hers, adept at sensing her responses, knowing her better, somehow, than she knew herself. She realized that she should be worried, but pushed the doubts away. Instead, she looked at the man so close to her, wondering if she would ever see behind the gray eyes that watched her as though he knew her most inner workings. There was a connection between them both, if she could only grasp it, but it melted like fairy dust between her fingers.
Her head hurt and her eyes burned with unshed tears. “I wonder if I know anything anymore, if I can possibly recall something, something that's missing.” She sounded incoherent now, even to her own ears. Struggling to maintain her hold on reason, she said, “I can't say why but I sense the situation with Galveston and Miss Clarence is somehow associated with Faron.”
Rushford was silent, and his weight shifted away from her. As always his proximity was disturbing, making it hard for her to think clearly, trust giving way to misgivings. She smoothed her cheeks, warm under her palms. “I have told you all I know, Rushford,” she said simply. “But there is more, I suspect, that you have been reluctant to reveal to me.”
He sat back on the divan, watching her carefully. “Perhaps not everything is as complicated as you suppose, Rowena,” he said. “After spending several years abroad, I found myself at a loss upon my return to London. You yourself have pointed out that I have little enough to fill my days, save gambling and boxing.”
“But what of the Cruikshank murders?”
“Mrs. Cruikshank was an acquaintance of mine. She confided in me one day the distressing fact that three of her courtesans had suddenly passed away.” He shrugged. “Out of courtesy and yes some curiosity, I began to investigate the peculiar circumstances. And you already know the outcome.”
Mrs. Cruikshank a friend? Highly doubtful, thought Rowena, that Rushford would count a madam as merely an acquaintance. Annoyance now mingling with her anxiety, she struggled to keep her counsel and pursued doggedly onward. “What about Miss Clarence?” she persisted.
Rushford stretched an arm across the back of the divan. “My reputation precedes me, as you have noted several times. The situation was brought to my attention,” he said. “You are not the only one who read about the resolution of the Cruikshank murders.”
An amateur sleuth. Why did the mantle sit so awkwardly on his broad shoulders? “I still believe that you're concealing something from me,” she said, aware that she was treading on dangerous ground. The late Duchess. She had no right to ask, but nonetheless she resented his reserve about the life he had led in the years and months before their meeting. Looking around the overtly feminine bedchamber with its lemon-colored walls and peach curtains only managed to heighten her unease.
“Galveston and the FrenchmanâSebastianâis that what you're referring to?” he asked. Rowena read the challenge in his eyes and met it by forcing herself to relax, smoothing the folds of her skirts with damp palms.
“To begin withâyes.” Even though there was so much more she wished to know.
“Because the two are French?” he asked doubtfully.
“There is that commonality, tenuous, I'll concede. But then the modus operandi is curious. Murder by drowning. A mere coincidence?” She paused awkwardly. “More importantly, of all the murders in London, why did you choose to investigate the Clarence drowning?”
How did your duchess die?
she really wanted to ask. The question intruded like an ugly stain upon a pristine swatch of silk. She broke off, unable to continue, momentarily staggered by the words that hovered on her lips.
How did your duchess die?
she really wanted to ask. The question intruded like an ugly stain upon a pristine swatch of silk. She broke off, unable to continue, momentarily staggered by the words that hovered on her lips.
His eyes darkened, and she wondered whether she'd gone too far, if he could indeed read her mind. “You're wondering if I'm hiding some dastardly secret? Some unfathomable sin?” he asked, injecting a humorous tone in his voice, a deliberate attempt to diffuse some of the tension between them.
Her face warmed. “You needn't condescend, Rushford. You misunderstand. I am merely inquiring about your motivations. You yourself said to me earlier that Galveston is merely a means to an end. Why is it so unusual that I wish to learn more, or that I suspect there is something more . . .” she rambled, embarrassed. She trailed off hopelessly to examine the intricate embroidery of the brocade divan.
The silence weighed heavily. Then Rushford touched her arm. “My apologies. I did not intend to be condescending,” he said, rising and forcing her to look up at him. “You are absolutely correct in your assumption that there is more to this recent drowning than meets the eye, particularly if Galveston is in any way involved. The man has a penchant for getting into trouble in areas far outside his comprehension. Which, to answer your question, leads me to suspect that we must discover more about Felicity Clarence's last days and the whereabouts of the Frenchman, Sebastian. And perhaps that will lead us to your Faron.”
His answer both raised her hopes and doused them. On the one hand, she had succeeded in gaining his assistance. However, she also sensed a guardedness that was years in the making. She was reminded of a cunning animal in the wild, protecting its territory from dangerous incursions. Rowena clenched her fingers together in her lap to keep from reaching out to him, to touch her fingers to his forehead, the slant of his nose, the hard lines of his jaw, as though reading a topographical map.
“And there you have it,” he said, interrupting the disturbing drift of her thoughts and closing down the discussion neatly. “Tomorrow evening we shall have our first excursionâwe shall go to the Garrick and visit with Miss Clarence's coterie of friends and colleagues. And in the interim, I shall endeavor to discover what I can about Sebastian and Montagu Faron. I promise you.”
Rowena nodded halfheartedly, realizing that she should be grateful. She now had a powerful ally in her quest to find Faron. She studied the profile of the man about whom she knew almost nothing but who now held her fateâand those she loved mostâin his hands. “I should like to thank you, my lord,” she said.
He was already at the door and turned briefly, his eyes unreadable. “Thank me? That's the last thing I want,” he said. “I cautioned you, Rowena, about going ahead with your mad scheme. So just remember, you started this.” And then he was gone.
Chapter 9
R
ushford left the Knightsbridge apartments as though the hounds of hell were at his heels. The cool afternoon air hit his face as images unspooled in his mind with fierce intensity.
ushford left the Knightsbridge apartments as though the hounds of hell were at his heels. The cool afternoon air hit his face as images unspooled in his mind with fierce intensity.
Rowena on the stool, her profile turned toward him. Several strands of her hair arced toward her mouth, her full lips pressed tight.
Rowena's beautifully naked back, the delicate indentations of her spine a magnet for his lips and tongue. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to trace a kiss down the expanse of skin, his palm pressed into buttocks barely covered by her pantalets.
He growled to his driver to return to Belgravia Square, slamming the carriage door shut. He leaned back against the squabs, attempting to ignore the heaviness in his groin. The mirrors in the apartments had given him Rowena Woolcott from every outrageously erotic angle. He'd forgotten that mouth, sensual without any need of rouge, the startled blue of her eyes with their flared brows. Her hands had gone up to clench the sheer fabric around her neck, the motion curving her young, lithe body away from him.
This had to stop.
Once and for all. Not for the first time since Kate had been murdered, Rushford sensed the earth suddenly sliding from beneath his feet, felt a downward pull toward the deep hole of guilt he'd been attempting to crawl out of ever since. Kate had been made for him. They had been made for each other, he believed. He'd been a reformed cynic who had spent years casually sampling the world's female bounty before being stopped dead in his tracks by the Duchess of Taunton. He'd first clapped eyes on her across the crowded lecture hall at the Royal Geographic Society. He had forgotten what the lecture was all about and could only recall the challenge in the Duchess's dark eyes as she lured him into a spirited conversation about the latest contretemps over the Elgin Marbles. It did not take long to discover that the Duchess's marriage was a typical arrangement predicated on bloodlines rather than passion. And certainly, Kate was not the first married woman with whom Rushford had involved himselfâbut he knew from the start that she would be his last.
Once and for all. Not for the first time since Kate had been murdered, Rushford sensed the earth suddenly sliding from beneath his feet, felt a downward pull toward the deep hole of guilt he'd been attempting to crawl out of ever since. Kate had been made for him. They had been made for each other, he believed. He'd been a reformed cynic who had spent years casually sampling the world's female bounty before being stopped dead in his tracks by the Duchess of Taunton. He'd first clapped eyes on her across the crowded lecture hall at the Royal Geographic Society. He had forgotten what the lecture was all about and could only recall the challenge in the Duchess's dark eyes as she lured him into a spirited conversation about the latest contretemps over the Elgin Marbles. It did not take long to discover that the Duchess's marriage was a typical arrangement predicated on bloodlines rather than passion. And certainly, Kate was not the first married woman with whom Rushford had involved himselfâbut he knew from the start that she would be his last.
He would be forever hurt, betrayed and furious at her death, and he mourned her acutely, missed the swift cut of her mind, her physical beauty, her courage. She was the strongest woman he'd ever known, and the most vulnerable. Vulnerable to the passion they had created between them.
The carriage swung around a corner, the cobblestones grinding beneath the turning wheels. He had thought that the pain of losing Kate would lessen but it hadn't, and now he was searching for excuses for his indefensible behavior. There was no justification for the lust he felt for Rowena Woolcott, born of a moment of susceptibility and need over a year ago, heightened by drastic circumstances that had tumbled out of control. That she did not remember was his good fortune, but for how long? She sensed, rather than knew, there was a connection between them, as evidenced by her blind insistence that he was the only man on earth who could help her.
And it was bloody well true. But in helping he could also do her grave harmâthe late Duchess of Taunton was proof. He clenched his fists in frustration, swallowing the urge to have his driver take him to the London Boxing Club on Maiden Lane, in the Strand. He wanted nothing more than to sweat away his frustration in the ring.
The carriage pulled to a stop on Belgravia Square. Rushford leaped from the conveyance and up the stairs, brushing past his butler and into his study. Dust motes spun in the afternoon air, the clock on the fireplace mantel ticking entirely too loudly for his liking. The drinks table beckoned, but he turned away from the brandy decanter, sitting down and throwing his legs up on his desk. He needed to thinkâand to plan.
Rowena's faith in him was entirely misplaced. Of course he knew of Montagu Faron's whereabouts and had for a long while. Claire de Lune was outside Paris in the Loire Valley, and about as penetrable as Faron's medieval fortress of a soul. Despite rumors to the contrary, that Faron had actually set foot in England over a year ago, no one had seen the devil, hidden behind his omnipresent leather mask, for decades. His acolytes killed and lied on his behalf, singlemindedly intent upon the collection of ancient relics and scientific spoils.
When Rowena Woolcott had reentered his life, Rushford had merely been suspicious, but the demise of Felicity Clarence had intensified his unease that he was being strung along. It all had the markings of a well-laid trap, especially Galveston's readiness to give up the name of Baron Sebastian, one of Faron's lesser known disciples. Rushford gritted his teeth. And all for a few ancient tablets.
“You seem more miserable than usual, Rush.”
Rushford uncoiled from his chair at the familiar voice coming from the doorway. Archer was an imposing figure as he stood smiling just inside the study, his broad frame filling the doorway. He moved damned quietly for a man his size.
“And you more cheerful than usual. Gives me a bloody headache, Archer.”
Archer's smile broadened. “Happy to be of use. I didn't think you would mind my intrusion, and I didn't want to ring the bell and disturb your skeleton staff. This place looks like a mausoleum, by the way.”
“Your opinion means the world to me, as you know.” Rushford sat back down and stretched his legs on the desk again, strangely grateful for his friend's intrusion. He knew better than to ask how Archer had gained entrance to his town house, aware that the man could make himself a ghost, if needed, remembering another time and another place. The port of Alexandria in Egypt, when Archer had saved the day by materializing with preternatural timing to head off an ambush set up by the Emir Damietta. Rushford allowed himself a ghost of a smile. “Have a seat,” he said, “and pour yourself a drink. I think the butler's disappeared.”
“You've retained one? I'm utterly amazed. Now if you could only do something about all of these drop sheets. Good Lord, it's as though nobody lives here.”
“I hadn't fully realized your penchant for the domestic.”
Archer crossed his arms over his chest. “And what would you know of it?”
“Last time I checked, you'd been living at White's. You're never around long enough to visit that pile of stone in Essex, which is probably ghost-ridden by now. And my solicitor mentioned recently that you have leased out your family's London town house for the fifth time in ten years.”
“You know how restless I get,” Archer responded. “Don't like to plant my feet anywhere for more than a few weeks. I've got enough to keep me busy in London for the next while, however.”
“Do tell.”
“I fully intend to.”
“Although it will be for naught, I promise you, Archer. I do not wish to involve myself in anything that concerns Whitehall. And by the way, you haven't poured yourself, or me for that matter, a drink. The least you can do is stop hovering on the threshold and sit down.”
Archer acknowledged the invitation by moving farther into the room. “Never mind Whitehall,” he said casually. “What's going on with you? It's not like you to be so bloody mysterious. I'm your friend, remember? And you could have introduced me, by the way,” he continued. The two men had dispensed with social politesse years ago. Archer walked by the drinks table to stand beside the unlit fireplace, glancing at the ash-strewn interior with a small frown.
“To whom?” asked Rushford.
“To the winsome Miss Frances Warren, of course,” Archer replied, turning back from the fireplace but ignoring the proffered seat. “She seems a little young. Not your usual type.”
Rushford considered his options, lying for one, but Archer's knowing glance wouldn't let him. The two of them had been through enough weather together to make obfuscation pointless. “She's not my mistress,” he said bluntly, examining the tip of his boots across the desk.
“Then what are you doing?” Archer's look was skeptical. “I thought you were going to rip Galveston's throat out. Haven't seen you quite that riled in a long time.” Not since Kate, was what they both knew he really wanted to say. “What's going on exactly? It's not like you at all to enact this sort of drama. For a man who doesn't seek attention, the business with the Duchess and then the Cruikshank murders should have been more than enough.”
Rushford leaned back against the arch of his chair. “It is a drama of Miss Warren's own devising.”
“She appears far too young and innocent to devise much of anything. And she doesn't seem the avaricious sort,” Archer said, going down the list. “What is she afterâI might wonder.”
“She's not after anything. It's the safety of her family that drives Miss Warren's life at the moment. And while you're so intent upon these intrusive questions, would you like to know what happened at Mrs. Banks's?” Rushford asked peremptorily.
In reply Archer took his seat, settling across from his friend, his eyes watchful. “Desperately eager, particularly since you don't seem disposed to answer further questions regarding Miss Warren. Soâwhat do you make of the drowning?”
“Besides the fact that the actress's death was deliberately brought to my attention, as you'll recall?” Rushford looked thoughtful. “I subsequently discovered that Galveston is our murderer, no real surprise there. Mrs. Cruikshank had mentioned to me once that he had been barred from her establishment, given his unpredictable tastes.”
Archer frowned his distaste.
“The victim's skirts had been weighted down with stones so the body would sink. But she didn't drown. There were bruises around her throat. The whole business seems rather clumsy in comparison with the Cruikshank situation. Poisoning is much more subtle than strangulation.”
“You made the connection to Galveston how?”
“His signet ring was on the bodyâor at least until Mrs. Banks got to it.”
Understanding dawned. “I was wondering why you were so keen to have the ring included in your wager the other night. Thought there must be a very good reason.”
“Now you have it,” Rushford said. “Further still, Felicity Clarence was an actress who, I've since discovered, wished to enter influential circles.”
“Entrapment you think?”
Rushford shrugged. “Very possibly. She entertained Galveston's perversions to gain entry or at the very least introductions to eminent personages. At least according to Ambrose. The name Sebastian came up as well.”
Archer straightened. “Are you certain?”
“Galveston seemed almost eager to name him.” He would discover more once he and Rowena began making the rounds of the demimondaine. The prospect was hardly appealing. She was much too young and innocent for this business. “But you and I both know that Sebastian is a runner for Montagu Faron.” Rushford felt the anger in him leaking from an old wound. “The drowning has Faron's handiwork all over itâthe man does love to send a message.”
“You could just let this go, Rush,” Archer said softly.
Rushford's jaw tightened. “I lost Kate because of him and because of my own hubris, and I insist on finishing this the way it was meant to finish. It's no longer a game.”
“I'm not sure you're in the proper frame of mindâ” Archer stopped himself, then continued in more measured tones. “What do you hope to gain from this? Other than helping Miss Warren with her immediate concerns? Perhaps you'd be wiser to allow someone else to play the role of knight rescuing the fair maiden.”
“Don't think I haven't thought of alternatives. I endangered Kate's life because of our liaison, and now I could well do the same with Miss Warren.”
“Miss Warren. Isn't that a trifle formal?”
“I already told you she's not really my mistress.”
“Then why did you decide to become involved with her?”
“She forced my hand.”
“Oh, you don't say?” Archer crossed his arms over his chest, watching his friend closely. “I've known you for twenty-five years, and I can't recall your doing anything you don't want to do.”
Rushford jerked out of his chair and walked around to the front of his desk. “Your insights are astounding, Archer. Truly,” he said with a measure of sarcasm. “But there's more to this than meets the eye, as I'm sure you've gleaned, being the perceptive bastard that you are.”
Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose, hiding a smile. “She's very beautiful. And intelligent.”
“Don't be preposterous.”
“The attraction between you is rather obvious, Rush, and obvious to the roomful of onlookers at Crockford's the other night. Even without the Galveston drama, the two of you could have set the library ablaze.”
Rushford sat back down, denial tensing his muscles. “Sod it, Archer. Leave it be. We are talking murder hereâand worse possibly, as you well know. That's why you're here, isn't it?” he asked darkly.
Archer grunted and then reached into his coat, retrieving a packet of papers and then throwing them on the desk in front of Rushford. “See for yourself what Faron has planned,” he said. “I just came from Whitehall.”
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