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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Darkest Sin
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“My kingdom,” she said with a sweep of her hand. She leaned forward deliberately, her jutting breasts barely concealed by the immodest bodice encrusted with black lace and rhinestones. “Alone at last,” she said dramatically. “Now we may talk privately.” Her eyes narrowed on Rowena. “Now wherever did you meet this sweet young thing, Lord Rushford ?” she asked, raising her fine eyebrows mockingly.
“Miss Warren and I have acquaintances in common,” Rushford answered, incongruously seated amidst plush cushions and a waterfall of dainty undergarments. He did not, Rowena observed, look in the least uncomfortable.
Miss Barry nodded understandingly, pulling up a rounded leg, a generous calf peeking out from beneath the froth of her skirts. “It does not really signify how you met, does it? As long as you find one another entertaining. As I'm sure Miss Warren continues to be,” she said with halfhearted conviction, as though the premise itself was indeed doubtful. She had the look of a cat that had consumed a surfeit of cream, eyeing Rowena once more before turning back to Rushford with barely disguised cunning shining from eyes that had bewitched thousands of theater patrons. “I don't mean to be forward, my lord, but clearly there is something that you seek, that I could perhaps provide,” she said in her lilting voice, accustomed to coaxing intimacies from both the reticent and the eager.
“You are indeed a woman of the world, Miss Barry,” Rushford said.
“Life is brief, my lord. I did not become a great actress of the stage by pursuing a false modesty. And having reached the pinnacle of my career, I do not easily bestow my talents nor my favors.”
“I shouldn't doubt otherwise.”
“Then there is no reason for hesitation, my lord,” she continued, patting his thigh with easy familiarity. “I am without a protector at the moment, of my own choosing, of course, not for the lack of suitors. Although in truth, at the moment I am a trifle confused,” she continued with a brief look at Rowena, “given that you are already
engagé
with Miss Warren. Or have I missed something?”
“Perceptive, as well as talented and beautiful,” Rushford said easily.
Miss Barry paused. “Perhaps your young Miss Warren,” she continued delicately, “requires further introduction to the wider world. Some tutelage, as it were.”
Rowena stared uncomprehendingly while Miss Barry's mouth made a small moue of concern. “I'm certain you are a marvelous lover, Lord Rushford, if you will excuse my candor. Although you are unusually discreet, I have heard tell that the amorous company you keep is accordingly sophisticated. Married women and widows are your preference,” she said matter of factly.
“You are exceedingly well informed, Miss Barry.”
The actress bowed her head briefly at what she perceived as a compliment. “
Scientia est potentia
said our Francis Bacon, if I recall,” she quoted, “and I must say experience has proven him correct. Knowledge is indeed power. As is candor, I suspect, particularly when it is called for, as in this situation. It does give one cause to ponder whether someone as young and, frankly”—she gestured elegantly in Rowena's direction—“as untested as Miss Warren is enough to sate your appetites.”
Rowena was deadly silent, aware that Rushford appeared thoroughly at ease with the unfolding conversation. He nodded as though he had just received a kernel of wisdom from an important sage, she thought with simmering anger. “How insightful of you, Miss Barry,” he murmured politely. “I am, of course, never averse to entertaining suggestions.”
The actress bowed her head in acknowledgment. “I thought not. You will forgive my frankness.”
“Of course. Nothing to forgive. However, I must confess that you have more than piqued my curiosity, Miss Barry.” His gaze met Rowena's over the actress's upswept hair, bidding her to remain silent. “Lord Galveston,” he continued after an imperceptible beat, “whom we may count as a friend in common, recommended your company highly. He confessed that you and a coterie of friends spent many pleasurable hours together at country house weekends and the like.”
The actress laughed, the sound lush with promise. “Galveston—my, my. His proclivities, from what I hear, require a certain amount of stamina.” She patted Rushford's arm as though they shared a private joke.
“According to Felicity Clarence at least,” he supplied, his expression supremely unconcerned.
“We all make our choices,” she said cryptically, a strange smile touching her lips and eyes. She heaved a dramatic sigh, her glance landing upon Rowena once again. Her gaze swept over the younger woman's figure, outlined in the gray satin, lingering on the ostentatious ruby choker, before making another moue of distaste.
“And while we are on the topic of certain proclivities, if I might say, Miss Warren is darling in a diverting, simple way, I suppose, but one would have thought something a little more voluptuous, and seasoned, would be to your taste.”
“I should not entirely agree with you, Miss Barry, as innocence does have its allure. That's not to say that an introduction to the wider world of experience would not have its place, as you helpfully suggested,” Rushford said, deliberately looking away from Rowena, as though she were no longer in the dressing room. Rowena forced herself to smile to mask her growing anger. If this was a test, to determine whether she was prepared to take on her role as Rushford's mistress, she was determined not to fail. Sauntering over to the chaise, she returned Miss Barry's look with a conspiratorial quirk of her lips. “I bow to your superior experience in such things, madam. I shall do whatever is required to remain in Lord Rushford's good graces,” she said with a lingering hand on his arm. “Don't I always, darling?” she asked with mock concern.
His eyes bored into hers. “All part of your many charms,” he said, pulling her toward him, until her hips were nestled at his side.
“Your wish is my command,” she murmured.
“What an intriguing concept,” he said a half smile on his lips before he turned to the actress. “Miss Warren is a quick and willing study, and inordinately amenable. Are you not, darling?”
Miss Barry did not wait for Miss Warren's answer. To her mind, the matter was entirely resolved. She arose from the chaise in a tidal wave of bronze, her arms extended in invitation. “Then it is settled,” she said, her hands fluttering extravagantly rather than finishing the enigmatic statement, “and we must, absolutely must, have our champagne.” She hovered indecisively for a moment. “However, my darling Rushford, I have entirely forgotten about the time. One of my many admirers, the Baron Sebastian,” she continued with no false modesty, “has insisted that I join him and a small set of friends after the theater. I cannot possibly disappoint. However, I should be absolutely downcast should you refuse to accompany me.” She looked at the two of them expectantly, hands at her breast, deliberately framing herself to best advantage against the canvas depicting the Venetian canal.
“You are too kind, Miss Barry,” Rowena responded instantly upon hearing the Frenchman's name. “We should positively love to attend. I have never met a baron before.” She beamed at Rushford. “Darling, I am so excited! Have your carriage brought round instantly. Miss Barry, I'm sure you would like a few moments of privacy. May we meet with you at the backstage entrance?”
Rowena deliberately looked away from Rushford—who was already propelling her toward the dressing room door. “Indeed, thank you for your generous invitation, Miss Barry,” he said over his shoulder. “We shall see you shortly.”
The dressing room door closed behind them, leaving them in the narrow corridor leading in one direction to the stage and the other to the street. The odor of greasepaint hung in the air. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Playing the role of your mistress.”
“I should like to congratulate you on your performance,” he said tersely, his arm around her shoulders. “Well done.”
She tightened against him. “I have some small talent, it appears.” The tension was suddenly thick between them.
“I believe we've made some progress. You may return to the apartments whilst I accompany Miss Barry.”
Rowena shook her head and took one step back, throwing up her hands to hold him off. “I don't believe I understand. We have come this far together this evening, and now you wish me to return home?”
“Whatever happened to the amenable, biddable Miss Warren ?” Rushford leaned back against the stained planking of a makeshift boat, eyes hooded. “I don't have to explain, Rowena. If I discover anything about Faron and your family, you will hear about it immediately.”
Rowena stared at him in infuriated bewilderment. “I am fully capable of going through this charade, Rushford.”
Rushford remained unmoved. “Don't be naïve, Rowena. Faron and his people are dangerous. You yourself claim to know that, and yet you would place yourself directly in his path. A wig and evening clothes will not protect you if you insist on going into the lion's den.”
She waved him aside, continuing toward the door leading onto the street. “I do not have to follow your orders. Did you not hear—Baron Sebastian? Galveston's man.” The moment the words left her lips, she realized the truth. “Of course, you knew all along, didn't you? The reason you chose this theater and this play, with Miss Barry in the lead role.”
“I had some time on my hands to investigate the matter,” he said shortly.
“This gambit of ours is not going to work if you continue withholding information, Rushford,” she said. “How am I to play my role convincingly if I don't know what's transpired? Ignorance is what's dangerous. All the more reason that I need to attend this evening at the Baron's—accompanied by you.”
He had obviously not heard a word she was saying. “You will plead a headache. You declined the invitation in order to take to your bed,” he informed her coolly. “We have no time for argument at the moment. You asked for my assistance—demanded it, as you'll recall—but there are conditions. That you obey me implicitly. For your own safety.”
The authoritarian tone grated. Rowena turned around to face him directly. “I don't recall discussing any such conditions,” she declared, jabbing at his chest with a forefinger. “You are not my—”
“You are my mistress,” he said, catching her fingers. “Or have you forgotten already?”
Rowena drew a breath deep into her lungs. He was still holding her hand, and there was a sudden intensity in the eyes resting on her face. Rowena pulled her hand from his grip. “It will look suspicious if I do not accompany you,” she repeated, turning to pull on the tarnished knob to pry the door open. If she took a step back, her body would collide with his chest. “You cannot stop me.”
“Your intemperance is going to get you into trouble,” he growled, “and not for the first time, I'd wager.” He tugged her backward, tightening his hold and pressing his mouth to her temple. “I will not have you hurt, Rowena, not under my watch.”
“We don't wish to keep Miss Barry waiting. She will be here at the stage door any moment.”
His hand wrapped more tightly around her waist, and she was relieved that she did not have to look into his face when he said, “This is hardly wise. Do you realize what might transpire this evening?”
“And do you not yet realize that I will do anything to keep Meredith and Julia from Faron's grasp?”
“At your peril,” he whispered. Rowena jerked from his grasp and pulled the door open wide. Gaslight flooded the dingy hallway, and she took a cleansing breath, exhaling the sting of anxiety and greasepaint. Her every instinct warned her to run away from this man and from this evening, but she knew she never would.
“I shall have the carriage take you to Knightsbridge,” Rushford said.
Too late. He lifted her easily, and her hands grabbed reflexively at his shoulders, their bodies entirely too close. She was enveloped by the feel of him, the scent of him, the heat of his hands burning through the fine silk of her gown. She could not pull away if she wanted to. And she didn't want to.
It was then she heard the lilting tones of Miss Barry. “My, my,” she trilled, sweeping toward them, a velvet shawl with swinging gold tassels wrapped dramatically around her tiny frame. “I do so hope that I am not
de trop
?”
Chapter 10
“Y
ou brought guests?” Baron Francois Sebastian uncharacteristically revealed his surprise as he watched a footman pour champagne into two crystal goblets in the salon of his town house off fashionable Cavendish Square.
“I didn't think you would mind.” Miss Barry eyed Lord Rushford, his head bent to catch something Miss Warren was saying, a proprietary arm around her waist. They seemed to be insensible of the throb of guests around them; the heat between the pair was palpable. He was devastatingly handsome, in an overtly masculine manner that very definitely caught Miss Barry's interest. As for the young mistress, she was quite the mystery. Her vanity pricked, Miss Barry peered at her reflection in the glass over the mantelpiece and tucked a straying wisp of hair back into place. She smiled approvingly at her reflection before catching the Baron's eyes in the mirror. “I thought perhaps that you would like to meet Lord Rushford, given his acquaintance with Lord Galveston, and the fact that he very deliberately sought out my company after this evening's performance.”
Sebastian pressed a goblet into her hand, well aware that Rushford was not the type to cool his heels at theater doors. He did not elaborate, extracting a slender cigar from the case in his pocket.
“I would introduce you, of course, but it appears that you already know the man.”
“I know of him,” he said, rolling the unlit cigar between his elegant fingers, regarding the couple through assessing eyes. “Although I doubt that he is made of the same malleable material as our friend Galveston.” His mouth moved in the semblance of a smile. “Would you not agree, madam?” he asked in his near flawless English.
“He seeks a liaison to add some spice,” she said blandly. “Nothing unusual there. The girl is much too young and inexperienced to hold his interest for long. Innocence, however despoiled, loses its charms very quickly.”
“That remains to be seen,” Sebastian suggested. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and felt in his pocket for his sulphur matches. For some reason, he then changed his mind, putting the cigar back in the silver case and sliding it into his waistcoat pocket. He reached instead for his champagne, his eyes drifting across the room. “It's clear that she is quite beautiful, indisputably what first attracted Lord Rushford's interest.”
The actress frowned, her hand automatically going up to smooth her brow.
Sebastian smiled at her vanity. “Nevertheless, aesthetics and youth aside, indulging in the whims of important men is what you do best, madam.”
Her smile was brittle. “And Felicity . . . What was her special talent, Sebastian?” Sometimes the price seemed too high, she thought acidly. Although she and Felicity had been more rivals than friends, Ellen Barry, known in her previous life as Gwen Shandpepper, was smart enough not to delve too deeply into her adversary's demise. Galveston had been a beast, a self-indulgent coward who loved to inflict pain in order to shore up his fragile sense of masculinity. They had seen his ilk too many times before.
“Do I detect a hint of empathy,” Sebastian asked with barely contained sarcasm. “This is most unlike you.”
The actress wisely did not rise to the bait. “Felicity made several errors in judgment.”
“Fatal ones, as a matter of fact.”
They both let the subject drop, drinking their champagne and watching the couple across the room. “She is quite beautiful, the more I look at her,” Sebastian murmured after several moments. “But there is something familiar about her, the way she moves and a certain watchfulness. I cannot help wondering if she will last as Lord Rushford's paramour. As you know far better than I, madam, not all women are as, how might I put it”—he paused—“ah, yes, morally flexible as you.”
“Shall I introduce you after all?” she asked smoothly.
“Of course,” Sebastian murmured with a calm smile. “I should be remiss as a host otherwise.”
From the corner of her eye, Rowena watched the approach of Miss Barry and the impeccably groomed man at her side. He was of medium height and a spare build, the blinding whiteness of his cravat an impeccable contrast against the midnight blue of his evening coat. When she and Rushford had first arrived, the heat of their argument still simmering under a cool façade, she had been struck by the ornate luxury of the town house in one of London's most fashionable streets. She had yet to swallow her shock at the sight of the grand salon on the second floor. Scantily clad women sauntered around the room, draped in wisps of corsets and petticoats with black stockings rolled to just below the knees. Their lips were moist and red, their faces painted and powdered to give the look of patent invitation. Worst of all, no one but Rowena seemed to notice. The two dozen or so men and women seated on plush chairs were clearly habituated to the scene around them. Rushford's nonchalance, she noted, seemed entirely natural. To suppress her sparking anger, she gazed at the crystal and gold beads of the chandelier overhead, all the while wondering why she could not rein in her overblown response to Rushford.
Rowena smiled mindlessly for what seemed to be the hundredth time, her cheekbones aching, when Ellen Barry's fan tapped her arm. “Darlings,” the actress said, looking out from under her luxuriant lashes for Rushford's express benefit. “May I make the introductions . . . Lord Rushford. And, of course, Miss Warren. May I present Baron Francois Sebastian.”
The Frenchman executed a small bow, bending over Rowena's hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
Rowena's anxiety froze to shock. The voice. Her heart pounded so strongly that she feared everyone in the room would hear.
“Are you feeling quite well, Miss Warren?” the actress asked. “You appear to have blanched suddenly. You are paler than usual.”
Rushford stepped so close to Rowena that she could see the stubble on his jaw. He swept a finger down her scalding cheek, watching her closely. “Miss Warren is merely a trifle fatigued,” he said, his voice deliberately unconcerned. “Perhaps another restorative sip of your champagne?” he asked, bringing the flute to her lips like the concerned lover that he was. They were all talking, making the requisite noises, when all Rowena could do was clench the fragile stem of the crystal, hoping it wouldn't shatter. Despite the champagne, her lips were dry and she had difficulty forming words, her mind grasping to follow the conversation.
Sebastian smiled, revealing small white teeth. “The pleasure is without doubt mine, Miss Warren. You are indeed as lovely as Miss Barry promised,” he said with only a trace of a French accent. “Isn't it wonderful that the love of the theater brings us all together.” It was difficult to tell whether the irony was deliberate. “Both of you, Lord Rushford and the lovely Miss Warren, enjoy such excursions, I presume.”
“We certainly do,” Rushford said.
Miss Barry leaned in confidingly. “Of course, the theater is but a reflection of life. When we allow the imagination to soar, there are many adventures to be had. Am I correct, Lord Rushford?”
“But of course,” Sebastian interrupted silkily. “Why should one seek to curtail one's experiences?” He looked expressly at Rowena.
“Not unlike our dear friend, Lord Galveston,” Miss Barry finished.
Sebastian continued where she let off. “Another theater lover, Lord Galveston. He is an acquaintance we have in common,” he said, turning to the actress, “or so the lovely Miss Barry informs me.”
“We've crossed paths on a number of occasions.” Rushford's tone was ambiguous.
Undaunted by Rowena's stillness, Sebastian continued. “Quite the adventurer, our Ambrose, as it turns out.” Rowena's breathing was shallow, and it seemed that the chatter around them dimmed, the dozen or so guests in the room fading into the background.
Rushford smiled, his expression at odds with his next words. “Indeed, Galveston and I had a chance to review his recent conquests just the other evening.” The last phrase hung in the air, heavy with implication.
“Is that so? The world is smaller than one might expect,” Sebastian said with veiled derision, the source Rowena could not quite identify. “Of course I have heard of your recent exploits, Lord Rushford, concerning the Cruikshank murders. You are quite the sleuth and champion of the everywoman, as it turns out.”
It would not do to remain silent much longer, Rowena told herself, aware that she was required to deliver a performance. That the Baron was the voice she'd heard in her nightmares, and very possibly part of the reality of her abduction, would not stop her in her tracks. She thought briefly of Meredith and Julia, her nerves making her bold. “It is unfortunate that we were never able to make the acquaintance of Felicity Clarence,” she said finally, her voice sounding surprisingly normal despite her panic. “Lord Galveston never could stop talking about her appearances in the West End.” She forced herself to meet the Frenchman's gaze unflinchingly.
The diminutive actress giggled. “To which performances was Galveston referring, those onstage or off?”
Rowena managed to smile serenely, aware of Rushford's hard arm around her waist.
The actress tapped a finger to her lips. “Not that Felicity pretended to have a tendresse for the man,” she continued, and then took a dainty sip of her champagne. “I do believe theirs was a liaison predicated on far more practical concerns.” She fluttered a hand in Rowena's direction. “Do not look so shocked, my dear. If you were to survey this salon more closely, you would discover that its female occupants are mostly kept women, mistresses of wealthy men, such as yourself, my dear. And then we actresses, of course, bathing in the adoration of our audiences, onstage and otherwise.”
“And a good thing,” Sebastian murmured. “Women crave nothing if not our adoration.”
“I'd never heard it put quite that way before,” Rushford said, his voice having taken on an edge. “It makes one wonder whether the late Miss Clarence would agree with you, monsieur.”
Sebastian made the appropriate noises, deliberately misunderstanding. “Yes, such a tragic end. One almost believes that a love affair might be to blame. To cast oneself into the river . . .” His remark seemed to target Lord Rushford specifically, Rowena thought.
Miss Barry arched her thin brows. “Don't be ludicrous, my pet. After that debacle at Eccles House, Felicity swore off such romantic nonsense. She was a practical girl at heart.”
“A tragic accident, then,” Sebastian concluded.
Rushford focused on the Frenchman lounging casually before them. “Of course, Eccles House,” he drawled, as though something had suddenly stirred his memory. “Sir Wadsworth's country estate.”
For a moment, Rowena felt light-headed. Beside her, one of the scantily clad women trilled with laughter. Rowena swayed on her feet, yielding to the support of Rushford's hard body. “I'm so sorry. Did I hear you mention Sir Wadsworth?”
The man who had invited Julia to his estate
. Rushford discreetly tightened his arm around her waist. “Are you feeling quite yourself, my pet, or should I call for the carriage to be brought round?”
No.
She would not, could not leave even if they carried her out of the town house. They were talking about her sister. “Absolutely not,” she said, forcing a smile to her face. “I feel perfectly splendid,” she added brightly. “Now that you have me intrigued about the goings on at Eccles House.”
Sebastian gave a half smile, removing a slender silver box from his waistcoat and turning it idly in his elegant hand. “You like gossip, then, do you, Miss Warren?”
“Of course, what woman doesn't?” she replied. Feeling as though she might shatter, she gave a small laugh bordering on hysteria. She focused on the silver box in Sebastian's hand.
The Frenchman turned to the actress at his side. “Then I shall give you full permission to regale us with the tawdry bits, my dear.” He glanced at Rushford consideringly. “We men shall try not to be bored.”
Miss Barry put a hand to her bosom. “Oh, really, gentlemen. If you are looking for something shocking, you may wish to look elsewhere. This is quite the boring little tale. As it turns out, our dear, departed Felicity let it be known that she had set her cap for Lord Strathmore at Eccles House, only to be rejected by the man.”
“A first for her, I'm assuming?” Rowena asked, continuing to lean into Rushford, placing a hand on his chest to keep it from trembling.
The actress shrugged. “Who knows? I believe it was her pride that was hurt more than anything else. Strathmore actually chose a nondescript country bumpkin, a veritable blue stocking with the most bizarre interests, over the enchanting and alluring Felicity Clarence.
Only imagine,
” she added sarcastically.
Rowena's heart stood still. Julia. Her Julia with her outsized interests in botany and daguerreotypy. Sebastian observed her closely. “You seem quite intrigued, Miss Warren.”
“Only mildly,” she said, suddenly desperate to bring the conversation to an end, afraid that it might lead in a direction where she would lose all control. She straightened away from Rushford, who nonetheless kept a hand around her waist. “Although I do hope that a thwarted love affair was not the reason for Miss Clarence's decision to end her life.”

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