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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Darkest Sin
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Sebastian asked cynically, “Who can afford love, after all, Miss Warren? When there are reasonable facsimiles to be had. Am I correct, Lord Rushford?” Once again, subtext shimmered beneath the question.
“As experience would attest,” Rushford said, his grip around Rowena's waist tightening infinitesimally.
“All the more reason I should like to invite both of you to Alcestor Court, my estate in Dorset, this coming weekend,” the Baron pronounced smoothly, “so we may pursue our common interests.” He turned to Miss Barry, smiling broadly. “And we are most grateful to Miss Barry here,” he remarked, “who had the keen foresight to forge ahead with these introductions.”
“Too kind,” Rowena said grimly, watching in silence as the actress placed a dainty hand on Sebastian's proffered arm. “We look forward to our visit, do we not, my lord?” Rowena turned to Rushford with an attempt at a flirtatious smile. All she could think of was Julia, questions frozen on her lips. Questions for Rushford, once she had him alone.
 
Lowther waited for Sebastian in the study on the second floor of the house. The sounds of revelry were muted by the richly paneled walls, but he immediately recognized Sebastian's silhouette in the doorway. They were in no way alike, thought Lowther with typical objectivity. The Frenchman was an elegant aristocrat in his bearing, and Lowther knew he bore the blunt features of his English dockyard parents. However disparate their physical bearing, they were both equally although differently in debt to the man they now served.
The door clicked shut, and Lowther gestured to Sebastian to take the seat across from him. A fire burned brightly in the hearth despite the warmth of the spring evening.
“Rushford succumbed to the temptation,” Sebastian said, sliding elegantly into the chair. “Galveston, Felicty Clarence, and, of course, the beauteous and beguiling Ellen Barry performed brilliantly. He and his lovely young mistress will be joining us at Alcestor Court this coming weekend.”
Lowther nodded approvingly. “Well done. At least thus far, although I'm not entirely surprised by the turn of events. Did I not predict Rushford's response? The guilt is eating him alive.”
“Yes, you did indeed, Lowther.”
Lowther ignored the comment, tinged with resentment, tapping his thick fingers against the polished wooden arm of his chair. “He believes he can assuage his conscience, bring the Duchess back to life by involving himself in these sordid events, bringing resolution elsewhere because he can find none in his own life. I should have expected more of him, given his rather jaundiced view of the world, but then again there is no accounting for emotions when they get in the way of reality.”
“Works in our favor,” Sebastian said with the practicality of a Frenchman.
“Only if we proceed carefully. Remember, Rushford has in the past offered his services to Whitehall, until the proverbial scales fell from his eyes upon the death of the Duchess. But let us not forget that he single-handedly prevented a virtual praetorian guard from stealing the Rosetta Stone on Faron's behalf.”
“Is that how you choose to describe our efforts, a praetorian guard?” Sebastian mused. “It is amazing that a man as clever as Rushford still has no idea . . .”
Lowther smiled. “Love is blind.”
The trite statement drew a chuckle from Sebastian. “Hard to believe.” He shook his head in wonder. “And yet that love was not enough to remove Rushford from the mission. I despair, truly,” he sighed.
Lowther peered moodily into the fire. “We believed the Duchess would be Rushford's weakness, and the Earl's, but we were wrong. Let's not err twice. Faron would not be pleased if we were to fail again.”
“No possibility of that,” Sebastian corrected calmly, crossing one leg over the other, examining the high gleam of his evening shoes. “Particularly since we intend that Rushford shall steal the Stone on our behalf. What could be simpler?”
The bald statement drew Lowther's gaze from the fire. “Let's hope not too simple, particularly after having our first attempt thwarted. Although I suppose Rushford paid the higher price. Sacrificing the Duchess cost him dearly, I'm sure.” He paused. “Although I hear that he's taken a mistress. You don't find that peculiar?”
It was a ridiculous question to ask a Frenchman. Sebastian smoothly retrieved the silver case from his waistcoat pocket, extracting a slender cigar. “In what way is it unusual for a man of Lord Rushford's station to take a mistress? A man has needs, after all, and what better way to assuage those needs than by engaging the affections of a young and beautiful woman. I don't begin to understand your question, Lowther.”
“Who is she—and don't tell me that you haven't the slightest idea.”
For a moment, Sebastian thought to lie but then thought better of it. “Miss Frances Warren is who she is, young, beautiful, and entirely too intelligent for her own good. You know how I detest intellect in a woman. It takes from their natural femininity,” he elaborated. “There's an intensity about her that I find disturbing.”
“How so?”
“Difficult to explain.”
“She is quite different from the Duchess, I take it.”
“The Duchess was complexity and subterfuge, sophistication and elegance. A fine wine, in other words. In contrast, Miss Warren is as transparent and refreshing as a glass of water.”
“You do not seem overly impressed. Although based on your analysis of her character, I have the notion you have met her before. Not entirely surprising given the circles in which you roam,” Lowther said with a hint of sarcasm. “What—is she an actress, or did Rushford find her amongst Mrs. Cruikshank's fillies? Does it matter, in the end? Perhaps Miss Warren is entirely beside the point.”
“I wish that were so,” Sebastian said cryptically, leaning toward the fire to light his cigar. It flared to life in a small burst of orange. “Of course, I recognized her immediately, despite the frightful wig.”
“So she is not really Miss Warren,” Lowther said impatiently. “Her name is Sally Grimshaw or some such, and she hails from the dockyards or worse parts of London. It would not be the first time a young girl has taken another name so as to burnish her appeal. What of it, Sebastian?”
Sebastian drew on his cigar unhurriedly, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. “The situation does rather complicate matters and adds a wrinkle to our plans. Faron will not be pleased to hear of it.” He rather liked stringing Lowther along. He knew the man preferred to be in control and to believe that Faron's wishes were his alone to execute. It was tiresome, really, for a guttersnipe like Lowther to have risen so far in the ranks of Faron's legion, Sebastian thought. But then again, a man of foresight, Faron collected acolytes from far and wide, looking only for extraordinary intelligence and loyalty, in equal measure, among his recruits. There was a story told that when he was a brilliant student at the Sorbonne, Faron had saved Lowther from the gallows. Whether the tale was true or not, Sebastian hadn't a clue. Sebastian now contemplated that same man twenty years later, impatience in every line of his bulky body, as he sat across from him.
“Out with it,” Lowther growled, half rising from his chair. “Who is she and why ever would it matter to Faron?”
Sebastian tapped the tip of his cigar against the fireplace grill, the ashes falling onto the grate. “I am as perturbed as you will be, Lowther,” he said, slowly releasing rings of smoke into the air. “Do sit back down.”
“You are trying my patience.”
Sebastian continued, “No need to concern yourself. I have it all well in hand.” Was it his imagination or did he hear Lowther grinding his teeth? “You will be pleased, relieved, and grateful to learn that I have a contingency plan in place.”
“Enough with the enigmatic ramblings,” Lowther said, returning to his seat reluctantly. “I suggest strongly that you don't wait to enlighten me.”
“Very well. Our lovely Miss Warren, mistress to Lord Rushford”—Sebastian blew another plume of smoke, locking eyes with Lowther—“is no other than Rowena Woolcott, come back to life. You look positively apoplectic. Are you surprised ? I certainly was.”
Chapter 11
R
owena did not trust herself to speak in the carriage ride back to the Knightsbridge apartments. The silence was suffocating; overwhelming shock and fatigue blurred her thoughts. She wanted to go home, to run to Montfort, to discover for herself that Julia and Meredith waited for her there. She knew it was out of the question though. One look at Rushford, at that cool enigmatic face across from her in the carriage, and she realized the dangerousness of her yearnings. How much did he know that he wasn't telling her?
With typical efficiency, he had them both in the apartments moments later, the discreet housekeeper who had been recently engaged opening the door and disappearing just as quickly. Rowena strode into the center of the salon, pulling the wig from her head and running a shaky hand through her hair. She turned on her heel to face him.
“What in bloody hell have you been keeping from me, Rushford?” she demanded.
“Would you please sit?”
“No. I have questions that I should like answered.”
“I can see that.” He blocked the door.
“What do you know of Eccles House, Wadsworth, and my sister?”
He appeared entirely and infuriatingly unconcerned, his hard jaw shadowed with stubble against the crisp white of his shirt. “I made inquiries the past few days.” He stepped into the room, forcing her to move closer to the divan.
“And did not share them with me?” she asked, her voice low with anger, battling a dangerous rush of memories, of Montfort and her sister.
“There was nothing to share.”
“So you say. All of this is entirely too fortuitous, Rushford. Your knowing Galveston, Sebastian, Faron, the situation at Eccles House. What is going on?” She put a hand to her forehead as if to contain her swirling thoughts. “If you don't tell me immediately, I swear I shall make my way back to Sebastian and confront him directly.” She drew off her gloves and threw them on the floor.
“You are acting like a child, Rowena, when you do not fully comprehend what you're dealing with.”
“Then tell me,” she challenged outright with a lamentable lack of finesse.
“You know nothing of it. Trust me, it is better that way. Recall that you were the one who pushed your way into my life, and now you assume you have the right to tell me how to go about my business.”
“That is hardly fair,” Rowena interrupted, outraged. “As though anyone could push their way into your life if you did not want them to.”
“You offered me little choice,” he interrupted in turn, with a bleakness in his voice she had never heard before. He paused for a heartbeat before continuing. “And if I am to resolve this matter successfully, you would be wise to trust me and do as I say.”
For a brief moment, she considered what lay behind the starkness of his words. Then impatience won out. “Oh, please stop.” She threw the words at him with ringing scorn. “You are entirely too condescending. And dismissive.” There was a heaviness in the room and a barely contained fury beneath the attempts at civility. “I have much more at stake in this than you. The fate of my family is involved. Whilst you are going about this business with Felicity and Faron as though on a lark. Are you merely whiling away the hours in your day, Rushford?”
Rushford's direct gaze was unambiguous. “Believe what you will. And then let's leave it at that,” he said. “There is little else I can do or say to convince you otherwise.”
Rowena shut her eyes briefly against the intensity of her feelings. Sebastian's voice rang incessantly in her head. She drew in a shallow breath. “I don't believe you.” The words echoed hollowly between them.
“Then believe this.” His voice was gruff, heated, an undertone of resentment rising to the surface. He closed the distance between them in an instant, suddenly gripping her shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh. “I sent word yesterday to Montfort to inquire as to the well-being of your aunt and sister.”
She wrenched herself from his grip, protectiveness for her family making her strong, her head suddenly clear. “You had better know what you are about, Rushford,” she said. “If Faron's people discover that someone is inquiring about the Woolcotts . . . I have died a thousand times, wishing that I could send word to them.” The words faltered on her lips. She walked away from the divan to cross the room and sit down in a small occasional chair, fear for Julia uppermost in her mind. She steadied her voice. “Please tell me what you know of Julia and Eccles House.” He could do that for her at the very least.
Rushford exhaled swiftly. “She is safe. Married. And in North Africa.”
“Good God. North Africa? Married?” Relief and anxiety swept through her simultaneously. “That's not possible,” she began, and then the pieces of the evening's conversation came back to her. Strathmore and his bluestocking—her sister Julia. “Who is this Strathmore?” she asked.
“Lord Strathmore is a renowned explorer who, I discovered after reading the banns published last year, married your sister and took her to North Africa with him. Do you know what that means, Rowena?”
Rowena hid her face in her hands, not answering the question. Julia was safe. Far away. Under Lord Strathmore's protection, as his wife. Relief was so sweet that she could have wept with gratitude. When she looked up again after several moments, she said, “I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am to hear those words.” She drew herself up straight. “Now I have only Meredith to worry about, at least for the time being.” Thoughts whirled through her mind, driven in equal measure by nerves and dread. “Once we arrive at Alcestor Court, we can formulate a plan to discover Sebastian's connection to Faron. And Faron's whereabouts,” she said, her thoughts running away with her.
How she would proceed once she confronted Faron, she had no idea. She was so deeply immersed in her ruminations and planning that she nearly jumped when Rushford's hand fell on her shoulder. He crouched down in front of her. “You've had a shock. A number of shocks tonight, Rowena. And now we are getting ahead of ourselves,” he said quietly.
Rowena looked up at him. “I must do this. I can't stop thinking about it.” His hand slipped to clasp the nape of her neck, warm, comforting. Suddenly, the anger and anxiety of the previous moments dissipated, subtly altering to something else. For the second time that night, Rowena found herself leaning into the firm pressure Rushford's body so easily and readily provided. Her muscles and limbs relaxed. “I am so tired,” she confessed, feeling shrunken inside her whalebone stays, corset, and voluminous gray silk.
“Of course you are,” he agreed. “I propose that we continue this discussion tomorrow morning.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It is close to three.” But his fingers tightened around the slim column of her neck as if he could not bear to let her go. Or so Rowena suddenly imagined.
“I agree,” she said. They remained silent for a few moments, Rowena acutely conscious of Rushford's even breathing, the warmth of his body. She realized unexpectedly that she'd become accustomed to such moments, to touching a stranger, enveloped in his warmth and his strength. And she didn't want him to leave. At that instant, as though in response to her thoughts, he let his hands fall from her, rising to his full height. “Off to bed with you. Shall I ring for the maid?”
“No need. I can manage,” she murmured as he held out a hand to help pull her to her feet. Only inches separated them.
“I'll bid you good night then.”
The words burst out of her. “Don't go.” Rowena breathed in his scent, stealing the warmth from his body, potent memories, hazy and indistinct, driving her on. “I don't wish to be alone with my dreams—and my nightmares.” She reached out and touched his arm, trying to remember all the reasons that he should leave. “Please don't go.” Her arms slid around his waist.
“This isn't right, Rowena,” he said, his voice low.
“I'm not asking for anything,” she said, lying to both of them. She didn't know what she wanted herself, other than to feel his strength next to her. And to banish her nightmares.
“None of this will help. I will only hurt you if I give in to what you believe you want.” Gently he unclasped her arms and stepped back.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
“Don't be. You are simply enervated and acting out of shock,” he said. “You are exhausted and will fall asleep quickly.”
“I understand,” she said. “I simply don't wish to be alone.”
His jaw clenched. “You would regret it later.” He drew a shallow breath.
“I'm not sure of anything right now,” she conceded. “With the exception of the nightmares and the dreams. I don't wish to face them. Not tonight.”
“What are your dreams and your nightmares? Perhaps it would help to talk about them.”
She could only shake her head mutely. Words would only serve to bring them to life.
“I can hold you for only a moment.” His voice was heated, but he made no move to touch her. “We shouldn't be doing this. We promised—I promised, more importantly—that this would not happen again.”
“It's my decision.”
“You don't know what you're asking, Rowena.” His gaze was fierce. “Surely you can't be that naïve.”
“I am not naïve,” she said with conviction, aware suddenly of the decade and breadth of experience that separated them. But she somehow knew what she wanted—desired. Yet how could that be? She slid her hands up over the satin lapels of his jacket while he stood rigid under her ministrations. Raising herself on her toes, she slipped her hands around his neck. “Please,” she whispered. “Stay with me only an hour.” Her voice was liquid longing as she tugged his head down toward her.
When their lips were a whisper apart, he said, “I can't do this, Rowena.” He pulled her arms from around his neck and stepped back only to come up against the barricade of the wall. “Go to bed. You will thank me tomorrow.”
And leaning forward, he lightly kissed her mouth, and then, straightening, immediately stepped away.

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