The Most Wicked Of Sins (3 page)

Those who are most distrustful of themselves are most envious of others.

William Hazlitt

Very late that same evening
Mr. Felix Dupré’s residence
23 Davies Street

Nick leaned back into the terribly worn yet surprisingly comfortable armchair, and tipped a thick glass of brandy to his lips. Even through the earthy peaty notes of the spirits, he could still taste the flame-locked beauty’s honeyed kiss. He ran his tongue across his lower lip and savored the sweetness.
p. His lips still throbbed, and Nick amusedly wondered if in the morning he would awake to find them mottled blue from the bruising force of her yanking his mouth down to hers.

What an astonishing evening it had been. He scratched his temple and ran his fingers through his thick hair. He honestly didn’t know what to make of what had happened, for the events had been so entirely unexpected. He’d left the calm of Lincolnshire, and after only one night in Town, he’d been passionately kissed by a woman he’d never met—and offered an acting role—impersonating the Marquess of Counterton, no less.

Damn. If she was not entirely mad, which he hadn’t quite ruled out yet, she was at the very least completely audacious. Though, as he thought about it a little longer, Nick realized he wasn’t entirely convinced of that either. How could he be? This was London, after all, not Averly.

He had to consider the possibility that what would be labeled insolent and reckless behavior in the sleepy hamlet where he’d lived nearly his entire life might pass for usual outside The Theater Royal Drury Lane in London. It was possible.

But that kiss, well, that he was sure about. That kiss sent both his body and mind spinning like never before. It had been bloody wonderful. Perhaps it was the surprise of it. Or, that for the first time in his life a woman had taken the initiative in seduction instead of him.

Whatever the reason for his very visceral reaction to the kiss, even the slightest chance of repeating it had been enough for him to agree to meet the Scottish vixen again to discuss her outrageous and certainly highly illegal
business arrangement.

A jingling of keys outside the front door, then a thud followed by a ribbon of colorful curses, prompted Nick begrudgingly to his feet and from the comfort of the library for the entryway. Reaching out his hand, he twisted the lock and pressed down the tarnished brass latch.

His cousin, Mr. Felix Dupré, who had obviously been leaning against the door to better aim his key, fell inside.

“Oh, there you are, Nicky,” Felix slurred. The smell of rum punch saturated his cousin’s breath and wafted through the entry hall. “You never showed at the closing gala. Missed a damned good party, you know. I wanted to introduce you around. Everyone would be so impressed to learn we are…” Felix clapped his hand to his forehead. “What are we to each other again?”

“Our mothers were sisters.”

Felix stared blankly at him, his eyes glazed over from drink. “So, we are…remind me, will you?”

“We’re cousins.” Nick leaned back against the wall and eyed Felix. In truth, Felix really was more of a brother to Nick. His mother had very nearly raised Felix when her sister had taken ill.

Felix was by far the youngest and certainly most unconventional of the three Dupré sons. While his older brothers, Frederick and Phillip, made their father infinitely proud—one managing the tenants and the estate, the other expanding the Dupré imports business (with each somehow finding the time to marry and sire sons of his own)—Felix possessed a more colorful nature. As a child, he had never excelled at ciphers like Phillip or displayed a talent for sports like Frederick. And though his mother clapped her hands, and from her sickbed, encouraged Felix’s singing, dancing, poetry, and flair for the dramatic, his father was openly disgusted and humiliated by it.

In fact, had Felix not escaped on a mail coach for London when he had, word within the family was that he would have been forcefully packed off to his aged uncle’s remote parish outside Inverness to be trained for a life in the Church.

“I apologize for not meeting you after the performance,” Nick admitted, “but I had…a superior offer. Sorry, coz.”

Felix eyed Nick quizzically for some moments, then sighed and walked to the dust-streaked table beneath the entry-hall mirror, where he deposited his hat, gloves, and key. “A better offer. Oh, I see.” He whisked a handkerchief with an exasperated flourish, strode purposively up to Nick, and dabbed his mouth before he could protest. “You still have a bit of lip paint on your mouth.” He pressed the rose-smudged linen into Nick’s hand.

He glanced to Felix, and the edge of his lips twitched upward. He reached out for the handkerchief and swiped it over Felix’s thin lips. “So do you.” He arched an eyebrow and grinned as he shoved the cloth back at his cousin.

“Really?” Felix hurried to the wall mirror and, given the dimness of the room, moved close enough to touch his narrow nose to the mirror’s glass to see the offending smear. “Hardly what you think, cousin. It’s only stage paint.”

Nick chuckled and cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I had an inkling it might be just that.”

Felix leaned back from the mirror and whirled around. “I cannot believe that my friends let me walk out on the street like this—and attend the gala as well.”

“I am sure they simply didn’t notice. Hardly visible.” Nick rolled off the wall drowsily, banging his shoulder on the doorjamb as he headed back into the library—or what might have been one had there been any books instead of a litter of newspapers and empty wine bottles on the dust-frosted shelves.

Felix surveyed his face, then wiped away a smudge of white from beneath his ear, tossed the crumpled linen onto the tabletop, and hurried in behind his cousin.

Nick eased his head back against the solid-backed armchair and sighed. “You know, I was sure I would dislike London.”

Felix’s hand hovered indecisively over the open decanter of brandy before snatching up the dark bottle beside it and pouring himself some port. He sat on the edge of the chair directly across from Nick, carefully resting the foot of his glass atop his yellow Cossack trousers.

Not surprisingly, while the house was nearly devoid of comforts, Felix was dressed impeccably, if rather flamboyantly, in keeping with his exuberant nature.

“I know you have your reservations about Town.” Felix exhaled, expelling a cloud of port wine fumes into the library now as well. “You’ve said so as much twenty-two times since you arrived yesterday. You prefer the moors. The chalk hills are your world—but London is mine.”

As something seemed to occur to him, Felix quieted suddenly. then drew his lips into his mouth as if he was trying to stave off a sob. His chin wobbled. “Nicky, I cannot possibly tell you how it touched my heart to have you come all the distance to London for my performance in ‘Fortune’s Frolic.’ I know the journey was a long one. But thank you, dear cousin. Thank you.” He sniffled.

“Oh, come now, man. You needn’t thank me for anything. It was not a difficult thing at all. Had to come to London sooner or later anyway. Instead of stirring up the staff, I just came alone by coach so I could stay with you. Less bother. I still haven’t gotten used to servants buzzing about me nowadays.” Nick gave his sotted cousin a warm smile. “Besides, you know I would not have missed seeing your first performance in a leading role.”

Felix swallowed deeply. “I do know, Nicky. I do. You have always been at my side when I needed you.” His large dark eyes seemed to well and shimmer in the low candlelight of the library. “It was only for a night…the last night of a special summer performance series, but I was the lead—
the lead
—and I was brilliant. Everyone at the gala afterward told me so, everyone, and I would never be so rag-mannered as to disagree.”

“Your performance was exceptionally memorable, Felix. The applause was deafening.” A smile lifted Nick’s lips. “Your mother would have been so proud.”

“I know,” Felix replied softly. “God rest her.”

“And…I am sure had your father been witness to your talent, he would have—”

The light in Felix’s eyes dissolved in that moment, and Nick realized he had erred by saying something that both of them might wish to, but never would, happen. Felix’s father had made it abundantly clear that he would never condone his son’s involvement in the theater.

Felix sipped his port in silence for a brief time before donning a mask of nonchalance. “Well, I am abundantly grateful that my favorite cousin was in the audience tonight. Though I believe you are my only cousin. Still, meant everything.”

At the reminder of his own brother’s passing, the draught of brandy Nick had just taken suddenly misdirected in his throat, the sting bringing on a hail of coughs.

“Oh God, Nick, I apologize.
I-I
didn’t mean…” His mouth remained open, for once emptied of words.

Nick cleared his throat and swallowed deeply. He peered up at his cousin. He could see the distress in Felix’s eyes. “It’s been more than a year. There is no need to apologize.”

“Yes, well”—Felix reached across and tapped Nick’s knee—“at least let me express how dreadfully sorry I am that your portmanteau didn’t make the journey. I tell you, I do not know how I would exist sans my clothing.”

“I daresay, I cannot honestly understand how the mistake occurred. I had it with me at the White Hart Inn in Ware. I was sure the driver carried my bag inside when I arrived here, but it seems all I have now are the documents I had tucked in my coat pocket.”

Felix shrugged his shoulders and sighed sympathetically.

“I suppose my portmanteau was left at the inn.” He waved off any visible concern. “I sent word and am confident that my clothing will be returned to me within a day or two.”

Felix excitedly lifted a hand and quieted Nick. “I will share my own wardrobe until you depart Monday next. Not a problem at all. Besides, you’d look like a Captain Queernabs in your country-squire garb. Hardly appropriate for Town. I tell you, not a woman in London would so much as glance your way dressed in your manner, Nicky.”

Nick ran his finger across his lips, then glanced down at it. It still came away with the slightest smear of waxy color. “Really? Hmm. No, you may be correct. For I detected a lilting northern tone to Lady Ivy’s words. She’s certainly a Scot, not from London at all, which must be why she saw fit to overlook my rustic ensemble this night.”

Felix shot to his feet, managing to level his glass just in time to prevent the port from showering the carpet. “Lady Ivy?” His eyes went impossibly wide. “
Sinclair?
You do not speak of Lady Ivy—of the Sinclair family. No, it’s i-impossible.”

“Sinclair. Yes. I do believe she mentioned that. I admit, however, I am not acquainted with the family, which oddly enough seemed to surprise her.” Absently, Nick swirled his brandy around in his glass, peering down its vortex.

Felix stared at him, a racing whirl of thoughts plain in his wild eyes. “Wait right
here,”
he said abruptly as one of those thoughts propelled him from his chair. “Do not move even the slightest.” He rushed from the library, then returned with the mussed-up handkerchief. “Do not tell me that this lip rogue belonged to Lady Ivy.” His hand shot out and dangled the linen before Nick’s eyes.

He raised his eyebrows and gazed at the wrinkled cloth. “Well, some of this is yours…”

Felix groaned in frustration. His index finger jabbed at the mark on the lowermost corner of the linen. “This—the rose smudge.”

Nick looked down his nose at it. “Well, the interior of the carriage was quite dark, making it impossible to identify the color for certain.” He paused for a moment and made a closer assessment. “Yes, it must be the color that was upon Lady Ivy’s lips. After all, I only kissed one woman this eve.”

Felix flung himself backward into his chair. His eyes remained wide and fixed on Nick. “Good God, you really kissed her…in a carriage…in the dark.”

“Actually, she kissed
me
. I only happily reciprocated.”

Felix gasped at that.

Damn me. Why is he getting so stirred by this?
“Didn’t want to be rude, being new to Town and all.” He grinned at Felix.

“Blast it, this isn’t folly, Nicky. It’s quite serious, you realize. You are as good as dead,” Felix announced, quite matter-of-factly. “
Dead,
I tell you.”

Nick arched his eyebrow disbelievingly. As always, his cousin was merely being overly dramatic. “What do you mean?”

“W-what do I mean? Only that she is a Sinclair—one of the
Seven Deadly Sins,
that is all.”

Nick lifted his eyebrows and shook his head.

“Gads, Nick, have you not heard of them? Do you not read any newspapers at all? London is ripe with gossip about the harum-scarum family—has been since the day they arrived. Seven brothers and sisters, so wayward and wild that they were cast out of Scotland…by their own father, a duke, no less, and told not to return until they mended their wicked ways.”

“Is that so?” Amused, Nick raised his chin and awaited the Banbury tale.

Distracted by a thought, Felix stood and crossed to a pile of newspapers on one of the shelves. “Got to be here somewhere. They only arrived in the spring.” He thumbed through the papers, opening each to the second page before passing his gaze over the inked columns. After another protracted minute he raised a copy of
Bell’s Weekly Messenger.
“Here it is, the first mention of the Sinclairs, darlings of the
on dit
columns.” Angling the newspaper to the candlelight he began to read.

Though little is known of the S. family, recently arrived in London, the seven are notorious within the ranks of Edinburgh Society and have been so since childhood. After the sudden death of their mother, it is reported that their grieving father allowed the children to run amok, earning the terrors the befitting label, the Seven Deadly Sins. Pray, which sins might each of the seven Scots embody? Only time will tell, for the Season has just begun.