Never Mix Sin with Pleasure

by Renee Ann Miller

  The outside corridor was clear. She tiptoed up the servants’ steps. Each step made her wince when she settled her weight on her injured leg, but she needed to hurry and pack, then leave.

  Leave. The word echoed in her head, making her want to roll into a ball and weep. She had come to like living in this house. For the first time in her life, she felt like she belonged somewhere. She’d even come to like the dowager. As cantankerous as the woman was, she wasn’t half as bad as Lady Winton. She’d been kind to her. Bought her gowns, even if her kindness was part of a plot to ruin Madame Lefleur. Olivia would never forget how lovely she’d felt wearing one of the modiste’s gowns.

  And then there was Anthony. She loved him and truly believed he cared for her. What would he say when he discovered the truth? That she was the Phantom?

  As she moved by his bedchamber door, she stopped and placed her hand on the surface. She could imagine him in his massive bed, his large body sprawled out with his dark hair in disarray, adding to his male appeal. She forced her hand away and slipped quietly inside her bedchamber.

  The moonlight streaming through the open curtains highlighted a broad-shouldered man sitting in the corner chair. Though his face was shadowed, she would know him anywhere.

  Anthony.

  The hairs on her neck stood on end. She dropped the maid’s uniform and the shoes in her hand. The latter landed with a heavy thud.

  “When I noticed you’d left my bed, I came to check on you. To see if you were feeling better, but found you gone. Did you have a grand night out, Olivia?”

  Anthony’s voice reached her as if traveling through a tunnel, along with being muffled by the swish, swish, swish of her heart echoing in her ears.

  For a moment, she couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t speak. As her eyes fully adjusted, she saw that even though he lounged casually with his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, holding a tumbler, his eyes watched her like a nocturnal animal who’d just spotted its prey and would soon lunge for its throat.

  He brought the glass to his lips and took a slow draw as if he had all the time in the world to await her answer.

  The shivering within her intensified. She wet her dry lips and searched her mind for a response. Anything she told him he would know was a lie. She was sopping wet and dressed in men’s clothing and a knit hat. The soles of her shoes were filthy. Saying she had gone out for a bit of fresh air would be as believable as saying she’d snuck out by way of a window because she knew it wasn’t proper to go out at all.

  “Cat got your tongue, darling?”

  “No, I . . .” She swallowed the thickness in her throat.

  “Yes?”

  “Anything I tell you, I doubt you’d believe.”

  He took another sip of his drink. “Unless it’s the truth.”

  “Even the truth might sound unbelievable.” She tugged the wet knit hat off her head.

  “Why don’t you try it?” He set his glass down on the adjacent table and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Briefly, she contemplated throwing the window open and darting out of it. But her leg throbbed, and he was no weakling. He was quick and strong, and she had a feeling he would just drag her back inside if she was even capable of getting out of it before he reached her.

  As if Anthony realized what she contemplated, he stood and strode toward her. He wore no jacket or waistcoat—only a white shirt and dark trousers. He stopped directly in front of her.

  So close, she could see the taut angle of his jaw.

  His gaze drifted from her face and down the length of her body, then back. His normally warm eyes looked hard. Distrusting.

  She held his gaze, then bravado fading, lowered it to where the top buttons of his shirt were unfastened, exposing the scattering of dark hair on his chest. She remembered the texture of it on her fingers and the comfort of his warm skin against hers. It all seemed like a dream now. Or more like a cherished memory that would never be repeated.

  “I’m waiting.”

  The sharpness of his voice drew her away from her thoughts. “Would you believe I went out for a midnight walk?”

  He didn’t respond, just held her gaze.

  “I guess that’s a no.”

  “Oh, that was a serious response? I thought you were trying to be a wit.”

  She suddenly felt so small with him peering down at her.

  “Tell me, Olivia, how long have you been in London?”

  Her heart stuttered in her chest. Anthony was no fool. She didn’t need to tell him the truth. He’d already figured it out. “A couple of months.”

  “Isn’t it odd. If I recall correctly that’s about when the robberies in Mayfair began.”

  The room around her had begun to spin. She briefly closed her eyes and tried to gain her equilibrium. “Really? What a coincidence.”

  “Is it?” His voice sounded rough as if his throat burned and the words were hard to get out. “Don’t you think it’s time we stop playing this game?”

  “You think I’m the Phantom? How absurd.” She forced a laugh, but instead of it sounding cheerful, it came out sounding shrill. She glanced over her shoulder. She was much closer to the door than the window. Could she get it opened and make her way out of the house before he caught her? As if her body wished to remind her of the cut on her leg, intense pain shot up her thigh. She clamped her teeth, fighting against the bone-deep ache.

  If Anthony noticed the way she flinched and tensed, he said nothing.

  Yet, as if once again sensing her desire to flee, he shifted even closer. “You won’t make it.”

  She realized she wouldn’t. Not with her injured leg. Not with him so close.

  Suddenly, his hand snaked out so fast she flinched and stepped back. She’d thought him about to strike her, but his hand caught the edge of the blanket to pull it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor.

  Once again, his hard gaze traveled over her length from the man’s sweater she wore, then down the length of her trousers. “Now deny it.”

  “If I say yes what will happen?”

  For a long moment, he just stared at her with eyes that looked so dark, so cold, a shiver moved down her spine, which had nothing to do with her chilled body.

  “How many lies have you told me, Olivia? Have I just been a pawn in your scheme?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Here I worried I’d caused you to be frightened when the police raided Finley’s Music Hall. How foolish you must have thought me.”

  “No. I never thought that.”

  He cocked a brow. “You played the innocent maiden as well as any actress who treads the boards.”

  “I never set out to deceive you. I swear. I only came here to ask for your help with Lady Winton. You offered me the job.”

  “More reason to see me as a fool. What do you think my family will say when they realize who you are? When they realize who I welcomed into this house. I’ve botched up plenty of things in my life, but you are the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”

  The utter look of disgust on his face, along with his words, made tears burn the backs of her eyes. She wet her dry lips. “Do you intend to turn me over to Scotland Yard?”

  “No. Just gather your things and get out.” His arm brushed against hers as he moved past her.

  “Anthony.”

  He spun back around. “What?”

  “I should warn you. Detectives from Scotland Yard might come around and ask questions.”

  A nerve twitched in his jaw.

  She wet her dry lips again. “A maid who used to work at Lady Winton’s saw me at the Duke of Wharton’s. As soon as it is discovered he’s been robbed, and they question the staff . . .”

  “Christ,” he mumbled. “Is that where you were at? The Duke of Wharton’s?”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Then you better leave. Now.” Without giving her a backward glance, he slipped from the room.

  As if frozen by Medusa, Olivia stared at the door. She wanted to go after hi
m. She wanted to tell him how she felt about him, but what difference would that make?

  He hated her.

  She clasped her hand over her mouth, muffling the way her breaths kept catching as she started to cry. Waking the dowager would bring on even more scorn. She needed to leave. Any minute the detectives from Scotland Yard might knock on the door. Anthony was right, she’d brought shame onto his family. They’d harbored the Phantom. Brought her to a ball and dressed her in finery. The dowager would most likely keel over when she learned the truth.

  If she left before the police arrived, perhaps the scandal wouldn’t be so horrible. Why had she not thought of what her actions would do to them? Because she’d thought she would never get caught, or at least prayed for that and hoped God would shield her because the men she took from were not deserving of His benevolence.

  Anthony was not the fool. She was. With the backs of her hands, she brushed away the tears trailing down her cheeks.

  Wincing from the pain in her leg, she made her way to the armoire and pulled out her valise. Her gaze traveled over the lovely gowns from Madame Renault’s shop. She would not—could not take them. It would be like rubbing salt on the family’s wounds.

  She peeled off her wet sweater and trousers. After removing the latter, she looked at where she’d wrapped her woolen stocking around the gash on her leg. Blood had seeped through it. Once she found a place to lodge for the night, she would wash it and wrap a fresh bandage around it. There was no time for that now.

  As quickly as she could, she removed the rest of her wet clothes and put on the old, serviceable dress she’d arrived here wearing.

  The bang of the front door slamming made her jump.

  Anthony. She fought the urge to run after him. Such a foolish idea. He was done with her, and with the pain plaguing her thigh, she would probably fall flat on her face. She shoved her wet garments and the maid’s uniform into the bottom of her valise and gathered the few items she’d arrived with, including her small notebook, then snapped the clasp closed.

  Odd while Anthony had stared at her, she’d almost forgotten the pain in her thigh. Almost. But it was coming back with a vengeance—so intense, she wanted to retch. She stepped into the corridor at the same time the dowager’s door flew open.

  “What the devil is going on? What is all this noise about?” The woman’s regard dipped from Olivia’s face to the suitcase she held. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve decided to leave, since Lord and Lady Huntington will be returning shortly, and my services will no longer be required.” Olivia bit her lip to stop it from trembling.

  With a questioning expression that further deepened the wrinkles on the dowager’s face, the elderly woman tipped her head to the side. “It’s the middle of the night. Where will you go?”

  There appeared to be actual concern in the woman’s voice. However, when she found out what Olivia had done, the dowager would wish her to the devil.

  Impulsively, Olivia hugged the old woman, then ran down the corridor.

  “Olivia, what is going on?” the woman called out after her.

  She ignored the question. As she made her way down the flight of stairs, she found it much harder to ignore the pain. By the time she reached the entry hall, it felt as though someone was trying to peel off the skin on her thigh. She took several deep breaths, opened the door, and stepped outside.

  The rain had stopped.

  Cold sweat prickled her forehead. She swiped her palm against it and glanced around. Where did a woman alone go to find lodging in London during the small hours? Her gaze shifted toward the direction of Hyde Park. So close, she could see the tops of the trees. Perhaps she could find a bench and sleep there for the night. She stepped out from under the portico and the pain in her thigh shot up to her hip—an intense strike, so fast it was like lightning. She doubled over and cupped her mouth to stifle a scream.

  Straightening, she glanced at the park. It suddenly looked miles away. She took another step and whimpered. A bead of sweat trailed down her spine. The pain in her leg was intensifying as if someone prodded the gash with their finger, attempting to reach for her bone.

  She needed to sit. Just for a moment. Just until the pain subsided. Sucking in a ragged breath, she shuffled toward the steps that led belowstairs—to the kitchen. She lifted the latch on the gate and the wrought iron swung open on quiet hinges. Cautiously, she took the first few steps, then two more before sitting. The dampness on the stair was inconsequential to the pain in her thigh. Drawing in a deep breath, she lifted the skirt of her dress.

  The blood from her gash had further darkened the woolen stocking she’d used as a makeshift bandage. As soon as she untied it, fresh blood oozed from the red gash, causing narrow rivulets of blood to run down her leg.

  She opened her valise, ripped a strip of fabric from the bottom of one of her old dresses, and tied the material around her thigh.

  The task completed, she leaned sideways against the damp concrete in the stairwell. Normally, the wet surface would have bothered her, but the cold felt like a balm against her hot skin.

  She would rest just for a minute, then make her way to Hyde Park.

  Just a minute.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As he walked aimlessly about London, Anthony’s shoes struck heavily against the flagstones, echoing into the quiet night. Earlier the rain had stopped, but now a fine drizzle fell from the sky. He raked his hands through his wet hair and cursed himself for not having the forethought to grab his hat before decamping from the town house.

  He’d only grabbed his coat, since an overwhelming desire to shake some sense into Olivia had come over him. She risked her life, and if caught she’d rot in Newgate for the rest of her days. The powerful men she’d stolen from would see to it.

  Hopefully, when he returned, she would be gone.

  Gone. Was that what he really wanted? Of course it was. She’d made a fool out of him. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the bollocks, knocking the air out of his lungs.

  Yet . . . He mumbled a curse as he remembered the sound of her breath catching when he’d told her to leave. What had she expected?

  Once in the corridor, he’d contemplated returning to her room and telling her to stay. He’d even set his palm on the door handle, then released the metal as if it singed his skin. Olivia played a dangerous game and if someone had seen her at the Duke of Wharton’s residence, her leaving would be for the best. She needed to not only leave London, but the country.

  Ahead, a man stumbled out of a corner building and onto the pavement.

  A slight breeze caused a wooden sign protruding from a brick façade to sway back and forth on damp, rusty hinges.

  THE FOX AND HEN TAVERN

  It looked as good a place as any to get pissing drunk. And that’s what he intended to do—wipe all thoughts of Olivia from his mind. All thoughts of the Phantom from his mind. Hard to believe they were one and the same.

  Anthony stepped into the dim establishment with its low, beamed ceiling, worn tables, and sooty walls. Several blokes seated at round tables, drinking and laughing, turned and stared at him, and Anthony realized, though wet, his bespoke garments and costly polished shoes made him look out of place.

  Ignoring the other patrons’ whispers, he strode to the bar that had only three stools, all empty, and settled onto the middle one.

  A gray-haired bartender with bushy whiskers arched a thick caterpillar-like eyebrow at him. “What can I get you?”

  He ordered a pint and set a coin from his pocket onto the wooden-topped bar. Anthony had downed half of his drink when the hairs on his neck stood on end. He glanced over his shoulder to see two bulky men whispering to each other as they approached.

  Each one slipped onto the worn stools on either side of him.

  “What’s a toff like you doing here?” The one on his left asked, knocking Anthony’s elbow so his ale sloshed against his tankard.

  “Lost are ye?” the one on his r
ight inquired.

  “No. I’m just enjoying a pint.” He took a hearty swallow of the bitter ale.

  The fellow to his right leaned in as close as the other bloke, crowding Anthony between their bodies.

  “Why don’t the two of you go back to your table? I’m not looking for trouble.”

  The man to his left grinned, showing a front tooth that was chipped. “You hear that, Martin, this bloke wants us to go away.”

  The fellow named Martin narrowed his eyes. “Don’t seem too hospitable, does he, Henry?”

  “No, he don’t, but I reckon we will forgive him if-in he buys us each a pint.”

  “Go away.” Anthony took another swig of his ale.

  The grin on Henry’s lips disappeared.

  “You ain’t going to buy us a drink?” Martin blinked.

  Maybe on another day, Anthony might have excused their bad behavior, but not today. Not now when he was in such a foul mood. “Sod off.”

  The bartender, obviously sensing nothing good would come from this exchange, backed away, moving several feet toward the end of the bar.

  Anthony knew he was pouring kerosene on an already combustible situation, but he didn’t bloody well care. If they wanted a fight, he was in the right mood to give it to them. He was primed and ready. As angry as a badger who is set upon with his nose to the ground.

  Henry slipped off the stool and ground his right fist into his left palm.

  Anthony jerked back as the bloke’s fist came at him. Instead of hitting Anthony, Henry’s fist struck Martin in the jaw.

  The impact knocked Martin from his stool. With an oof, the man landed on his back.

  It only took a second for Anthony to stand and swing an uppercut at Henry, striking him squarely in the jaw.