Sinful (Hot Regency Romance Novella)

by Sharon Page

  In the stews, she had stared down any number of men—from randy young toffs to vicious pimps looking to drag her into their seedy flash houses. But it was not so easy to meet the gaze of this man with cool indifference. A maelstrom of emotions surged in her. Guilt for what she had done to him ten years ago. And more guilt, for his assumption was correct but she could not admit it. She had to move away again. She walked toward the fireplace, praying her movement hid the trembling of her shoulders. “Then you should be able to find her.”

  He watched her intently—she felt the strength of his gaze on her back.

  “My dear, that appointment was five days ago. She should have returned a happily married woman by now. I followed her tracks along the Great North Road as far as the border, and then she disappeared. No one in Gretna remembers her. If she was wed over the anvil, no one will admit to performing the ceremony. She has vanished into thin air.”

  “Vanished? That’s not possible!” Estelle jerked back from the fireplace so quickly, her hand knocked something from the mantel. She saw a flash of white, helpless to catch it. Dimly, she recognized it as a favorite vase as it shattered on the tiles.

  It wasn’t possible. It could not be.

  She had put her hand to her mouth. It had been a reflexive gesture of horror. But it would be a natural response, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t tell Lyan anything, would it?

  “Yes, Sally.” His voice was deep, soft, grim. “It is very possible.”

  She had to know exactly what had happened. There must be some mistake. Maryanne must have reached Gretna Green and married. Surely the man Maryanne had eloped with had not—

  No. Estelle fought for composure. She had investigated Lady Maryanne’s handsome young scholar. That was what she did. She smoothed the course of true love for young ladies about to be forced into loveless marriages. She had made her choice years ago—security over love. But that did not mean she could bear to see innocent women made into prisoners in their marriages.

  Her investigation had revealed Maryanne’s gentleman was exactly what he claimed to be: a younger son of a now-impoverished baron and a studious, respectable, noble young man. All accounts painted him as gentle and completely besotted with Maryanne.

  Had something gone wrong? Had something terrible happened to that beautiful, sweet young woman?

  Estelle knew she must face Lyan. It would be natural if she knew nothing about Lady Maryanne’s elopement and was simply shocked. “D—do you know whom she ran away with?”

  She had meant to sound calm, but she could not stop her voice from shaking.

  His emerald green eyes focused on her lips, as though he were reading words there that she had not spoken. “No, Madame Desjardins. Do you?”

  This was a nightmare. There was no one in London—in all England—who knew her like Lyan did. If anyone could see through a lie, it would be he. “Good heavens, why would the girl confide such a thing to me? I was a dressmaker, not a friend. I assure you I have no idea.”

  Had she overdone it? Darn the man—he showed no expression at all and it made her nervous.

  “Are you certain she has disappeared?” she continued. “If she eloped, would she not try to evade capture?” She wanted to believe this was true, but she knew it wasn’t. If Lyan was convinced the girl had vanished, he would be right.

  “Yes, she would try to hide. On that, I agree with you. However, for the staggering amount of money I offered for information, someone would have admitted they had seen her.”

  That would certainly be true. Her heart began to thunder again. “Who gave you a staggering amount of money?” she asked, though she could guess, of course.

  “Her guardian asked me to spare no expense to find her.”

  “But how could something have happened to her? She wasn’t alone. It is a well-travelled road...” She wasn’t being careful of her words now, but she couldn’t stop thinking of the happiness and hope she’d seen in Lady Maryanne’s eyes and of how awful—how inhuman—it would be if all that hope had led only to tragedy.

  Her stomach roiled. She wanted to be sick. But that was the last thing she wanted to do in front of Lyan.

  “Some fortune hunters are not the nicest of men,” he pointed out dryly.

  That was true, but she had ensured that Maryanne’s beloved was not a fortune hunter.

  If anything she could tell Lyan would help, she would say it now. Five days ago, she had watched Lady Maryanne climb into a hackney. She had lent the eighteen-year-old girl a purse filled with money to finance the journey, since, like most girls, Maryanne had no access to money of her own.

  She had sent Maryanne on her escape to true love.

  There had been no reason to assume Maryanne had not reached Scotland, where a young couple needed no one’s consent but their own to marry. As soon as they crossed the border, lovers could marry anywhere, but Gretna Green was close. Since the couple usually wanted to be joined in haste, that was where they would usually stop. Vows were spoken over the anvil at blacksmith’s shops, officiated by blacksmith priests.

  Maryanne should have been safely wed now. However, Estelle trusted Lyan’s intelligence and his instincts. If he feared something had gone wrong, she knew he must be right.

  Oh God. That poor, innocent girl…

  What should she do? She could tell Lyan the identity of Maryanne’s fiancé, but she was certain that young man had been honorable. If something had happened to Maryanne, it wouldn’t have been at his hands. If they’d encountered a highwayman, if a criminal had been the reason for Maryanne’s disappearance, her fiancé would likely be dead already…

  No. Dear heaven, no. But blurting out the truth of what she had done would not accomplish anything. It would not give Trevelyan any additional useful information. The truth would only destroy her. And she was not the sole person she had to worry about.

  She faced him, knowing she could not give him the truth, but she had to somehow give him enough. “Lady Maryanne came here that morning. We had another fitting. Dresses for her wedding trousseau, for her upcoming nuptials with her guardian, Lord Cavell.” The name sat on Estelle’s tongue with all the foul taste of rancid meat, but she managed not to shudder as she said it. “But by the end of the appointment, I knew she would not need the dress. I knew she planned to go to Gretna Green and that her fiancé was an honorable man. I do not know any more than that, Lyan.”

  “You do, Sally. Everything about you screams to me that you’re keeping secrets. You always looked your most defiant when you were telling me a tale. I think you knew what Lady Maryanne planned to do. What you know may help me find her. Now, how about we strike a bargain? You tell me everything, and I won’t go back out and have a nice chat about our childhood with the Duchess of St. Ives.”

  What she knew wouldn’t help. If she really believed it would, she would tell him, even without threats. But since it wouldn’t…

  “Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t destroy me, Lyan. It may please you to see me lose everything, but I would not be the only one to suffer. You see, I have a daughter.”

  She could not have stunned him more if she’d hit him with a plank. She could see that from the way all six feet of him lurched back on his heels. There was no doubt what he must think.

  “No, she is not your child,” she added swiftly. “But I will be damned if I will end up like my mother—in some stinking, wretched flash house, poor and starving. My daughter is almost nine years of age.” She lied there. It had been ten years since she had last seen Trevelyan. Since their “wedding night,” when she had panicked, gathered up half of the money she knew Lyan kept in his meager room, then run away with it. “You know what her life would be like if I have to go back there.”

  “Who is her father, Sal?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  Two strides brought him around the desk. Before she could move away, he stood in front of her, forcing her back until the edge of the mantelpiece pressed against her back.

 
; “As I remember,” he growled, “the last time I saw you, you had agreed to marry me. We had our little ceremony in that warehouse. We consummated our marriage on the floor of it.”

  It was just one simple word. Consummated. But it conjured memories of being beneath Lyan, sweaty and dizzy with pleasure, feeling alive and feminine and powerful. She could not forget the thrill of caressing his naked body, of feeling hard biceps, cupping the curves of his bottom. His body had been fascinating—his skin smooth and honey-colored in some places, like his arms and chest, and pale everywhere else. He’d been a stunning combination of youth and man, tall, slender, and formed with bulging muscle.

  He had been so beautiful. And she had thrown it all away.

  “I’d say that does make it my business.” He had lowered his voice, and his words were a smooth-as-silk murmur beside her ear.

  Before she could stop him, before she could even react, he spun her around, put his hands on her upper arms, and slanted his mouth over hers.

  At first, she froze in shock. Her body remained as rigid as her metal mannequins. She was caught between his broad chest, his lean abdomen, and the fireplace mantel. He loomed over her, forcing her head to tip back, and his hand pressed to her lower back, giving her no choice but to let her body fall against his.

  She expected a harsh mashing of lips. Fear had spiked as he’d pulled her against him, as she’d waited for his kiss to change, to become rough and full of anger. She’d thought he had intended the kiss as a punishment. But he was so gentle. His mouth caressed hers—firmly enough to make her lips sizzle and tingle, but not enough to evoke more fear.

  Her tension began to evaporate. Something else pounded in its place. Desire. Hot, maddening, inconvenient, disastrous desire.

  He tasted of smoke, of liquor and coffee, of heat and man and sin. He tipped her more, so she had to wrap her arms around his broad back. She melted, like wax beneath a candle’s flame.

  She’d kissed him before. Made love to him before, which had been the most dazzling, wet, hot, wonderful, and heartbreaking night of her life. She had been able to run away after sex; she should be impervious to his skill now. But he kissed her so tenderly that she could not dredge up any defense. His lips teased hers. His mouth coaxed hers to open wide and she loved it. She moaned as his tongue slid in and played and reminded her of what she’d dreamed of him doing for so many years.

  It had been a whole decade since she had kissed him. And the only kiss she’d had since then had been forced upon her. A harsh, vicious assault she’d escaped when her attacker had been struck with a frying pan. After that, she’d never wanted to be touched again. Until now…

  She had to stop.

  But, to her shock, she couldn’t make herself pull away. Lyan was the one to break the kiss. Setting her securely back on her feet, he stared at her with green eyes that gleamed as brilliantly as lanterns.

  “W-why did you do that?”

  A sardonic grin twisted his handsome mouth. “I just wanted to see if it had been worth thinking about you for all these years.”

  His very answer terrified her. There was no hatred in his voice. Only regret. “And was it?” she managed to ask.

  “Let’s just say I can have my secrets, too.” But his gaze ravaged her mouth. Her lips were still so sensitive, just the heat in his glance made them ache for another kiss.

  “I promise you, Sal,” he growled. “I will get to the truth. I will find out if you were involved with Lady Maryanne’s disappearance.” His expression grew even harder, as though, in a heartbeat, he had turned to stone. “And I will find out if you are keeping my daughter from me.”

  * * *

  Lyan followed the tall, icily correct butler down the gloomy halls of Cavell House and felt as if he were trailing a walking cadaver. As he neared his client’s study, he planned what he would say. What he would reveal.

  He hadn’t expected Sally to give him any information. But he’d observed her shock when he’d said Maryanne was missing, and it had told him more than words. Sal had known he would question her about a marriage, but she obviously hadn’t anticipated he would ask about a disappearance. It meant Lady Maryanne’s vanishing act had not been planned.

  He hadn’t anticipated kissing Sally. His mouth had been on hers before he’d realized what he was doing. Her kiss had burned a path through his hardened heart like a flame along a fuse. He couldn’t think of anything but getting her back into his arms, keeping her there forever, kissing and kissing her until she was panting, needy, and begging him to make love to her.

  Never, on a job, did he lose control. Never had he stopped thinking with his head and let his cock take charge. He couldn’t afford to do it now.

  Yet, knowing that, he was still mentally undressing Sally as he sauntered down the corridor of the Marquis of Cavell’s home. He could imagine what she would look like naked, completely bared to him and draped sensuously across her desk. For his pleasure, he arranged her on her front—on her small round breasts and smooth tummy—with her naked rump saucily lifted to tempt him.

  Hell.

  Even with their past hanging between them, with her betrayal sitting in his gut like a knife blade, he had to admire her. He’d always known she was tough, but now he appreciated she was also intelligent and clever. A better life agreed with her. She had changed from a stick-thin seventeen-year-old with dirty hair to a tall, striking beauty. Her severe hairstyle had made him hunger to tear out her pins and watch the whisky-colored mass fall down her back. Ten years ago, he never would have guessed her hair was that rich amber hue. If he hadn’t known Sally from the past, he would have been enjoying himself. A canny, beautiful woman: she was the type of adversary who made his work interesting.

  When he’d looked at her, he’d felt not anger, but sorrow and regret. Yet when he’d walked through her feminine shop, he’d been stunned by one realization—the tumultuous ending of their relationship had been for the best. Where would they have been if she hadn’t taken half their money, run out on him, and built up her business? Where would he have been if he hadn’t gone after her, gotten himself stabbed by a footpad in his distraction, and realized he had to get out of the stews before that world ate him alive?

  The butler rapped upon a dark study door. “Mr. Foxton has arrived to report, my lord.” A raspy voice barked at him to enter, and Lyan found himself once again in the dark, cave-like study of Horace Beckworth, the Marquis of Cavell.

  The marquis tossed back a glass of brandy and stomped forward. His jowls shook as he bellowed, “Bloody hell, Foxton, you haven’t found her yet. I don’t know what you hoped to accomplish by coming to see me without my ward, but if your goal was to infuriate me, you have succeeded. There are other Runners in London. Other successful private investigators.”

  It was a struggle for Lyan to keep a sneer off his lips. He disliked Cavell. “You are free to hire one of them, my lord. But this case has become personally interesting to me. Whether I’m working for you or not, I will find out what happened to Lady Maryanne.”

  Cavell grimaced. “Fine, then. Have you learned anything?”

  In curt tones, he gave Cavell a report on what he’d learned at Gretna. “As yet, there is no evidence she has married,” he concluded.

  “So then it is possible her seducer never meant to marry her—only ruin her!”

  “That is a possibility. That’s why I came to you tonight—to find out whether there could be someone who would seek revenge on you through your ward.”

  “Revenge? For what?” The eyes narrowed in the fleshy face. “I will remind you I am a gentleman of honor. If I have made enemies, they would meet me over pistols. On that you are wasting your time.”

  “I want to examine every possibility.”

  “But you could find no sign of her in Scotland?” Cavell barked.

  “None.”

  The marquis fell back into his large, leather chair. “Do you think it is possible she never made it to Gretna Green because she is dead?”
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br />   “Again, it is a possibility, yes,” Lyan said. Not one he would have wanted to leap to, if the girl had been under his care. However, he had a young sister. It would be an agonizing nightmare to lose her, so he could understand a tendency to fear the worst. He studied Cavell’s face. There was something subtly different in the marquis’s expression. It was not horror, nor despair. It was a look Lyan knew from his days on the streets.

  Anticipation.

  Cavell pulled out a linen handkerchief to mop his brow. “I have to know, Foxton,” he croaked. “I have to know what has happened to her.”

  The back of Lyan’s neck prickled. Cavell had been the best friend of Lady Maryanne’s father and was the trustee of the girl’s fortune. Her father had made millions in speculative ventures and had settled a large portion of his money—that part of his estate not entailed—on his daughter.

  Lady Maryanne was a wealthy woman. Lyan had reviewed the will left by Lady Maryanne’s late father. If she died, Cavell got the fortune.

  “Find her. Or find evidence that she is lost to me,” Cavell snapped. “I want it within the week or I’m done with you. Don’t think I’ll just fire you. I have no patience with men who fail me. I make them pay.”

  “I would advise you, Cavell, not to threaten me,” Lyan growled. But he thought of Lady Maryanne. She was a sweet, gentle young lady, very much like his younger sister, Laura. She deserved a better life than being locked up in this mausoleum with an old roué who hungered for her money. He prayed she was still alive.

  His thoughts went back to Sally. There had been a fleeting look of guilt in her shrewd blue eyes, along with a quiver of apprehension, that told him she knew who had accompanied Lady Maryanne on her escape. The discovery she had a daughter had startled him, had thrown him off balance. Now he intended to get at the truth.