One Little Sin

by Liz Carlyle

  “She is his mistress,” corrected Lady Wynwood. “Or one of them, and everyone knows it.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Lady Kirton. But even she sounded confused now. “I think it is the angel in the chorus who is—or perhaps was—his mistress. That is her sister who is sitting in his box.”

  Sisters thought Esmée. There were two? That brought her no comfort.

  “Oh, dear,” said Lady Tatton. “This is very awkward.”

  “Yes, and Sir Alasdair is your cousin!” remarked Lady Wynwood, as if she sought to spread the blame around.

  “Well, I am not at all sure he—” Lady Tatton’s words broke off. “Well, he is not close kin, at any rate. A fifth cousin, perhaps.”

  By now, Lord Wynwood had vanished from Sir Alasdair’s box. Alasdair and the blond actress—the angel’s sister—were whispering intently. Esmée sat quietly, her hands folded demurely in her lap. But beneath her ladylike gloves, her knuckles were white with anger. His mistress, was she? Or his mistress’s sister? Indeed, she would not put it past Alasdair MacLachlan to have sampled both!

  She spent the next ten minutes stewing until Wynwood returned, his big hands filled with stemmed glasses. He passed them round to the ladies, glancing down at Esmée with a look of mild chagrin. She forced herself to smile, and thanked him. The lights were beginning to dim again. Wynwood took his seat just as the squeaking pulleys began their ascent, hauling the curtain back up.

  Poor Christian was center stage, bent beneath his burden, and looking dreadfully glum. The chorus was stage right this time. Again, at the precise moment the curtain revealed them, the three angels stepped forward, their flaming torches in hand, their white robes swirling ethereally about their feet.

  But this time, something went awry. The rightmost edge of the curtain did not rise in proper synchronization with the angels’ movements. The center angel, the taller of the three, hesitated when the curtain brushed her forehead. In confusion, the second faltered, catching her foot in her pooling skirts. The third angel soldiered on, stepping determinedly forward to hoist her torch as planned—and in the process, set the curtain afire.

  For an instant, everyone froze. Then the first angel looked up, and screamed. The curtain burst into full flame, which hastened its way in all directions, snapping and crackling as it consumed the fabric. Pandemonium exploded. “Fire! Fire!” someone screamed.

  Christian tossed down his heavy knapsack and hurled himself into the pit. The angels followed, white skirts billowing as they leapt from the stage. In the audience below, men and woman ran screaming for the doors. Wynwood had seized Esmée’s arm. “I realize Mr. Bunyan wished to warn us of the perils of hellfire,” he said. “But this seems a bit much.”

  “Oh! Oh dear!” cried his mother. “Oh, Quinten, we are going to die!”

  Lady Kirton had the curtain drawn back and was pushing Lady Tatton through.

  “Esmée! Where is Esmée!” Lady Tatton shrieked. “I shan’t leave without her!”

  “I have her, ma’am,” Wynwood shouted. He had his mother by the arm now, too. Smoke was beginning to roil in the air. “Press on, ladies, please. Quickly.”

  “Oh, Quinten!” his mother wailed. “You haven’t an heir! Oh, oh! I told you to get married! Now look! We are going to die!”

  “Mamma, for God’s sake move!” he insisted, propelling her forward as he dragged Esmée behind. “Follow on Lady Tatton’s heels. Go! Go!”

  They worked their way toward the upper balcony, the crowd thickening as they went. Shouts and screams were everywhere. Lady Tatton looked back periodically, her face white with panic, as if to ensure Esmée followed. Lady Wynwood was still shrieking above all the other shrieking women.

  “Oh, all shall be Cousin Enoch’s now!” she cried. “Vile, odious man! Oh, we are going to die!”

  Inside the upper lobby, the crowd was near impenetrable. Ladies were pushing and shoving to get down the narrow twin staircases, while gentlemen—the true ones, anyway—stood to one side. Wynwood was frantically pushing the women closer. The stench of burned fabric filled Esmée’s nostrils. True panic edged near, but she fought it down.

  When they reached the top of the steps, Wynwood stood aside. “Urge them on, I beg you,” he said to Esmée. “Keep Lady Kirton in front—she won’t lose her head—and keep the others between you!”

  Nodding, Esmée started down the stairs, coughing against the smoke. But she could feel a little air stirring in the stairwell, a good sign, she prayed. Urgently, she pushed the ladies toward it. But halfway down, the smoke became almost impenetrable. Suddenly, as they neared the bottom, Lady Wynwood froze. “Quinten?” she cried. “Oh! Where is he? I won’t go on without him!”

  “Please, ma’am,” said Esmée firmly. “Move on, then the gentlemen may follow.”

  Lady Wynwood’s face was stark with fear. “No! No! I cannot leave him!”

  “Move on, you damned cow!” shouted an angry voice. In the roiling smoke, a man’s arm thrust over Esmée’s shoulder, giving Lady Wynwood a violent shove.

  Situated perhaps four steps up, Lady Wynwood pitched forward into the haze, practically taking the others down with her. Esmée tried to catch her, but the man shoved Esmée from his path, too, slammed her hard between the shoulder blades. She stumbled, fell, and a terrible pain shot through her left leg. Everyone was screaming and tumbling.

  Esmée rolled to one side at the bottom of the steps, skirts tangling about her knees. The crowd continued to trample past. Chaos was everywhere. More men were thundering down now. Everyone was shouting out orders and directions.

  “The door! The door!” someone cried. “It’s that way!”

  Esmée rose onto her arms and called out. No one heard. She tried to get up, but a shaft of pain stabbed her knee. The thundering footsteps went on. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. In the haze, she seized hold of something—the stair rail, perhaps—and debated whether to drag herself up, or try to crawl beneath the smoke. Suddenly, a ghostly shadow moved from the opposite stairwell toward her.

  “Esmée?” She would have known his voice anywhere. “Esmée! Good God! Are you all right?”

  Strong, solid arms slid beneath her, lifting her almost effortlessly from the floor. “Oh, Alasdair,” she said. “Oh, I am glad to see you!”

  “And I you,” he said, glancing over one shoulder. “Ilsa, I have her!” he shouted. “Go on, get out! Find Inga!”

  The woman in red materialized from the smoke, coughing. “Ya, we find you outside,” she managed. “Your friend, she is good?”

  “Yes, go!” He was shouldering his way through what remained of the crowd. The woman in red pushed past them, vanishing into the haze. “Turn your face into my coat, Esmée,” he ordered. “Don’t breathe the smoke. What happened?”

  “I wrenched my knee and fell down the last of the stairs,” she said, her words muffled against his broad chest. “A man shoved us out of his way.”

  “Bastard!” he gritted. “Where the hell is Quin? Where are the ladies?”

  “I do not know,” she answered, coughing. “Perhaps he passed me in the smoke? I think the others got out.”

  Suddenly, a flood of fresh air hit them. The door! A few more long strides, and Alasdair burst through it, swishing her skirts round one of the columns which lined the theater’s facade. The crowd had spilt into the intersection and beyond. Smoke billowed from the theater’s doors and windows. Esmée lifted her face from Alasdair’s coat to see clusters of hacking, soot-stained people everywhere. From the coffeehouses and taverns nearby, customers had flooded forth to offer aid, or just to gawk. But no one was lingering long. Fires could spread too quickly.

  Esmée looked about in vain for her aunt. Just then, a cart loaded with men came rattling up the street. “Make way!” they shouted. “Make way for the fire brigade! Make way, now!”

  The crowd in the street split like the Red Sea. Alasdair reached a flight of stone steps leading up to some sort of building, then carried her
up to the top, as if she weighed nothing at all. “We should be safe here for now,” he said, settling her on the top step. “Esmée, listen to me. Which way did your aunt go?”

  “Through the door we used, I think,” she managed between coughs.

  Just then, a strange-looking contraption, like a steam engine on wheels, came rumbling past, drawn by four stout dray horses. The men on the cart leapt down, and began to rush to and fro, barking orders and waving madly at the man driving the steam apparatus.

  Alasdair returned his attention to her. His face was stark with worry and streaked with soot. Backlit by the haze of smoke and flame, he again put her in mind of some fallen angel. Her angel—for tonight, at least. “I’m not sure how long we can safely remain here,” he said.

  “You cannot walk. I am afraid to leave you, or I would go back and search for the others.”

  Esmée considered it. “I think they must have got out that door,” she said. “There was no place else to go but in that direction.”

  He knelt and stared at her knee. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “’Tis but a sprain,” she answered. “And you?”

  He smiled crookedly. “Well enough, for a man who’s had the life scared out of him,” he said. “I pray God everyone got out of that hell alive.”

  As if to punctuate his description, an upstairs window suddenly blew, raining glass upon the street. A fireball roared out behind it, then receded into smaller flames, which began to lick their way up what was left of the wooden frame. Esmée stared up at it and felt a frisson of fear run down her spine. She had made a lucky escape. What if Alasdair had not come? Would anyone have heard her cries? Would she have been able to limp out? Crawl out? It was too horrible to contemplate.

  “Alasdair,” she said quietly. “Were you looking for me in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He stared at her a little oddly. “Because…because I thought…oh, I don’t know. I saw Quin pushing you from the box, and I just thought…something was wrong. I felt uneasy. That’s all.”

  “Uneasy,” echoed Esmée.

  She had had a brush with almost certain death, and all that had saved her, perhaps, was the unease of a man who had cared enough to come looking for her. A premonition, so to speak, from someone who professed to live only in the here and now, and who insisted he had nothing of the romantic in him.

  Well. Esmée was not sure she believed that any longer. But what could she do about it? He was convinced, so no one else’s opinion much mattered. The futility of it all seemed to well into a deep, sorrowful knot in her chest. She glanced up again and gave a sharp cry. “Och, Alasdair, your hair—!” she began. “Oh, ’tis…’tis so…”

  “What’s wrong?” Awkward as a boy, he ran one hand through it—or what was left of it—and paled.

  She closed her eyes, and nodded. “Aye, ’tis badly singed,” she whispered. “I’m afraid there shan’t be anything for the ladies to run their fingers through for at least a fortnight.” She did not realize she was crying until he sat down on the step beside her.

  “Esmée, Esmée,” he soothed, circling a strong, solid arm round her. “Oh, Esmée, never mind my hair. I don’t give a damn about it. Now don’t cry, love. All’s well. We’re safe. Your aunt is safe, too. Trust me, all right? I’ll find her, I swear it.”

  “I know.” She sobbed. “I do. Trust you, I mean.”

  He pulled her firmly against him and ran one dirty knuckle beneath her eye, which only made her cry harder. “You’ve had a terrible fright, that’s all.”

  Esmée shook her head, her disordered curls dragging on the wool of his coat. It wasn’t just the fright, or the fire; not even the fact she did not know where her aunt was. It was him. Them. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but just then, a shout sounded from the street below.

  “Miss Hamilton, thank God!” Lord Wynwood bounded up the steps toward them, then faltered. “Miss Hamilton, are you all right? Alasdair, what’s happened?”

  Alasdair set her away, and stood. “Miss Hamilton has wrenched her knee,” he said. “She will need a doctor.”

  “Oh, Lord Wynwood!” Esmée interrupted. “Thank God! Have you found the others? Have you seen my aunt?”

  “They are well, and waiting for us down by the Lyceum, along with my coach,” he answered. “You were very brave, Miss Hamilton, to keep them moving. Alasdair, where is Miss Karlsson? Oughtn’t you see to her?”

  Alasdair seemed to go rigid. “Ilsa is fine,” he said stiffly. “But Miss Hamilton cannot walk. She can hardly be left alone, Quin, in such dangerous circumstances.”

  Wynwood knelt to look at Esmée, who still sat upon the steps. “My dear girl,” he said. “Are you in pain?”

  “’Tis a wee sprain, no more,” she answered.

  Wynwood looked sympathetic. “This must be the worst theater engagement you’ve ever endured.”

  “Well, so far, ’tis the only one,” Esmée confessed. “At least it shall be memorable, aye? And I think I can walk, if I have someone to lean on.”

  “Nonsense,” said Alasdair. “I shall carry you down to the Lyceum.”

  But Lord Wynwood had already scooped her up in his arms, quite as effortlessly as Alasdair had done. For a moment, the gentlemen eyed one another almost warily. Then Wynwood gave a tight nod.

  “I’m off then, old chap,” he said coolly. “Must get the ladies safely home. Shall I see you at White’s for a brandy after?”

  Alasdair shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I think not tonight, Quin.”

  Then Alasdair went rapidly down the steps and vanished into the chaos of the streets.

  Despite his mood—a miserable mix of despair, jealousy, and rage—Alasdair forced himself to search for Ilsa. Regardless of whatever Quin had meant to suggest, Alasdair did feel a duty to ensure the sisters returned home safely. Fortunately, Ilsa had found Inga and the other two angels in Broad Court, still dressed in their white robes and halos, and leaning against the bow window of a tavern. It made for an interesting picture, to say the least.

  They were suffering very little, for the tapster and most of the male patrons had rushed out to press cider and wine into their hands. In her sooty white robe, Inga looked beautiful as always. He was almost sorry he was not actually keeping her in that little flat in Long Acre. He should have liked to go home with someone besides himself this dreadful night.

  Ah, but Inga would expect a little more than a sympathetic shoulder, and he had nothing more to give. So Alasdair kissed her on the cheek, sent the four of them off in his carriage, and set out on foot for home.

  He drifted back past the theater to see that the steam engine had been fired up, and was belching more black smoke than the theater itself. No water yet spewed forth, and the blaze looked to be dying of its own accord. He stopped to make inquiries of a portly constable who was keeping a watchful eye on the scene.

  “Why, bless me, sir, but everyone’s accounted for!” he answered, whipping off his tall hat. “A proper miracle, it is. And naught but the stage and half the upstairs gone, unless the fire catches up again.”

  Alasdair thanked him, then hesitated. The man looked dashed familiar. “’Tis Simpkins, sir,” he said without prompting. “From Hyde Park.”

  Simpkins. Ah, yes! The day Sorcha had been injured. “I remember,” said Alasdair. “And I am remiss in not thanking you sooner for your help.”

  “No thanks necessary, sir,” said the constable. “’Tweren’t as if I did much. I do hope the child goes on well?”

  “Another miracle,” he said. “She remembers nothing and has only a scar to show for it.”

  The constable smiled and set his broad hands on his belly. “And your lovely wife?” he asked. “My heart broke for her, it surely did. Such a pretty, sweet-natured thing she seemed, and took it terrible hard. A Highland Scot, weren’t she, sir? I did notice the lovely accent.”

  “A Highlander, yes,” murmured Alasdair. Again, he found himse
lf fighting down a cold, crushing disappointment—the same emotion he’d felt watching Quin bound up the steps after Esmée tonight. “But the child’s governess. Not my wife.”

  The constable looked confused. “Well, beg pardon, sir,” he said, scratching his head. “I just thought—or somehow took it into my head that—well, in any case, I’m glad all’s well.”

  Alasdair thanked him again and headed home at an even brisker pace. They’d all lived through the fire, thank God, but otherwise, this evening could hardly get worse. His wife. What a conclusion to draw. He was too old to be Esmée’s husband. Wasn’t he?

  Oh, he knew some lecherous old dogs who made a sport of marrying women young enough to be their children—younger than their children, often enough. Such men sought out the girls who had little choice. The naïve young misses just up from the country, whose fathers had gambled away the family farms or lost their dowries at faro. The very thought of what they must endure made his flesh creep. No, women did not willingly enter into those sorts of marriages.

  But that wasn’t exactly the case here, was it? Esmée was but fourteen years his junior. She wasn’t dowerless. She was not young enough to be his daughter. Well, not quite. And Esmée seemed perfectly willing to be courted by Quin, who was not yet thirty. Thirty seemed reasonable. Six-and-thirty did not. Why? It was just six or seven years. It was nothing. Why did it trouble him so?

  Because of Sorcha. Because of how she had been conceived—or with whom, perhaps, was the better way of looking at it. It seemed wrong to wish to bed Lady Achanalt’s daughter, given what had happened between them, even if he did not really remember the doing of it. Good Lord, had he actually impregnated the poor woman, then married her, as any decent man would do, that would have been the end of it. The church would have forbidden him Esmée forever. She would have been considered his child, just as Sorcha was.

  But he had not needed the church’s refusal. He had refused Esmée without any help at all. He had refused to so much as discuss her own future with her. She had come to him for advice, and he had practically laughed in her face. He had thought it best for her that they sever all contact, and a keen blade always cut cleanest. So he had sliced apart their relationship. That had been his choice, he reminded himself as he hastened across the vast darkness of St. James’s Park.