Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  “That’s one of them,” Thomas cried. “One of the men who kidnapped me.”

  The man dropped the cane and immediately went to his knees, his gaze locked on the gun’s muzzle. “Don’t shoot me! It weren’t me. I had to do it! It was Semple. I only work for him.” The man spilled information so quickly, Devon had to fight to keep track of it. His name was Arthur Bevis, and the man who stole boys and ran the brothel was named Semple.

  “If you want to escape the noose, Bevis,” Devon snapped, “give me Semple.”

  “All right.” Bevis led them through a hidden passageway to a large office. At the sight of the pistol, Semple pulled out one of his own. Devon shot it out of his hand. Within minutes, he had both men captured and bound—just as they had done to poor Thomas.

  Anne was draping a blanket around a trembling Thomas. Quietly, Devon told her, “I’m going to leave my footmen to guard these two. I’m going to Bow Street and will have them send Runners to make the arrest and get the boys out. I will take Thomas with me, then bring him to his mother. I’m going to take you to your house, and I want you to stay there, in hiding.”

  She looked nervously from Thomas to him. “I want to look after him.”

  Did she fear he was capable of hurting a defenseless boy because his head was so tormented with guilt and battle memories? “I would never hurt him,” he said bitterly. “Not even over what he could have done to you.”

  Her green eyes went wide. “I did not think you would! But I understand a little of the experience Thomas has been through. I was taken prisoner, as he was.” Suddenly she touched his arm. “Devon, are you all right?”

  His hands were shaking, and she said softly, “I know you went through hell. You were confronted with the same horrible choice you faced in battle.”

  He couldn’t stop the bloody trembling. “I didn’t know what to do. I prayed only that I could save you both. If I’d had to make the choice … I wouldn’t have let you die. Even if it haunted me forever, I couldn’t have let that happen.”

  “Devon, Thomas is safe; I’m safe. This time it ended happily.”

  Her words went to his soul, but he knew she wasn’t yet safe.

  “Devon, I would like to go directly to the boy’s mother and let her know Thomas is safe and that you will bring him from Bow Street. I can take a hackney.”

  “A hackney?” he exploded. “You would be unprotected.”

  “Devon, I lived here for years without protection. I know how to survive.”

  It was a stark reminder of what she’d been through. He looked at Thomas, who was terrified beyond belief, and he realized how very strong Anne had been.

  It was so wonderful to be able to introduce Devon to Mrs. Tanner when he arrived with Thomas. Anne’s heart swelled with joy as Thomas’s mother gave a sobbing cry of joy, rushed to her son, and fell to her knees in front of him. Anne looked to Devon and smiled. This had been worth a few small nicks to her neck. Devon had fussed over her, but she was quite all right.

  But she noticed how stiffly Thomas stood in his mother’s hug. He didn’t wrap his arms around her neck, press to her bosom, or cuddle against her. Perhaps it was only because, at twelve, he felt he should behave in a more grown-up way, but it worried Anne.

  Through tear-blurred eyes, Mrs. Tanner gazed up at Devon. As she had embraced her child, the woman seemed to grow years younger. She had been pale, but now color bloomed in her cheeks. “Your Grace … I don’t know how … how can I ever thank you?” Mrs. Tanner bent to press her cheek to her son’s curls. Poor Thomas kept his head bent as though he did not want to look at his mother. She whispered, “I feared I had lost my boy as I lost my husband.”

  Devon ran his finger around his collar as if it choked him. “Mrs. Tanner, there is something I must tell you,” he said gruffly. “Once you know of this, you may not feel such gratitude.”

  Confusion passed over the woman’s face. Anne whispered, “No. There’s no point in this.”

  “I have to,” he whispered back. “If I’m to be condemned, I’d rather face it honestly.”

  “There’s nothing to be gained,” she persisted. “It will only hurt you both.”

  He leaned close to her, as Mrs. Tanner stared down at her son, and murmured, “Perhaps, for Mrs. Tanner, having a villain to hate will help.”

  Anne was about to protest—this was madness—but Devon bent to Thomas and ruffled his hair. “This lad should go to his bed. After he is settled, madam, we must speak.”

  Anne argued desperately as Mrs. Tanner led her son to his bed. “You saved Thomas. You have given her happiness. Haven’t you eased your guilt? Don’t—” She had to stop. Mrs. Tanner stood in the doorway, wringing her hands.

  “Your Grace, what did you want to tell me?”

  “Mrs. Tanner, please sit down.” Devon waited until the woman lowered shakily. Then he told his tale: of Tanner’s bravery and nobility in battle, of what an admired soldier Tanner had been, then finally of his horrible choice. He paced, his face anguished. “I hesitated. There is no way I can explain that to you, but I paused, unable to shoot down a young lad. In that moment, the boy took his shot on Tanner.”

  “Your Grace, I don’t understand—”

  “Allow me to speak bluntly, madam. Captain Tanner was shot because I could not kill the French boy, though it was my duty to do so.”

  Mrs. Tanner simply dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.

  Anne saw Devon’s face go gray and his expression harden into one of cold self-recrimination. It was as if he were turning to stone in front of her.

  “You must forgive His Grace,” she said. “He would have saved your husband if he could. He had a terrible choice. Your husband’s death was the fault of the French, not of His Grace.”

  Mrs. Tanner wiped her tears. “I understand that my husband went through the most horrible of experiences. I can understand why you couldn’t shoot. I have a son. How could a man be asked to shoot any woman’s son? I believe … I believe I would have done the same, if I were you.”

  Devon looked as he had when he’d first regained consciousness after falling in the stream—stunned. Thank heaven the woman was obviously one with great sense and a good heart.

  “You are a very gracious woman, Mrs. Tanner,” he said slowly. “Allow me to help you and your family. I owe your husband a great debt, and it is my duty to support you all.”

  Mrs. Tanner straightened her shoulders. “I do not need charity, Your Grace. I thank you with all my heart for rescuing Thomas, but now that he is home, we will be fine.”

  Devon tried to insist, but even a duke was no match for a proud and stubborn woman. Anne knew she must act. Devon needed this. Grasping Mrs. Tanner’s hands, Anne faced her squarely. “I have been in the same position as you—my mother was forced to leave our home and we ended up living in lodging houses. My mother refused charity out of pride and worked herself to death. Your health and security, and Thomas’s, are far more important than your pride. His Grace believes it is his duty to make amends for your husband’s death. This is not charity—it is to repay Captain Tanner for his sacrifice.”

  “We have always worked for what we’ve gotten,” Mrs. Tanner insisted.

  She would not be swayed. Anne left the house with Devon, worried about Thomas’s withdrawn behavior and the family’s future. She was staring back at their simple home when Devon slipped his arm around her waist. “Thank you,” he said softly, “for coming to my defense, for helping me to find Thomas. Can you tell me if there is any way I can help them?”

  “I don’t know. But I am determined to think of something.”

  He lifted her hand and gave a melting kiss to her palm. “Thank you,” he said. “As Mrs. Tanner said to me, I don’t know how to begin to thank you.”

  “What of Orston?” she asked. “What will become of him?”

  “I will ensure he is too afraid to make use of young boys again.”

  She did not doubt Orston would be terrified by the hard determinat
ion in Devon’s eyes. Then he took her home in the carriage, and she invited him inside. She stood at the front door, shyly asking, “Would you care to … to spend the rest of the night with me?” Why, when she was behaving as his mistress, did her tongue suddenly get tied? She pushed open the door. “Would you care for a bit of brandy in the parlor? I shall warm some, and then … then, of course, you will have whatever you desire.”

  He gave a rumbling laugh. “Forget brandy. What I need now is to make love to you. I keep thinking of what could have happened to Thomas, if you had not known the place to look for him. Rescuing the boy, rescuing the family, should have brought peace, but I don’t feel that way. All I feel is a lot more regret and a lot emptier. I need your touch, love.” He frowned and touched her neck. “But you were wounded—”

  “No—it doesn’t hurt, truly. And I want you to come inside.”

  Carriages rolled by, but he bent and kissed her. Anyone who saw would know just what she was now. It didn’t matter. Helping Devon mattered. Her heart ached for him. “Come inside. Come inside me,” she whispered. “I want you in my bed.”

  Anne woke. She was alone in bed, and guilt crashed in. She’d slept so soundly she hadn’t noticed when Devon left. She pulled on a robe, but she didn’t find him in the adjoining room. He wasn’t in the house. Questioning servants, she discovered he’d left just after dawn.

  She returned to her bedroom and summoned maids to dress her. She stared at the disordered bed, two questions hammering through her head. Had he spent the rest of the night with her? And had he slept peacefully, with his demons slain, or had reliving the awful choice he’d faced in battle made his nightmares worse? She wouldn’t know until he returned. To keep her fretting mind busy, she would go to Thomas and his mother.

  The boy had been so reticent with his mother, so embarrassed and stiff and awkward, that it worried Anne. It was risky, but she would wear a disguise—one of her maid’s day dresses, her black cloak, and her dark wig. And she wouldn’t go without protection. She didn’t want to carry a bulky pistol, so she tucked her dagger in its sheath, then slid it into her bodice.

  But once she reached the Tanners’ home and sat with Thomas alone in the parlor, Anne realized she had no idea where to begin with the boy. He stared blankly ahead. He wore a tattered shirt and trousers. Anne knew why his mother had refused charity—her mother had done the same. But the future of this young boy was at stake. How could pride be worth more than Thomas’s safety and well-being?

  “Are you still frightened by what happened to you?” she asked softly.

  “I’m not afraid,” he said sullenly.

  “You also have no reason to be ashamed of it. None of it was your fault.”

  That made him jerk up his head. “I weren’t raped, if that’s what you mean, miss.” He stared defiantly into her eyes. Obviously he planned to shock her, scare her into leaving him alone. But she could not be shocked. At least, not over things that happened in the stews.

  “Good. But perhaps other things happened. Things you did not like.” She hoped she was not botching this. Thomas’s chest rose and fell fiercely, but he was listening. “Perhaps the men who took you to the brothel touched you in ways that felt wrong. That is their sin, not yours. You were the victim in this, Thomas.”

  A flush washed over his cheeks. “The men said they would hurt me mum if I didn’t go with them, so I was too afraid to run. One of them gave me arse a squeeze. Told me I’d learn to like it. I should’ve fought him. I should’ve kicked him. I should’ve been able to escape—”

  Anne wrapped her arm around Thomas’s thin shoulders. He tried to jerk away, but she whispered reassuringly, “You are not to blame. You must not be angry with yourself because you couldn’t escape.” Finally she admitted, “It happened to me. I was taken to work in a brothel against my will. My mother had just died, and I had no money. I was kept like a prisoner. I was seventeen, much older than you, but I couldn’t escape, I couldn’t fight hard enough to rescue myself. For a long time, I was very angry that I couldn’t get away, but then I realized I had to forgive myself. You only wanted to protect your mother, which was a noble thing. From now on, the Duke of March will ensure no one can hurt her. I promise you.” She stroked his hair. “You have nothing to blame yourself for, and I am so proud of you for being so strong.”

  “Proud of me?” he echoed.

  “Of course I am. Your mother is too.”

  Thomas looked so hopeful. Anne rose, clasped his hand, and took him to the room where his mother worked at the small stove. Very quietly, Anne explained the boy’s fears, while Thomas ate a biscuit at a rickety table. “You must tell him you are proud of him,” Anne whispered. “I think then he will put this behind him.”

  Mrs. Tanner nodded, her face pale. “He’s been so surly with me. I thought he blamed me.”

  “He blames himself. He needs your love and reassurance.” Anne added, “For Thomas’s sake, you must take help from the Duke of March. What future will he have if you do not?”

  The woman blanched more, and Anne felt a tremble rise up her spine. She was shaking, as she used to when she worried about her mother’s health. Why were women so stubborn? What was wrong with a little charity? She had taken coins from the Duke of March years ago, when he’d given them to her so she would not have to sell her body. That had hardly been wrong.

  On an impulse, thinking of her mother, Anne asked, “Do you sew well?”

  When Mrs. Tanner smiled proudly, Anne asked to see her work and quickly satisfied herself that the woman was an excellent seamstress. The employment was grueling and poorly paid … but did it have to be? What if women such as Mrs. Tanner could own their own shops? They could share ownership and, instead of getting pennies a day, earn enough to survive. Heavens, she could sell the carriage Devon had given her and set up a dozen women in their own shops!

  She had her solution for how to help Mrs. Tanner. Instead of giving charity, she would give opportunity. She explained her idea to Mrs. Tanner. “I would invest in your business and earn a profit from it. It would not be charity.”

  The woman bit her lip, pushed strands of disheveled curly blond hair from her face, and finally smiled. “I would be very grateful, miss.”

  Brimming with relief and hope, Anne left. Filled with purpose, she hurried down the stairs.

  A heavy footfall sounded on the steps behind her.

  She turned and froze for a precious second, while her eyes took in what she could not believe she was seeing. A bald head. A beak of a nose. Triumphant eyes. Mick.

  Anne spun and ran down the stairs. Her feet slid on the steps, and she had to grip the banister to keep from falling. Mick pounded down the stairs behind her. She screamed for help.

  But these were the slums, and no one came. No one would come to the aid of a shrieking woman, fearing they would end up in danger.

  One more flight of stairs and she could race out the door, run for her carriage. Her feet thundered on the creaking steps. How had Mick found her? He must have followed her. But if he’d found her house, why not attack her there?

  Idiot. She’d come here alone, of course, so she wouldn’t frighten Thomas. Mick must have been waiting for her to make such a stupid mistake—

  Something slammed into her back. She slid off the step, but a hand grabbed her clothing. Mick wrenched her so hard she fell against his chest. His arm locked around her.

  Her dagger. She could slip it out. She had to. It was the only way to save herself. But threatening Mick with it wouldn’t be enough. She would have to stab him. She clutched the neck of her pelisse, praying he would think it was a gesture of fear. She worked her fingers inside and touched the handle of the knife. Once she stabbed at him, she would have to kill him.…

  Oh, dear God, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t take a life. Not even Mick’s.

  “Get moving, Annie,” Mick snarled. “The viscount’s waiting.”

  He dragged her toward an open door. Her heart sank. He was going to tak
e her out a different way—not through the front door. Her servants would not know she was gone, at least not for several minutes. Long enough for Mick to make her vanish.

  She had to at least threaten him.

  One hard tug pulled out the dagger. Wincing in horror at what she was going to do, she thrust it at his arm. But she was clumsy. The blade didn’t go in; it slid along his biceps.

  Mick roared. “Going to make trouble, are you, Annie? Stupid whore.”

  The word bit into her soul as Mick ruthlessly jerked her wrist. She tried to cling to the handle, but her fingers opened against their will. The knife clattered to the floor. Mick shook her with such force that her brain seemed to slosh in her skull. Something white swooped at her face. She tried to rear back, but she only banged into Mick. Wet fabric was slapped to her mouth, and a sugar-sweet, cloying scent twisted her stomach. Anne struggled, aware of her limbs growing numb. Blackness rushed in. From miles away, a laugh of triumph brushed against her ear, then the floor dropped away from her and she fell dizzily into the dark.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  BRUPT SHAKING WOKE her. Anne felt her brain bang around in her aching head again. “No …” she croaked. Desperately, she tried to reach up to stop the person—it must be Mick—from hurting her, but her hands wouldn’t move. No matter how hard she strained, her arms wouldn’t budge. Awareness trickled into her confused mind. Her hands were bound behind her back.

  She couldn’t see Mick, but he must have set a candle down, for a large circle of light spilled around her. She lay on the floor, arms and legs bound, and a shadow loomed over her from behind.

  “Let me … go.” Her lips felt swollen, and she could barely move them. “Mick—”

  “It’s not Mick Taylor, my dear.”

  She recoiled at the voice but could not pull away. “Seb … astian.” She tried to turn, to see him. Her head pounded with pain. She swallowed over and over, fighting the urge to be sick.