Sweetest Little Sin

by Christine Wells

  THAT night, Louisa didn’t sleep. The fragment of a message haunted her, tormented even as it tempted.

  She was done with Jardine. Moreover, he’d told her plainly she meant nothing to him. Why couldn’t her idiotic heart remember that? Why did that pathetic organ continually overrule her brain when it came to Jardine?

  He wanted to meet. Why? In the past, if he’d needed to see her, he’d simply appeared. Perhaps he was being watched and didn’t want to lead anyone to her? But if the matter was important, surely he might have sent word to her some other way.

  Was it a test? Was he toying with her? Did he risk this meeting to see whether she would still come running, like a dog to heel? She rubbed a hand over her face, pressed her closed eyelids with her fingertips, willing herself not to succumb to useless tears. Ah, she ought to have known a break with Jardine would leave jagged edges.

  She sat curled on the window seat for hours, deep into the night. Forced herself to consider the peremptory summons from every angle, calmly, dispassionately.

  And couldn’t think of a single reason, beyond a nagging curiosity and her unbearable longing to see him, why she should go.

  Unfolding her long body from the cushioned embrasure, Louisa took a spill from the mantel, touching it to the fire. Shielding the flame with her hand, she transferred it to her candle and watched the wick flare to life. With a shiver of anticipation, she carried the candle over to her escritoire and set it in the carved holder.

  Her mouth firmed in determination, she took out the card Faulkner had given her and drew a piece of writing paper toward her.

  Dipping her pen in ink, she composed a short note.

  I accept.

  Four

  BLIND fury possessed Jardine like hell’s demons all the way to Lord Vane’s exclusive boxing saloon. He stalked into the large, airy apartment full of the smell of sweat and liniment and ripe with curses and the smack of fist on flesh. Sighting steel, he ripped a rapier from the wall and tapped Nick on the shoulder with the button-tipped foil.

  The blue blaze of Nick’s gaze met his squarely. An eyebrow quirked, then Nick gently moved the blade away from his person with his palm.

  “Not swords, Jardine. You know I can’t abide the things.” He flicked a glance at a couple of meaty pugilists who grunted and danced around one another. “I’ll take a few rounds in the ring with you, though.”

  Jardine’s customary mode of hand-to-hand combat would not be welcome in Vane’s boxing saloon. He curled his lip. “Peasant.”

  “A peasant who doesn’t happen to wish for an early death, or at least not at your hands, my friend.”

  The levity didn’t make Jardine smile, but it took the edge off his temper. He lowered the foil, tapped the tip lightly on the ground, and paced to the window. The view wasn’t enlivening. Vane’s establishment was in a shady part of town.

  He turned back. “She didn’t come.”

  He’d waited in that damned musty bookshop for two hours before he’d given up hope.

  “She’s trying to punish me, of course.” He wanted to believe it, but the finality of their parting was such that she could not possibly think such tactics would succeed in bringing him to heel.

  Besides, Louisa wasn’t a woman who played games. She wouldn’t take up with another man unless she genuinely wanted him.

  The notion shot pain through his chest, tossed fuel on the flames of his simmering rage. If it had been any other man, he’d still want to kill him, but Radleigh!

  Jardine couldn’t sleep at night for worrying about Louisa in the clutches of that fiend. And at such a crucial time, when Jardine couldn’t afford to lay a finger on the bastard. It was exactly the situation he’d striven to avoid all these years.

  Perhaps he should simply abduct Louisa and lock her in a tower somewhere. It had worked for Lyle.

  Nick sighed. “Do you want me to talk to the lady? Warn her off?”

  Slowly, Jardine shook his head, gazing into the distance, as if the four walls surrounding them had vanished.

  “No, don’t do that.” He paused, turning it over in his mind. “Do you know, Nick, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Yes, but how could this association have been orchestrated? To the outside world, you are barely acquainted with her.”

  That was true, and he’d tried damned hard to keep it that way. But the affair of the Duchess of Lyle’s diary had drawn him into the open. If anyone besides Max and Kate had witnessed that scene between him and Louisa, standing over the dead body of a sick young man . . .

  No, it was impossible. They’d been in the country, miles from civilization. Who besides the four of them and that hysterical maid of Kate’s had known he was there?

  Inconceivable. And yet . . .

  Icy fear slid down his spine. No. He didn’t believe in coincidence.

  “IS that all?” Louisa tried not to move her lips as she spoke. She was tense, deflated, annoyed.

  To outward appearances, she sat on a bench in the private garden of Berkeley Square, reading a novel.

  If a man happened to be sitting at the other end of that same bench, she did not acknowledge him. And if anyone saw Louisa’s lips move as she read, they would merely think her the dim sort of female who needed to sound out the big words.

  She’d heard nothing from Faulkner for several days after she’d dispatched that terse note. He’d kept her on tenterhooks for so long, she was ready to bite his head off now that he’d finally appeared.

  She’d spent the intervening time cultivating Radleigh, against her better judgment. She’d expended time and energy screwing up her courage to accept the arduous mission Faulkner had planned for her. She might not be prepared to give her life for her country, but she’d fully expected to risk a limb at the very least.

  It seemed she’d worked herself up over nothing.

  Faulkner fished a hunk of bread out of his pocket. “We mustn’t run before we can walk, Lady Louisa. All you need do is procure an invitation to Radleigh’s forthcoming house party for one Mrs. Burton. She’s one of my most experienced agents. She will do the rest.”

  The word experienced seemed heavily laced with irony. Suspicion awakened in Louisa’s mind. “And you can’t obtain the invitation yourself?”

  She stole a glance at him, but his hat sat low on his head and its brim shadowed the craggy bulldog face. Even if she could discern his features, she knew his expression would give nothing away.

  Faulkner tore a piece of bread and tossed it into the midst of a flurry of sparrows, who chirped and squabbled over the treat.

  “I? A mere civil servant? No, my lady, I certainly cannot. The company is far too high in the instep for one such as I.”

  A faint undercurrent of sarcasm—bitterness, even—made Louisa pause to wonder about Faulkner’s background. He spoke like a man who’d been educated at Oxbridge. But she must remember that Faulkner was in the business of deception, after all.

  Who was he? Did he have a family, a wife? For some reason, she thought not. But the man’s private affairs were a mystery to her. In all likelihood, they would remain so.

  Caution still rode on her shoulder. “I do not know this Mrs. Burton—”

  “An introduction will be arranged. You will become very good friends with the lady. She is about your age, I should guess, and moves in genteel circles, though she doesn’t have the entrée to the highest society. That is about to change.” He paused for a moment. “Thanks to you.”

  Louisa frowned. It was difficult to keep her eyes trained on her book, to remember to turn the pages. “Is she presentable?”

  “Oh yes. She is that.” There was a smile in Faulkner’s voice, and when she darted a glance at him, she saw one on his face, too.

  Misgivings scurried through Louisa’s mind, but she quelled them. Perhaps if she performed this small task satisfactorily, he’d trust her with more challenging work later on. At least she’d have something to take her mind off this intolerable impasse she’d reac
hed with Jardine. Married, yet not a wife.

  “Introduce us, then, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good.” His quick response showed he’d never doubted her compliance. “She will contrive to meet you. You will fall into conversation and be so well pleased with one another that you invite her to tea. From there, you will ask Mrs. Burton to go driving with you in that natty little phaeton of yours.”

  She grimaced. “Thereby making the friendship as public as possible.”

  “Exactly. It will come as no surprise to Radleigh when you beg him to include Mrs. Burton in his very exclusive little party. Play your cards right, and he won’t be in a position to refuse you.” He paused. “I hear you’ve made some progress in that direction already.”

  She didn’t like the insinuation. “I have allowed him to squire me around, yes. Whether he will agree to invite Mrs. Burton, I cannot promise. . . .”

  “Charm him, Lady Louisa. See that he invites her.”

  She lifted her chin a little. “I am not a honey trap, Mr. Faulkner. I don’t excel at flummery.”

  “Perhaps not. But he is a man, after all.”

  “Mr. Radleigh merely wishes to align himself with my family, that’s all.”

  “Ah.” Faulkner tossed the last piece of bread. “Yes, I expect you’re right.”

  Irrationally, the response irritated her. “Well, if that’s all, sir . . .” She closed her book and rose.

  “Yes, you’d best go.” He didn’t seem perturbed by her sarcasm. “Oh, and, my lady?”

  Louisa stopped herself from turning back to look at him. She paused, her spine stiff and straight, waiting for some kind of benediction, perhaps even an expression of gratitude.

  But the gravelly voice simply murmured, “Don’t try to contact me again.”

  LOUISA’S entire body seized with tension. He was here tonight. Oh God, he was here.

  She hadn’t yet seen Jardine when she felt his presence, like warm fingertips caressing the nape of her neck. The heat and shiver of it scintillated down her spine as she moved like an automaton through the steps of the quadrille.

  Every instinct told her to flee. But she was in the middle of Mrs. Fanshawe’s crowded ballroom and that course was clearly ineligible.

  She couldn’t stop herself scanning the crowd as she danced, searching for him.

  There.

  He was not difficult to spot, half a head taller than most other gentlemen in the room. Hair black as his swallow-tailed coat. Sharp cheekbones, circumflex eyebrows, hard, brilliant eyes.

  Her heart clutched, gave a sharp pound of excitement.

  And then that awful, sick feeling returned.

  Blindly, she curtseyed and clasped hands and wound through the rest of the dance.

  Seeing him should not come as such a shock. They were bound to keep meeting; they always did in town. She would not disgrace herself with tears or by following him with her gaze.

  At the end of the set, Kate took mercy on her and swooped on them. She waved Louisa’s partner away. “Do be a good fellow and make yourself scarce, Mr. Simpkins. I need to speak with Lady Louisa.”

  Trust Kate to carry off a summary dismissal with such smiling aplomb. Louisa could have hugged her.

  Kate signaled to a waiter, who brought them each a glass of lemonade.

  “You are an angel.” Louisa sipped and her parched throat was grateful. “But I think I need something stronger.”

  “Yes. I saw him, too.” Kate’s face held so much compassion, Louisa had to bite her lip to stop the threatening tears.

  “Don’t sympathize, Kate. I can’t bear it.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “Let’s talk of something else.”

  “I’m afraid that will be rather difficult,” Kate said. “He’s coming this way.”

  “Your Grace.” Jardine took Kate’s proffered hand and bowed over it.

  Louisa’s free hand remained fisted at her side.

  If Jardine noticed the slight, he gave no indication, merely inclining his head to her as he released Kate’s fingertips. “Lady Louisa.”

  Torrents of words flooded her mind. The pithy retorts she’d thought of too late, the accusations she burned to fling. But all she could force through her stiff lips was “My lord.”

  Kate’s hand found hers. Louisa returned the pressure, then eased free. She needed to face him on her own.

  Without taking her eyes from Jardine’s, she said, “Kate, I believe your husband is looking for you.”

  She sensed the concern in her friend’s hesitation. Then Kate said, “Yes, I expect you’re right.” With a soft touch to Louisa’s arm, she left them.

  Louisa swallowed. Her throat had dried again. She wanted to sip her lemonade but she couldn’t seem to move the glass to her lips. Her heart beat fast and hard.

  Would her passion for him ever cool to the point where she might meet him calmly, without this violent twist of emotion in her chest?

  His gaze ran over her body in flagrant disregard for polite convention. She wished she’d worn a more sober gown than this flimsy white muslin. When he looked at her like that, she felt stripped naked.

  And she keenly resented that while she’d lost weight and color, his masculine beauty seemed to have intensified since that horrible morning.

  Finally, he spoke. “You had my note.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you meet me?” Jardine’s voice barely carried to her over the music and the noise of the crowd. His face was a polite mask, but heat raged in his eyes.

  “I have nothing to say to you.” She fashioned her lips into a social smile. “Nothing that you would wish to hear.”

  A brief grimace of frustration disturbed his features. His hand made a swift movement and she could tell he wanted to run it through his hair.

  He quelled the impulse. “Dammit, Louisa, I . . . We can’t talk here. Tomorrow morning, in the park.”

  In a low, vehement tone, she said, “I’m not going to meet you anywhere. You’ve made your feelings abundantly clear. I don’t know why you seek to torment me with these games.”

  “Games?” He looked impassive as a wall, but she knew he wanted to shake her. “You stubborn, pigheaded woman,” he said softly, vehemently. “This is more important than you and me.”

  Shock penetrated her fury. He wasn’t attempting to reconcile with her or explain his brutal behavior. Her whole world had crashed about her ears that morning. Didn’t he know?

  How had she been so mistaken about him, about what they meant to one another? What could be more important than the two of them?

  She stared at Jardine, long and hard. She mustered all of her strength, but still her voice came out low and trembling and harsh. “Stay away from me.”

  Fighting tears, she turned and pushed through the crowd.

  “A warm evening,” said Radleigh, as they stepped through the long windows onto the terrace that ran alongside the ballroom. “London in summer is almost intolerable.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Louisa was still shaking, sick with misery. How was she supposed to hold a conversation with Radleigh when she wanted to curl into a ball and weep for days?

  She searched for a response. “Why do you stay in London if you dislike it so much?”

  He looked down at her, and his eyes grew hard. “Business,” he said. “Nothing that would interest you, my lady.”

  Louisa tried to ignore the chill that slipped down her spine like a trickle of cold water. Something about Radleigh repelled her, yet she could not pinpoint the source of her discomfort. He was unfailingly correct in his behavior toward her, yet she sensed a blunt ruthlessness beneath his polished manners.

  Something about his eyes . . .

  He held out his arm to her. After a brief internal struggle, she placed her gloved hand upon it.

  They were not alone. Other couples strolled the terrace, the gentlemen inclining their heads toward their partners, the ladies fanning themselves languidly. Involved with one another, wrapped in the
intimacy of the soft, balmy night.

  Jardine had left the ball, or she would never have consented to come out here with Radleigh. She shuddered at the thought of a confrontation between the two men.

  But now, the task of convincing Radleigh she welcomed his advances seemed overwhelming.

  Despite Millicent’s matchmaking bent, she’d never forced Louisa to suffer the attentions of a suitor she didn’t like. The mere thought of allowing Radleigh to kiss her made her stomach turn over. How could other women bear to bed men they didn’t love?

  They strolled beneath bobbing paper lanterns, the soft tinted light playing over them. It was a romantic scene, and she wasn’t entirely surprised when Radleigh covered her hand with his large one and pressed it.

  Panic rippled through her.

  Oh, this was not a welcome sign. She would have to decide, here and now, how far she was prepared to go to achieve her mission. Fail to draw the line now and she’d make the fatal error of showing her distrust.

  “What will you do when your mother weds, Lady Louisa?” said Radleigh.

  She hated that question. It unsettled her, forced her to face the bleakness of her future without Jardine.

  She lifted her chin. “Live with my mother and my new stepfather, of course.”

  Radleigh squeezed her hand. His arm was solid and strong beneath. “You were not made for such a life.”

  She stiffened. Did he mean to declare himself? “On the contrary, sir. Nothing would please me more.”

  “No, no, my lady.” His voice thickened. He captured her hand and raised it for a kiss.

  “Sir!” She snatched her hand away.

  He chuckled. “Ah, that offends your maidenly sensibilities, does it? Forgive me. I forgot myself.” His smile deepened. “Are you afraid of me, Lady Louisa? Don’t be.”

  She forced a brightness to her tone that she was far from feeling. “Afraid? Of course not! You startled me, merely.”

  She chose her next words carefully. Better to set the rules from the start. Then there’d be no misunderstanding between them. She knew she’d betray her revulsion if he attempted to further their physical intimacy.