One Wicked Sin

by Nicola Cornick

  He shuddered as the unendurable images flooded his mind.

  He had begged the British authorities to give Arland parole. He had offered himself as hostage, to lock up in the prison hulks as they willed, if only his son was allowed his freedom. He had offered his very life for Arland’s and they had laughed in his face.

  Truly he was the most abject failure as a father. Arland would be better off without him.

  “Arland must be very young,” Lottie said softly.

  He is seventeen. No more than a boy.

  Ethan cleared his throat. “I do not wish to talk about it.”

  Lottie did not reply. He waited for her to say something else, to try to comfort him when he was beyond comfort, or to reproach him for throwing her sympathy back in her face, but she did not. She sat calmly beside him whilst the world moved on around them and he was locked in his private hell. When he glanced at her he saw that her eyes were troubled but she did not speak. After a moment she touched his arm very gently with her gloved hand and he felt it through to his soul. The wordless gesture of comfort surprised him.

  I want her.

  Once again desire took him, the feverish need to claim her so that he could lose himself in her for a while. He would never be able to wash out the indelible stain of failing his son. He could only try to ease the hurt for a little.

  He felt enormous relief as he turned into the livery stables and threw the reins to a groom. He jumped down and lifted Lottie from the seat, handing a great deal more money in tips to the grooms than he needed in his hurry to be away, to be alone with her, to forget for a little while. The hackney carriage back to Limmer’s seemed to take forever. He sent the chambermaid scurrying from their room, her cleaning abandoned, and turned to Lottie.

  “Come here,” he said, a little roughly. This time he was not even going to question why she was the one he needed. He simply knew it to be so.

  LOTTIE SAT IN THE BOX at the theater and tried to concentrate on the play. It was He’s Much To Blame by Thomas Holcroft, and one of her favorites. In the days when she had been a Ton hostess, attending the theater had annoyed and frustrated her because all her friends and acquaintances had insisted on visiting her box to gossip and chat, frequently talking all the way through the performance. They had assumed that she, like them, had been there, not to see the play—that was almost irrelevant—but to flaunt her latest diamond necklace or indeed her latest admirer.

  Tonight, though, since no one was talking to her but were all talking about her, it did mean that she could try to concentrate on the play. Except that she could not, of course, for she was thinking about Ethan.

  They had not spoken about Arland, or indeed about anything, since the drive in the park that afternoon. At Limmer’s Ethan had made love to her wildly, desperately, as though he were trying to drive out demons from his mind. It had been all consuming but afterward Ethan had got out of bed and gone straight out without a word, down to the taproom, and Lottie had lain there and tried not to feel like a cheap harlot. She knew that Ethan had used her to escape from an intolerable reality, the reality of his son’s imprisonment. She had heard the pain in his voice when he had spoken of Arland. And she had also wondered if, without Northesk’s intervention, Ethan would ever have mentioned his son to her at all. She thought he probably would not have done.

  A chill had set in about her heart at the thought. She knew she could not reach Ethan. He would not talk to her. Yes, he would take physical comfort from her but he wanted no other intimacy.

  Ethan had a son. The boy must be very young, barely more than a child. And Ethan himself must have been almost as young when the child was conceived. Who had his mother been? Where was she now? And how had Arland fallen into the hands of the British? Lottie’s mind tumbled over all the thoughts and questions but she knew there was no point in asking. Ethan was not a man to confide.

  He sat beside her now, his attention focused, like hers, on the stage even if his thoughts were, like hers, far from it. He looked handsome in evening dress of plain black-and-white. The only adornment to his clothes was a fine diamond pin in the folds of his cravat and a signet ring with the arms of St. Severin engraved upon it. There were at least two of Ethan’s younger half siblings in the audience—Farne had had a large legitimate brood as well as several by-blows. One of Ethan’s half sisters had walked out ostentatiously when she had realized that Ethan and Lottie were present. The others had remained, glaring at them at first and then pointedly ignoring them. Lottie had found it rather amusing.

  She knew that Ethan had deliberately chosen to appear austere in his personal dress that night. She was the one designed for his adornment. Her gown was scarlet, cut very low to reveal almost all it could of her breasts without allowing them to actually fall out of the neckline. Her magnificent necklace of diamonds had been hired for the night from Hatton Garden and only served to draw more attention to her bare skin. There were matching diamonds twinkling in her hair and clasped about her bare arms. They were outstandingly fine jewels and they marked her out as Ethan’s exclusive property. He was, she thought, showing the whole of London that not only was he so scandalous that he could flaunt an infamous mistress and not give a damn for anyone’s opinion, but also that he was so rich that he could trick her out with a king’s ransom in jewels.

  Beneath the gown she wore a shift of the finest silk, which rubbed provocatively against her skin, making her achingly aware of her body and even more conscious of her role as Cyprian. It was as though every inch of her was stroked to an almost unbearable pitch of sensual tension, encouraged by the knowledge that once they returned to Limmer’s Hotel, Ethan would strip her of everything but the jewels and make love to her again and again, with shattering intensity.

  It was on this thought that she turned her gaze from the stage to the audience opposite, where a young woman with very glossy brown ringlets and a tall, fair handsome young man were making a very late and very showy entrance.

  Lottie caught her breath. The girl was unknown to her. She was very young, perhaps only just out, and there was a quality of sweet, fresh excitement in her face that gave Lottie a pang to see. It made her feel old and worn, every inch the cynic she was. The girl was pulling the young man into his seat by the hand and he was protesting in a good-natured fashion, but he was laughing, as well, indulgent and well pleased with himself.

  It was James Devlin.

  Lottie felt her heart catch and then start to race. Her fingers tightened about her fan until the struts creaked.

  She had not seen Dev for over a year. They had parted on civil terms—of course they had; there was no other way to leave a lover if one had style—but inside she had been breaking into pieces, trying desperately to hide the grief she had felt on losing him. Dev had gone traveling—he was something of an adventurer—and she had gone on to try and ease her pain with one of the footmen. Well, two of them if she were honest, though not both together since that was not her taste. So foolish of her, she thought now, when both servants had been in Gregory’s pay and so would say anything in court that he desired of them.

  Dev looked directly across the theater and their eyes met. Lottie felt as though her heart would jump out of her chest. He looked just the same: handsome, debonair, careless, heartless, pleased to have caught himself a rich fiancée….

  “One of your former lovers?” Ethan had leaned forward and was watching her with a sardonic gleam in his eye. He spoke softly. Lottie hastily tried to re arrange her face—she was not at all sure what expression had been showing. She did not want Ethan to see how she felt, not when he was infinitely capable of hiding his own emotions. But it was probably too late for her to dissemble now. He was quick, and perceptive, and would have seen her instinctive hurt.

  “One of the many.” She kept her tone light. “I will furnish you with a list if you wish to know whom to avoid.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” There was a shade of amusement in Ethan’s tone. “However…” He hesitated.
“Perhaps a general idea of the number of pages it might run to…”

  Lottie met his gaze. “A great deal fewer than a list of your conquests would, my lord.”

  “Touché.” A smile touched his lips. “I ask no questions. Only—” he paused, as though weighing his words “—you seem a little distraite. Did he hurt you?”

  Oh, she had been hurt, so desperately lost and grieved. Yet for the first time she could see that it was not Devlin’s fault. He had simply been himself. She was the one who had invested her feelings too heavily in what had only been a light affaire. She could not blame Devlin for her behavior. She felt strange to admit it. It had always been easier to lay her ruin at his door than to take the responsibility for it herself.

  But Ethan was waiting for his answer and his gaze was acute. She smoothed the wrinkles in her gloves and avoided his eyes.

  “Not in the slightest,” she said. “He was a diversion. I told you last night—I get bored so easily and handsome young men are equally easily found.”

  Ethan did not reply and she was not sure if she had convinced him. When the play finished they did not take the private exit from the box—of course not, Ethan would not wish to slip away unseen—but went down into the foyer where the crush of people was hot and oppressive. Once again, as in the Park, Lottie felt the looks and the censure, heard the whispers, and even saw some ladies draw their skirts away from her as though to touch her would be to risk contamination. Her head spun with the heat and the lights and the smell of bodies pressed close, and she tried to smile and appear as arrogant and unconcerned as Ethan did, but it felt so hard. The smile did not reach her eyes; it was slipping away from her even as she tried to force it to stay.

  And then there he was, James Devlin, right in front of her, and the crowd fell back and Dev turned to look at her and she saw the dismay in his eyes and the dread he was too slow to mask. She could see that he did not even know how to address her. Something of his unease had communicated itself to the young girl at his side, for her bright, happy expression had started to fade to uncertainty. Behind her an older lady, her mother perhaps, shifted uncomfortably, backing away from Lottie as though from a leper. The debutante shot Devlin a look of combined entreaty and fear.

  This is how it will be for you, Lottie thought, watching the girl’s face. You will have heard the gossip that Devlin has always been a ladies’ man and you will always be wondering which were his conquests….

  “Mr. Devlin…” Lottie found her poise. She smiled impartially at the group. They should cut her dead, of course, but it was too late for that. They were all trapped by this accident of fate.

  “How do you do?” she said. “I hope you are well.”

  Dev’s face relaxed a little. “Madam…”

  Lottie turned to Ethan. “May I introduce Lord St. Severin?”

  Now Dev was smiling, relieved, flushed with pride like a boy confronted with his childhood hero.

  “My lord,” Dev said, “it is such a great pleasure…. When I was growing up in Ireland I heard stories about you, and I have studied your exploits with great admiration—”

  “Surely you mean with interest rather than admiration, Mr. Devlin,” Ethan corrected gently, “since I understand that you have served as a member of His Majesty’s British Navy?”

  There was a ripple of relieved laughter in the group that Ethan had saved Dev from a treasonable faux pas. Lottie put her hand lightly on Ethan’s arm. She felt strong, hard muscle beneath her fingers. Odd that she had never seen James Devlin as a gauche youth until tonight, when beside Ethan’s power and authority he seemed diminished somehow, still handsome but almost untried.

  “You must excuse us,” she said, drawing away from the group. “I wish you all a good evening.”

  They went out into the street and the night air was fresh on Lottie’s skin and eased the ache in her head.

  “That was gracious of you,” Ethan said. “You could have caused a scene.”

  “That would have been bad ton,” Lottie said lightly.

  “And you are cousin to a Duke. I do not forget it, even if others do.”

  She could not place Ethan’s tone and when she looked at him his face was expressionless. He was watching her closely, his blue eyes dark and watchful.

  “You are quite well, I hope,” he added.

  “Quite well,” Lottie said. “I have the headache…that is all.”

  But her words rang hollow, and Lottie had seen Ethan’s gaze fall to where her hands were still clenched and one of the delicate wooded struts of the fan had snapped clean in two.

  IN THE MORNING Ethan woke her with a hand on her bare shoulder, and Lottie stirred, feeling warm and content for a moment before she saw that he was fully dressed and about to leave. The light in the hotel bedchamber was dingy and pale, showing the dirty windows and the dust on the floor. Ethan sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “I have to go now,” he said. “My coach leaves for Wantage in an hour. You may stay here at Limmer’s if you wish or find lodgings wherever you choose for the next few days. All I require is that you will be on the coach from Oxford on Friday.” He nodded to the table. “I have left you sufficient funds to cover your shot and to buy you a few gowns, as we discussed.” He laughed. “Try not to be too extravagant. Oh, and make sure that you dress to make an impression when you arrive.”

  Lottie gaped. If she had thought him parsimonious the day before, the fortune he was now leaving with her took her breath away. “You have left me all those guineas when I tried to steal them from you two days ago?”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. “I am confident that you won’t run off with my money this time.”

  Lottie frowned, trying to read his expression in the half-light of the room. “I don’t know how you can be so certain,” she said.

  “Nothing is certain,” Ethan said, “but I trust you to be in Wantage next Friday.”

  “You trust me?” Lottie said. She was beginning to wonder if she was still asleep and dreaming. “Are you mad?” she burst out.

  “Not at all.” Ethan stood up. “We have an agreement, do we not? The terms of my parole mean that I must return to Wantage today, but you need more time to make some necessary purchases, so…” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Yes,” Lottie said, “but to leave me here alone with the money!” She struggled upright. “I could fleece you, run away, cheat you like I tried to do before.”

  “So you could.” Ethan sounded unconcerned. “But you won’t. Not this time.”

  Lottie shook her head. “I wish I had your confidence,” she said. “I thought you would at least ask someone to be my banker and keep an eye on my spending.”

  “There is no need,” Ethan said. “Is there? You will not play me false.”

  He bent and kissed her. His lips were cool and firm, the kiss no more than a brief caress, and yet she shivered down to her soul. “You’re a strange man,” she murmured.

  “It’s only business, Lottie,” Ethan said. “It makes better sense for you to throw in your lot with me just now. That is all.”

  He raised a hand in farewell, picked up his bag and went out, closing the door softly behind him. Lottie heard his steps retreat down the stair and fade away. A door closed in the distance. Some impulse prompted her to run to the window and she curled there on the seat as he walked away, his stride long and confident. He did not look back. She felt piqued.

  She sat puzzling over what he had said. In the growing light she could see the fat bags of guineas sitting on the table. Greed and excitement possessed her. How much money was there? What could she do with it? Where could she go? She glanced out of the window again. Perhaps it was a trick. Perhaps Ethan was waiting for her to play him false.

  “I could fleece you, run away, cheat you like I tried to do before.”

  “But you won’t. Not this time.”

  Damn him! How could he know? How could he be so sure of her? What had happened to her in the past two days that meant
that Ethan was right? Trust and loyalty had scarcely been her watchwords up until now. In fact they had barely been in her vocabulary, and then only so that she could behave in an opposite manner.

  Her feet were cold. She slipped back into the warm folds of the bed. It felt empty. She knew that she had to get up, get dressed and go shopping in order to distract herself. She could not dwell on Ethan’s absence and the peculiar space it appeared to leave in the vicinity of her heart. It could not be love; she had told herself from the start that she must root that out before it started to grow. So it was boredom. She had to be entertained.

  She hated her own company. That was why she was missing Ethan already—because she had no resources for solitude.

  “It’s only business, Lottie,” he had said. Well, absolutely. If he could be so detached then so could she. It was only what she had resolved the previous night. Ethan was right. It made sound sense for her to throw in her lot with him until a more advantageous offer came along. No one knew that better than she, opportunistic Lottie Palliser, without a trustworthy bone in her body.

  IT WAS ALREADY HOT out in the street. The bright disc of the sun was rising with a hazy coppery light that promised an airless summer day in the city of London. Ethan shouldered his kit bag and strode away, resisting an almost overpowering urge to glance back to see if Lottie was watching. He concentrated instead on the road ahead: the street vendors already setting up their stalls, a closed carriage rattling across the cobbles, a drunken lord propping himself up against a wall as he tried to make his unsteady way home.

  Strange that it seemed so hard to leave Lottie behind. His mind was full of images of her: Lottie wrapped in his arms sleeping after they had made love, of her reaching out to him to try and comfort him over Arland’s incarceration, of her face tight with misery when she had seen James Devlin at the theater. She had rebuffed his attempts to reach her then, just as he had rejected her comfort earlier and perhaps she had been wise. Theirs was a commercial transaction, physically pleasing but not requiring emotion.