The small bell on the door of Mrs. Heppelwhite’s establishment chimed cheerily. She looked up from the bolt of sateen that an elderly tenant had recently offered in lieu of rent. It was of good quality, possibly Italian, the landlady speculated, squinting over her spectacles at the beautiful young woman entering her establishment on Holburn Street.
In terms of custom, she was hardly typical of what Mrs. Heppelwhite expected to see walking through the narrow door. Her hair was a thick burnished auburn, swept up under a small cloche hat, and her cloak was of the finest cream cashmere with ivory toggles, suitable for a glorious summer’s day. The pure profile, the tilted dark blue eyes—
“Why, Miss Warren,” she crowed, moving from behind her counter. “What an unexpected pleasure,” she said, managing even a small curtsy.
Miss Warren held out a gloved hand, squeezing her former landlady’s arm warmly. “So good of you to remember me, Mrs. Heppelwhite,” she said, appearing every inch the lady, her beauty shimmering in the dusty modesty of the small shop. But there was a sadness in the dark blue of her eyes and in the softness of her generous mouth. Where she had once appeared as all but a girl, Miss Warren had been transformed into a woman. They exchanged brief pleasantries, about the weather, their health, and whether certain tenants were still in residence.
“Whatever can I do for you, Miss Warren?” Mrs. Heppelwhite asked at long last, her shrewdness never far from the surface. Her former tenant had done well for herself, clearly, in just several weeks, and it had everything to do with her protector, the landlady speculated. She recalled the day the carriage with its heavy crest had come to collect Miss Warren’s valise and small chest, the coachman leaving behind a handsome draft that more than covered six months’ rent. Miss Warren had not appeared since.
The young lady appeared nonplussed for the moment, casting about the shop to ensure they were alone before delving into her tasseled reticule to extract a small tissue-wrapped package. A sparkling ruby hair pin emerged from the nest of paper, which Miss Warren placed carefully on the counter between them. “I did not quite know to whom to turn, Mrs. Heppelwhite, and then I thought of you. Of your honesty and kindness toward me when I needed it most.”
The landlady demurred, making the appropriate noises, pushing her spectacles up her nose to take a closer look at the pin. Those were rubies, she decided quickly, and sapphires, as dark a blue as Miss Warren’s eyes. “It is lovely, my dear, but how can I help?” she asked, feigning ignorance. It was not the first time a young and beautiful woman had brought a piece of jewelry for barter to her establishment. But Miss Warren was different, somewhat more genteel, her protector an obvious disappointment to her and responsible for the sadness in her eyes and the resolute set of her mouth. A series of images popped through Mrs. Heppelwhite’s mind, one more heartbreaking than the next.
“I should like to exchange the pin for something of value, Mrs. Heppelwhite, and I thought you might be able to help me.”
“Of course, my dear, I should be more than pleased to assist you in any way I can,” she said, realizing even with her inexpert eye that the piece was worth far more than Miss Warren would ever get for it. But such was life that others would often exploit tragedy for their own good. “And what would you be needing, my dear, if I might ask?”
Miss Warren paused, looking about the shop again, playing with the tassels on her reticule before replying. “I should like to buy a revolver with the proceeds.”
Mrs. Heppelwhite placed a hand to her mouth in shock. “A revolver? Oh, my dear Miss Warren. I do so hope that nothing is amiss.” It had taken little more than a fortnight for the blush to leave the rose. Scrutinizing the elegant young woman poised on the other side of her counter, the landlady conjured a myriad of scenarios.
“If your gentleman,” she began delicately, “is in any way reluctant to protect you or, heaven forbid, presenting himself as a threat . . . well, my dear, you are always welcome to return to Holburn Street.”
Miss Warren shook her head, her eyes casting about the counter. “All is well, Mrs. Heppelwhite, but I should not wish to burden you with my situation. I believe that you do, however, come into possession of such things from time to time.” She stared pointedly at a canister of walking sticks in the far corner.
The landlady fidgeted for a moment, hesitating. “You are quite right in your assumption, my dear. A former resident did have in her possession a small pistol, if I could only remember where it is and if, indeed, it is in working condition. It appeared to be more of a keepsake than anything else. Although if truth be told, I do not know much about these things.”
“If it is not too much bother, I can take a quick look, Mrs. Heppelwhite, and ascertain whether the device is in good working order.” When the older woman raised her brows in astonishment, Rowena added, “I grew up in the countryside, and our overseer, Mr. Mclean, was keen to teach me the fundamentals of such things. I do have a small talent in that regard.”
“I hesitate to interfere, my dear, and if you feel as though you need the personal protection . . .”
“I do,” Rowena said firmly, her gaze unwavering. Mrs. Heppelwhite required no further prodding and disappeared to the small storeroom in the back of the shop. The groan of drawers opening and closing was followed by scraping sounds and then the shuffle of feet as she returned to the counter. Gingerly, as though holding a rodent, she placed a small box on the counter.
Rowena confidently picked up the pistol, opened its chamber deftly, and nodded. “It even has shells. Perfect,” she murmured. “A good oiling should set things to rights.”
Mrs. Heppelwhite was struck mute for a moment. Rowena continued. “However, you understand, I shall soon be in the position to buy the pin back from you, as it isn’t mine but only borrowed from my gentleman friend,” she explained. Instead of placing the pistol back in its box, she put it into her reticule.
Mrs. Heppelwhite shook her head, removing her spectacles to look directly at Miss Warren. “Nonsense, dear child. You earned this pin. Do not tell me differently, so it is yours to do with as you wish.”
“I shall buy it back in good time,” she insisted, “if you would be so kind as to keep it here for me.”
“If you wish,” she said reluctantly. “Although I do hope all is well.” The landlady wrapped the pin back in its cocoon.
“It is, indeed,” Rowena lied, patting the worn hands folded on the counter between them. She looked around the shop one more time with something akin to nostalgia, her eyes on the bolts of fabric piled in a corner and on the clutch of umbrellas by the entranceway. “I shall return in a few weeks’ time at the most, Mrs. Heppelwhite,” she said. “No need to escort me out. I know how busy you always are.”
“Do take care, Miss Warren,” Mrs. Heppelwhite called after her, worry in her voice.
The chime rang rustily as Rowena pulled open the door, her skirt sweeping up a swirl of dust from the floor as she smiled over her shoulder at Mrs. Heppelwhite. The older woman raised a hand in salute, her apple-cheeked face wreathed in concern.
Once out on Holburn Street, Rowena quickly secured a hansom cab and asked to be taken to the northwest corner of St. James’s Square and to the London Library, occupying the first floor of the Tavellers Club in Pall Mall. Meredith would surely have taken them to the great lending institution, founded by Thomas Carlyle only one year earlier. Thanks to his vision, subscribers enjoyed the wealth of a great national library. Hurrying through the heavy front doors of the building, Rowena refused to think about the collection of books at Montfort or the last time she, Meredith, and Julia had spent an afternoon in the stillness of the library there.
Paying her subscription at the front desk, she sped through to the second floor, murmuring her request to the librarian who, in short order, appeared with several books. Rowena needed something with which to entice Sebastian in her role of Sheherezade, spinning her tales to keep the Frenchman not so much amused but convinced that she had Rushford securely in the palm
of her hand.
Which was as far from the truth as could be, but nothing she could think about at present without bursting into tears. And she never cried. Sitting down at a desk piled high with tomes, she closed her eyes, seeing Rushford’s face in the red glow behind her eyelids. She could hear his voice, low and accusing, ruthlessly sweeping aside the powerful emotions that had burgeoned between them. He had saved her life. He had promised to help her. He had made love to her over and over again. All of which did not matter, in the end. She still knew that her loyalties lay first and foremost with the family she had vowed to protect.
Forbidding, impatient, unforgiving, of others and most of all himself, Lord Rushford remained a cipher to her. She had always detected a distance in him, even during the most intimate moments of their physical union, as though he had the capability of absenting himself, looking down upon her with cool objectivity. The realization chilled her. Even more frightening, she still felt more bereft than angry, as if she’d been abandoned in the middle of making love.
She straightened, rolled her shoulders, and sorted through the books on the table before her. There were only two other seats occupied in the reading room, and the paneled walls and high ceilings echoed every breath, every turn of the page. She absorbed what she could, aware that Sebastian would already know the basics about the Stone, its import, its history, and its current state. She had been honest with Rushford on that wretched evening at Alcestor Court when she’d said she had no intention of divulging his true plans for the Stone, only fabrications that would have the Frenchman believe her to be of use in some capacity. Anything that would result in her finding her way to Faron, and keeping Meredith outside his reach. She thought of the revolver sitting in the recesses of her reticule. Bartering the pin—Rushford’s pin—had sickened her. Yet, once she was back at Montfort, she would buy the jewel back from Mrs. Heppelwhite and return it in good order to Rushford.
She returned to the books in front of her. Her fingers traced a map of France, the Loire region, the town of Blois marked in spidery red ink. The fastest route would be from Calais, she calculated. She closed the atlas and replaced it with a heavy tome, the vellum pages rich with drawings and detail regarding Egyptian artifacts. Her eyes skimmed the paragraphs, until a name jumped out at her. Jean-Francois Champollion, she read, a French classical scholar and orientalist who also had deciphered the Egyptian hieroglyphs in 1822, demonstrating that the Egyptian writing system was a combination of phonetic and ideographc signs. Now deceased, he had spent most of his life as Professor of Egyptology at the College de France. Rowena rummaged through her memory, recalling that Rushford had told her that Montagu Faron was a scientist of sorts, a collector of ancient artifacts and scientific knowledge. She closed the books in front of her.
In her bedchamber later that evening, Rowena’s mind continued working feverishly while she prepared for an entertainment that Rushford had insisted they attend. His brief note had been waiting for her on a pewter salver upon her return from St. James’s. The Baron would be present, she suspected, and worse still, she would have to pretend that all was well with Rushford despite the grimness of their present relations. She never believed a heart could hurt, but hers did, leaden with disillusionment and anger at herself.
Her thoughts remained incomplete, interrupted by a brief knock. She was startled to see Rushford entering the bedchamber, his dusty boots and wrinkled jacket testament to the fact that he had just returned from riding. The faint purpling of his jaw and granite expression were reminders of the stony ground upon which their relations had fallen since Alcestor Court.
“Leave us, please,” he ordered the maid, who instantly dropped a curtsy and departed. Rushford closed the door and regarded Rowena with the flat, unemotional expression she was beginning to hate. “What I am going to tell you now will further our ends regarding Faron,” he began with preamble. “You need not know the context—”
“I trust a simple greeting is not in the offing. Have we dispensed with all civility?”
He said tightly, “I don’t believe in hypocrisy. And I’d hoped you felt the same.”
“Of course,” she said bitterly.
He continued. “Sebastian should hear of this without delay. He will understand the importance of the information immediately and will know how to convey it to the right ears with all due speed.”
Rowena had turned on her dressing stool at his entrance and now stared at him, her fingers stilled in the act of securing a comb in her upswept hair. “I don’t even know where we are going this evening,” she protested, “although I assumed it had something to do with the Baron.”
“To a small entertainment hosted by Sir Galveston,” he answered shortly. In stunned silence, Rowena listened. “You will find the appropriate opportunity to tell Galveston that the Stone will be moved this Friday evening from the British Museum to a more secure setting after the museum’s close.”
“Is this true?”
“The less you know the better.”
Her hands dropped to her sides, the rich silk of her evening dress rustling in the stillness. “If my aunt is in any way jeopardized by this ploy, I need to know. If you refuse to explain matters fully and I don’t understand what you want of me, then I don’t know if I can possibly help,” she said. But she did understand—her purpose was to mislead the Baron—and Faron. She shook her head. “Of course Galveston is keen to do your bidding because he wishes to avoid persecution for the murder of Felicity Clarence.” Her voice was sharper than she intended. “Do you like playing God, Rushford?”
Rushford ignored the barb. “I am asking you to do a simple thing, Rowena, one that will work in your favor. It’s what the Baron is expecting of us. I will do what’s necessary to protect you, and you will do what’s necessary to protect your family.”
“And I’m to know no more about it than that.”
“Why so curious? It causes one to wonder.”
Rowena closed her eyes against a sudden surge of anger as she saw the inexorable logic of his thought process. He trusted her so little . . . “Why not simply tell him yourself, then?”
“Because you’ve already agreed to serve as a conduit of information to the Baron in exchange for learning the whereabouts of Faron and protection for your aunt. I’m surprised that I have to remind you.” His mouth curled cynically. “This evening you must reprise your role as my mistress and appear as though you have won my total confidence with your beauty and your wiles.”
“As though the Baron would believe it of someone like you,” she said wretchedly, watching a faint glimmer of anger in the flatness of his eyes. He had not weakened in the threat of losing the Duchess and he would certainly not weaken in the threat of harm to her family. Nothing worried Rowena more. “Once again, you underestimate not only me but also him, Rushford.” She stared at the remaining comb in her hand without seeing it. She felt as if she were teetering on the edge of an abyss.
“We are the most cynical of men, Rowena, never forget. The Baron will believe what he wants to believe of me. He is working both of us. He expects me to relinquish the Rosetta Stone to him for several reasons, among them my disillusionment with Whitehall and my desire to rectify the past. From you, he merely expects confirmation that I am not deviating from the script.” Rushford’s countenance was impassive, and Rowena reached out blindly for the edge of the stool, holding on to it for balance.
“He would believe that you will do anything to protect me, after what happened . . .” With the Duchess, she wanted to add. “In other words, he believes that he has found your weakness. Guilt concerning your actions regarding—”
“Something like that,” he interrupted.
Her throat closed against rising panic. “You may use me in your scheme, but please do not jeopardize the well-being of my aunt or my sister. I am warning you, Rushford.”
He looked across at her and nodded. “I am forewarned then,” he said.
“Do I mean nothing to you?” she asked with
a surge of anger.
He replied with equal cruelty, “Nor I to you?”
“Miss Warren is a beautiful woman,” observed Sir Ambrose Galveston, leaning over a tray filled with fresh oysters proffered by a footman. In the background, a small orchestra played an aria by Bizet, the cheerful melody an ironic counterpart to his foul mood. Rushford, through Sir Richard Archer, had made his expectations clear, and if Galveston wished to curry the favor of London’s court chief justice, he would readily comply.
“Indeed,” the Baron agreed somewhat indifferently. “Although I confess I find a certain sophistication and finesse more to my taste.”
“Such as our Miss Barry,” Ambrose suggested with a heartiness he didn’t feel. He popped an oyster in his mouth and made a show of enjoying it with relish. The small ballroom in the town house off Mayfair was a blur of candlelight, winking jewels, and sparkling laughter.
“I thought you would understand,” Sebastian conceded, “given your relationship with the late Miss Clarence.” He punctuated his sentence with a knowing laugh that grated on Galveston’s already exposed nerves.
“But one must admit,” Galveston commented, changing the subject hurriedly, “that the Miss Warrens of the world do serve a purpose.” As did some actresses, he realized with great regret.
“All too true,” the Baron said dryly, and Galveston dutifully laughed. They both kept Rushford and Miss Warren, behind a phalanx of potted palms, in their sights. The latter was resplendent in a shimmering emerald choker and cream silk, looking every inch the indulged mistress. “I’m sure that you are far from impervious to Miss Warren’s flirtations,” the Baron continued. “Why, I espied you earlier by the French doors in a little tête-à-tête.”
The Darkest Sin Page 23