The Darkest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “You have sharp eyes and even sharper ears, sir,” Galveston said in an attempt at flattery, his own eyes darting around the ballroom to see whether they were being observed with any unusual interest. He had kept the guest list deliberately small, including only those in the demimondaine who would not be known to his wife or anyone else that mattered.

  “And what did our Miss Warren have to say?” asked the Baron, smiling at an acquaintance who was trying to catch his attention.

  Galveston gave a small bow in the direction of the mutual acquaintance before continuing, lowering his voice. “The object in question will be moved Friday evening.”

  Sebastian gave a small smile of satisfaction. “Anything more?”

  Galveston’s brow furrowed. “Yes, some palaver about a man named Champollion. Unfortunately, I did not know what to make of it.”

  “I’m not surprised,” the Baron said, watching Rushford take a glass of champagne from a passing footman and offer it to Rowena Woolcott, who gave him a glittering smile in return. “That will be all this evening, Ambrose, and thank you so much for hosting this wonderful little soiree.” He then bowed and excused himself, sauntering into the card room, confident that all was going according to plan.

  Rushford sat back against the leather squabs of his coach, his arms folded across his chest, his mood forbidding. Something about the evening at Galveston’s town house rankled, his ill humor exacerbated by the woman sitting across from him.

  He had not touched Rowena Woolcott for over five days and yet his body still hummed with the memory of her, her scent lingering on his skin, her taste on his tongue. And he damned her for it. Her profile was turned away from him as she watched the London streets pass from the coach’s small window, gaslight illuminating the interior of the carriage. She was reckless and had always been, he knew, following impulse and little else. She climbed walls, rode like the devil, and would take on Faron herself if he allowed it.

  He rubbed his eyes wearily, suddenly tired of the whole mess. It was over. He was done with his responsibility toward her. He watched as she hunched deeper into her cloak against the early-morning chill. “Well,” she asked. Her voice broke the silence with mockery. “Did I fulfill the role of mistress to your liking this evening, Rushford?”

  “I saw Galveston and Sebastian with their heads together. So I suppose the answer is yes.” He tried to regard her with studied detachment, despite the fact that her eyes were dark with anger.

  She threw back the hood of her cloak and ran her hands through her hair, loosening the sparkling combs before leaning back against the squabs. “As long as you are satisfied,” she continued in the same sardonic tone. “I await your further instructions.”

  “There will be none,” he said.

  She regarded him with a quizzical lift of her eyebrows. “Then I shall be shut up in the town house and await your return with bated breath. Is that it?” As if to taunt him, she leaned forward, touching his knee. “And then what?” She was continuing the charade she had portrayed so winningly earlier in the evening. Throughout the night, she had made certain to stroke his arm, or caress his hand lingeringly, whenever the Baron or Galveston cast a glance their way. It was as though she knew exactly what she was doing, the sexual current of a simple touch jolting him like a bolt of lightning.

  “I shall send you home.”

  “Are you certain of that?” She leaned against the squabs again.

  His eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? Faron will be taken care of.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” he said. “And you may drop the coquettish tone. We’re offstage for the moment.”

  “Coquettish—hardly.” As though she had no idea what she did when she leaned in to him to catch something he was saying, or turned those lush lips up to him in a patently false smile. “Unless,” she added, “you are unable to separate fact from fiction, my lord. This evening I was merely fulfilling the role you requested of me.”

  She looked at him with challenge in her eyes. He moved swiftly to the seat next to her, the rational part of his mind questioning his motives. Perhaps it was her sheer proximity, all evening and now in the coach, that was his undoing. Without waiting for a reply, wishing to silence that rebellious, wilfull mouth, he hooked a finger into the clasp of her cloak, pulling her toward him. His lips met hers in a hard kiss. Quickly, he unclasped the cloak and pushed it off her shoulders, his hands cupping the swell of her breasts under the thin silk of her gown. Her nipples sprang upright in instant response.

  “I’m not in the mood for games, damn you,” she said hotly against his mouth. “I know what you are trying to do. To subdue me.”

  “With what? An embrace?” His lips murmured against hers. “You’re flushed. I can feel the heat coming off your skin.” He lifted his head, and his gaze slowly came up and met hers. A moment passed, and he felt an overwhelming need to assert his control over a situation that was becoming ungovernable. “I can do it again, Rowena, anytime I wish. Bring you to the brink and then leave you there.”

  “As though our sexual congress has ever solved anything,” she said.

  “Once you believed it did.”

  “I was wrong,” she said flatly.

  “Words have not been of much assistance, either,” he said. “However, don’t discount the fact that we do have this between us.” She gasped and flinched back in shock as his hands deftly arranged her skirt, going to the divide in her pantalets. “Don’t forget. Don’t ever forget, what I can do to you,” he said while his hand smoothed over her already heated sex. She stared, even as her hips jerked and her body reponded to him. Then he lowered his head, parting her legs on the seat between them. She couldn’t get away. She did not want to get away; lassitude instantly flooded her mind and her body. His tongue touched her core, and she gasped, her hips lifting from the bench. He focused on her silky wetness and the rhythm of her hips moving up and down, her body tightening against his mouth. And still he laved her, soothed her, kissed her until her body was as tightly wound as a clock. She panted and she gasped, the silk of her thighs tightening.

  Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, beyond the deafening drumroll of his pulse, he realized he was lost, adrift in a maze from which there was no escape. He told himself it was what he wanted, what she needed, his lips slanting over her core, the sweet taste of her in his mouth. Her hand curled into the hair at the back of his head, and she clung to him as her other hand roamed restlessly over his back. She was warming now, her dizzying scent taking him over. Somehow he forced himself to slow, to pull away despite her moans of protest. Then he stopped, straightened, and turned away.

  Rushford should have known her better. Only a moment passed before Rowena disengaged her hands from her skirts, sat up, and reached for his trousers, pulling them so the buttons snapped free, seemingly by magic. Her dark blue eyes refused to relinquish his gaze as she urged the fine wool down over his hips before shifting from the seat to the floor of the carriage. Taking him between her hands, she kissed him with her lips, then slid him into her mouth in a slow, tight motion that consumed every inch of him. As she drew back, she fed greedily, feeling him grow beneath her tongue. He caught his breath, and she paused to look up at him, satisfaction in her eyes, before he lost his fist in her hair. Again, she took all of him, cupping her hand beneath him as she withdrew, using her other hand to stroke and pump him with a gentle rhythm. His hand tightened in her hair as his breaths became shallower.

  When he spoke, his voice was a low groan. “I think we’re even now.”

  She withdrew her mouth but maintained the rhythm of her hand, looking up at him, challenging him to his core. “Are you certain?” Their eyes met, easing the earlier desperation and replacing it with something else. Her lips were full and parted, and he ran a finger along the bottom lip. In return, she ran the flat of her tongue up the length of his shaft moments before he lifted her up to the bench, shoved aside her ski
rts and entered her with a single thrust. He brought her legs to his shoulders and watched desire cloud her eyes as he thrust into her until he heard her cry out loud over the sounds of the carriage wheels biting into the cobblestones.

  When it was over, she lay perfectly still, a hand over her eyes, not looking at him while he adjusted his garments. The wheels of the carriage turned steadily beneath them. Several miles passed in hushed silence. “And what does that prove?” she asked finally, softly into the night. “That I am manageable ? That you can bend me to your will? If that makes you feel better, so be it, although for me it changes nothing.” Her voice had the ring of finality. She sat up seconds before the carriage slowed and rearranged her skirts as the carriage stopped at the mews behind her apartments. Neither was ready to talk, and Rowena ignored Rushford’s hand in assisting her down from the carriage. She stalked past him and into the house.

  Her hands shook as she stripped off her cloak. “This situation is out of control, and I don’t care for it,” she said with her usual forthrightness.

  “I didn’t hear you protest.”

  She threw her cloak over the occasional table in the hall. “You are vile.”

  “And you are dishonest.”

  “I am going to bed. Good night, Lord Rushford.”

  His shoulders rested against the door at his back. “We’ve come to the end, Rowena,” he said.

  She stopped in midstep, looking over her shoulder at him. “There was never a beginning, was there? Because you would not allow it.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, her scent still in his nostrils. “What are you saying?”

  “You are still punishing yourself—and punishing me at the same time for something in which I had no part.”

  “Do not bring up Kate.”

  “And why not—when her ghost stands between us? It’s true. You are always looking for the ghost over your shoulder. Always looking for the Duchess.” He did not disagree, but the flat gray of his eyes told her the truth. “It’s the reason you can’t allow yourself to trust me. The reason that the Baron can do with us as he wishes. Don’t you see? I almost wish I’d known her,” she continued fearlessly, feeling that she had nothing to lose. “Maybe then I would understand what it takes to inspire that intensity . . .” she paused, “that type of love.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I believe that I do. And if you could be honest with yourself and with me for once, you would see it also.”

  “You can’t begin to understand what transpired, and what’s worse, your ruminations are entirely unproductive,” he said harshly. “I meant what I said earlier, Rowena. We have come to an end. This evening was the last time you will be required to pose as my mistress. And if you wish to help me and yourself, you will stay in these apartments until my return.”

  “Please, Rushford,” she said suddenly, her eyes alight. “Why do you not allow me to help you? I don’t believe that you cannot find it in yourself to trust me.”

  Rushford pushed himself away from the door, and his face was neutral, his eyes as hard as stone. “Now please listen to me,” he said with soft but deadly intent. “Trust has nothing to do with these circumstances. Your continued involvement will only compound the difficulties for your aunt and sister. As a result, if you so much as think of doing anything impetuous, and unpredictable, as is your wont, I shan’t be responsible.”

  Rowena took an involuntary step back. “I don’t know what to do anymore, to convince you.”

  “There is nothing you can do. You are young and naïve and out of weakness, I allowed myself to believe that becoming further involved with you was wise when it was good for neither of us.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I should never have made love to you that first time. And when you returned to me, one year later, I should have done everything to send you on your way again. Not for me—but for you. We are at an end.”

  “That’s not true,” she burst out. “I told you I regret none of it. Not one moment. Even when I find myself wondering whether you would sacrifice those close to me for your own ends.”

  Rushford cut her off with a look before she could continue. There was nothing left to say. “Very well,” she said, holding up her palms in a gesture of acceptance. His eyes bored into hers during a brief, tense silence, as if he were reading her mind. Then he exhaled, leaning back against the door. In a rustle of gray silk, she disappeared down the hall, leaving him in the atrium. He swore a savage oath, feeling winded, as if he’d just taken a blow to his stomach.

  Rowena did not sleep that night. Instead, she paced the apartments, her mind whirling from one plan to the next, her heart hardening against Rushford. The day began with heavy clouds, and the sun made only a short appearance before setting again, suffusing the satin curtains of her bedchamber with what seemed an ominous glow. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since she had climbed the trellis behind Rushford’s town house on Belgravia Square to enlist his aid. Yet, she told herself, despite her conflicting emotions, she was just one step away from Montagu Faron, and closer still to a possession he prized so highly. Gazing into the vermilion glow of the remnants of a fire, she heard the clock strike eight. Only an hour before complete darkness fell. She could hear her own rush of blood pounding in her ears.

  It took her no time at all to fling off her day gown and change into a pair of trousers that she had asked Madame Curzon to make for her, smiling slightly at the memory of the older woman’s shocked face when she’d learned of Rowena’s preference for a riding costume. Rowena thrust the small, freshly oiled revolver into her pocket, wrapped a cloak around her, and tucked her hair beneath the hood. She had dismissed the maid and cook earlier in the day so there would be no witnesses to her leaving the apartments. Even so, she slipped out from the mews’ entrance of the apartments, avoiding the main stairwell, and walked briskly for several minutes before catching a hansom. “Bloomsbury,” she said to the driver, not giving a specific address, and pleased he could not discern her trousers beneath the length of her cloak. She sat on the edge of the seat as the vehicle swung around corners, the team of horses making short work of the distance. Rowena wouldn’t allow herself to think of anything but her immediate plan. She was determined to arrive at the British Museum ahead of the Baron’s men.

  The carriage came to a halt in the eerily deserted Russell Square, about half a mile from the museum. Rowena disembarked, wrapped her cloak more closely around her, and skirted the buildings flanking the square. During the day she knew the area to be filled with flower stalls, pigeon coops, and pie vendors, but as darkness settled she could hear only her own feet echoing on the cobblestones. It had been raining earlier, and the puddles glistened in the gaslight, the ground slippery underfoot. She ran through the narrow streets, past pitched roofs and narrow brownstones, cutting her way through Russell Square, heedless of the moisture that soaked the hem of her cloak, her eyes fixed on the corner of Charlotte Street ahead. Upon coming closer, she shifted into a doorway of a narrow series of buildings, pressing back into the shadows before looking up the street. It was dark now, the area curiously deserted save for a group of torches advancing. She fingered the pistol in her pocket, its coldness familiar to her hand.

  When the men had passed, she emerged from the shadows, her heart thundering in her chest as she ran toward the monumental south entrance of the museum. Strangely sinister with its colonnades and pediments, it loomed like a Greek architectural colossus in the gathering dark. She skirted a huddled figure in a doorway and ignored a dog frantically barking from a stoop. Picking up her pace, she ran along Charlotte Street to the west façade of the museum, which was more modest in proportion. It was easy to make herself disappear into a niche in the stone wall.

  Her breathing became more regular, and she allowed herself to momentarily close her eyes. Suddenly, the hairs on the nape of her neck rose, and her skin crawled. The low murmur of voices came incrementally closer, thinning her blood. Disembodied words catapul
ted her back to the dark fog of her abduction. The Baron and several other men.

  Rowena held her breath, easily identifying Sebastian’s voice. The footsteps came closer and then receded before she allowed herself to exhale. She focused instead on Meredith, Julia, and Montfort, her heart easing in acceptance of her fate. Her feelings for Rushford were really of secondary importance ; nothing would ever come of them, she knew. He had loved the Duchess, and Rowena Woolcott would always be a postscript, a burden, a responsibility that he had taken on, at best, without thought and, at worst, to staunch his grief for a woman who was lost to him forever.

  She paused for another moment, her chemise and shirt sticking to her spine with perspiration from her exertions. Two or three minutes passed, stretching to infinity, while the Baron and his half dozen men moved around to the back of the museum. Rowena could not make out their words but only saw the Baron lift his arm in command before they dispersed, disappearing around the corner, their torchlight lifted high.

  Still no sign of Rushford. She began feeling her way along the back wall of the museum, her cloak brushing along the stone until she came to a small set of stairs, clearly an entranceway, leading to a serviceable-looking door. Rowena did not hesitate. It was slightly ajar, an invitation to go farther, and she quietly slipped inside. Stopping on the threshold, she saw them at once at the far end of a cavernous subterranean vault, stacked high with long wooden boxes holding treasures of the museum that did not often see the light of day. Several sconces burned dully, but she identified the two men right away. Rushford and Lord Richard Archer.

  To the left, she saw another set of steps leading to a narrow open walkway above. Wavering only for a moment, she moved silently to creep up the stairs, keeping herself low to the ground until she reached a small platform. She was afraid of what she was about to witness. She knew Lord Rushford was prepared to do what he must to defeat Faron.