Wicked As Sin

by Jillian Hunter

  Gabriel shrugged. “That’s nothing new. I’m hardly seeking a papal dispensation for my sins.”

  “You seem to be seeking something. Look at this, please.” Heath slid across the desk one of the comical caricatures that circulated in the streets and salons of London.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Gabriel said, holding up his hand. “If this is another drawing that your wife did of your private bits, I don’t want anything to do with it.”

  “It isn’t me,” Heath retorted in annoyance.

  “Well, it certainly isn’t—” He glanced down at the print, suddenly falling silent. It depicted a man climbing out of a window with a pair of lady’s drawers in his teeth and several silk stockings draped around his neck.

  As caricatures went, Gabriel had seen cruder, including the one that Julia Boscastle had drawn representing Heath’s tallywag as an organ of cannon-size proportions.

  No. What was disturbing about this particular drawing was that the subject bore a remarkable resemblance to Gabriel. But it wasn’t him. In fact, he was amused that Heath even considered it a possibility.

  “You’re assuming that this handsome rogue is me,” he said with a dark scowl.

  “You’re assuming that you’re handsome,” Heath countered. “And are you saying this man isn’t you? I will not doubt your word, but I do need to ask.”

  “I confess I have no idea what you’re talking about. What exactly has this Mayfair scoundrel done?”

  Heath settled deeper into his chair. “Broken into the bedrooms of several young ladies—”

  “Welcome or unwelcome?”

  “Unwelcome, definitely.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. I never break into a bedroom without an invitation.”

  “And he’s rifled through their drawers, searching for some unspecified object—”

  “That was not me,” Gabriel said with confidence. “I’ve never gone through a woman’s drawers without knowing exactly what I was looking for.”

  “Nobody has actually accused you. Or even named you.”

  Gabriel folded his arms over his chest. “That’s not surprising, considering it wasn’t me.”

  “I never said it was.”

  Gabriel glanced at the door, his attention diverted. He thought he heard footsteps outside the room, which was not surprising since Heath housed a small academy for young ladies who were awaiting a new location. His sister Emma had opened the school, and although now married to the Duke of Scarfield, she had not abandoned her charges.

  He stood up, restless, and increasingly offended. “Did you honestly think I’d break into a woman’s bedroom?”

  “Not without good reason. Oh, and there are purportedly a few gentlemen’s offices that were searched, too. It must be a coincidence, Gabriel, that the intruder matches your description. I pray you accept my apologies.”

  “Whoever he is, I hope he enjoys himself.”

  “Where are you going?” Heath said.

  Gabriel turned. “To enjoy myself. Perhaps I can invent a few novel crimes to stir up some legitimate accusations.”

  Heath trailed him to the door. “I could come for a few hours to keep you company.”

  Gabriel laughed. “To keep a watch over me, you mean. Your informants must be quite persuasive.”

  “Not necessarily. But they do tend to be reliable, and, they say, where there’s smoke—”

  “—there’s usually a Boscastle,” Gabriel finished. “Or more than one. Stay home with your wife, Heath. Treasure the peace you have earned. I shall be fine alone. We can meet at Tattersalls tomorrow if you have the time.”

  “In the market for a new carriage?”

  Gabriel paused as Heath’s butler opened the door to the London night. More than ever he wanted to see Alethea again. “I thought I might breed thoroughbreds.”

  Heath nodded in approval. “A cavalryman could make a worse choice for his future.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He spent two hours at Arthur’s Club on St. James’s Street, not engaging in play but offering advice to a few old friends. He wasn’t in the mood for gaming. His concentration felt off. He was relieved, in fact, that no one noticed when he left the club and took a hackney to a disreputable establishment in Pall Mall that catered to high-ranking players. The same hell in which he had won Helbourne.

  Several gentlemen glanced up to acknowledge him. A waiter brought him a glass of porter and took his coat. “Good to see you back, sir.”

  “Have I been gone that long?”

  “The tables have missed you. And more than a few ladies in London, I’ve been advised.”

  “It’s only been what—a fortnight?” Gabriel said wryly.

  “Is that all, sir?” The waiter hovered at Gabriel’s side, dropping his voice. “Your plucked pigeon has come home to roost on his empty rafter every night.”

  “Has he met with any luck?”

  “No, sir. As the rumor goes he got into family trouble for staking Helbourne Hall and wants to win it back.”

  “Does he now?”

  “He’s gone to his annuity-broker and attorney to try to arrange a sale,” a man approaching him remarked. He was an old gambling friend, Lord Riverdale, a happily wed father of five who shared Gabriel’s attraction to the tables.

  “I suppose he’s found out that the title deed is ironclad and I am indeed the owner of the unfortunate property?”

  “You don’t want a farmhouse edged in a quagmire, do you?” Riverdale asked in a droll undertone.

  Gabriel shrugged. “It might be of use one day. I’m of a mind to begin breeding thoroughbreds.”

  “Ah. Who is she? Does she like the house?”

  “She’s a neighbor and she detests it, with good reason.”

  “A place to breed horses,” Riverdale mused. “Well, why—”

  “Has Sir Gabriel chosen corruption or the country?” a slurred male voice interjected from a corner table. “We took odds. I am relieved to see corruption won out.”

  Gabriel looked up in irritation. Damn if it wasn’t Oliver Webster, the jinglebrains who had gambled Helbourne Hall away. “What are you trying to lose tonight?”

  Webster took Gabriel’s question as an invitation to challenge him to a game of écarté at his table. Gabriel accepted, and the two men cut to decide who would deal. Webster lost.

  “I’d like to win Helbourne back,” he announced. “I’ve missed that old bat.”

  “Mrs. Miniver?”

  “No. The one on the wall.”

  Gabriel grinned. “Interesting. There must be buried treasure in the family crypt.”

  Webster frowned. “There’s nothing valuable there of which I’m aware. It’s a hideous old place, but losing it has made me look like an idiot.”

  “Helbourne isn’t in the pot,” Gabriel said. “How about three thousand?”

  Webster shrugged, watching Gabriel deal them five cards each.

  “Why don’t you go home?” Gabriel asked mildly, glancing down at the table.

  Webster flushed. “Easy for you to say when you’re up. I’m not exactly welcome there right now.”

  Gabriel laughed, although he was no longer paying attention. He dealt the king faceup as the eleventh card. Webster snorted.

  “Point,” Gabriel said, without inflection.

  Webster called for new cards and motioned the waiter for another bottle. Gabriel’s advantage stood. The game continued, Gabriel winning most of the tricks, concentrating until suddenly he glanced around, sensing that he was being watched.

  Two familiar gentlemen wearing demonical grins flanked the doorway. His cousins Drake and Devon Boscastle, not in this hell by any coincidence. He nodded in wry acknowledgment. “Don’t tell me your wives have unleashed you for the night.”

  Drake approached first, his smile cynical. “They’re the ones who sent us to keep an eye on you.”

  “He won my house,” Webster complained. “It seems only fair that I have a chance to win it back.”

 
Gabriel shook his head. He’d lost interest in the game, more pleased to see his cousins than he would show. They’d blazed through enough hells in their bachelor days, but he knew it was Heath who’d likely sent them—Heath didn’t really believe he was the man raising mischief in Mayfair?

  “I’m going to Tattersalls tomorrow. I’ve my eye on an Arab to enhance my country stables.”

  Devon, the youngest Boscastle of the London brood, leaned against the heavily draped window, his long frame relaxed. “Is it true you’re rusticating?”

  “Trust me,” Riverdale said, studying his glass. “There’s a woman involved.”

  Webster vigorously shook his head. “Trust me. There aren’t any beddable women in Helbourne. Not any worth mentioning—well, except for Alethea Claridge, and she might as well live on Olympus.”

  Drake Boscastle circled the card table. He and Gabriel shared an alike darkness of brooding countenance and broad-shouldered strength. “Why doesn’t she count? Is she married?”

  “She was betrothed to poor Hazlett,” Webster said, “until he got his guts blown out by a cannonball. She hasn’t been herself since, from what everyone tells me. All she did when I was there was ride her horses and walk her dogs. Didn’t have the time of day for me. Don’t know why.”

  Drake regarded Gabriel’s downbent face. “Well, sometimes all a mournful lady needs is a little consolation, a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.”

  Webster made a rude noise. “Are we playing cards or having a tea party to benefit the bereaved?”

  “Five points. Game.” Gabriel leaned back in his chair. “And may we change the subject?”

  Webster narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me that Alethea Claridge has caught your eye, Gabriel. She’s above every man in this club.”

  Gabriel raised his hard stare from the table. He realized his cousins were awaiting his reaction, as were the other men within earshot. “Lady Alethea is merely my neighbor, and an old acquaintance. I would not refer to her as if she were a courtesan.”

  “Perhaps that’s what she’ll end up one day,” said a slender barrister who had sauntered up to the table. “I saw the lady pay a visit to Mrs. Watson’s house late one night last year. She caught my eye. What a beauty.”

  Gabriel stood, his face taut with anger. “You do not value your life, do you?”

  Drake’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Caution, cousin,” he murmured. “If you engage the moron in a duel over the lady’s honor, it will only give people cause to wonder if his words bear merit.”

  “But he won’t be saying anything if I kill him,” Gabriel pointed out. “And do not play the hypocrite, cousin. You’ve fought more than one duel over a woman in your time.”

  Drake’s eyes glistened. “Of course I have. But it’s much easier giving another advice when one’s own heart is not involved.”

  Gabriel felt a shock go through his body. “My heart is not involved,” he said quickly. “I hardly know the lady well enough to risk my life on her account.”

  “I thought you met her years ago,” Devon said with a guileless smile.

  Gabriel scowled. The devils knew him too well. “We spoke but a few words.”

  Devon nodded sagely. “Ofttimes an affair is all the better for not speaking. I have learned the wisdom of holding my tongue when Jocelyn is upset.”

  “Would you both stop trying to be so bloody helpful? I want this slack-jaw to take back what he said. And to never say it again.”

  Drake and Devon turned the full power of their intimidating Boscastle presence on the other man, for whether they agreed with Gabriel or not, he had thrown down the gauntlet, and Boscastle blood was thicker than brandy.

  A sheen of perspiration broke out on the barrister’s upper lip. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket. Every eye in the room was now trained upon him.

  “Perhaps I—I made a mistake.”

  Gabriel exhaled. “Perhaps?”

  “Well, it was dark.”

  “It usually is at night,” Drake said.

  The barrister’s voice cracked a little. “Come to think of it, the woman I saw was wearing a hat with one of those veils.”

  “Are you even sure it was a woman?” Devon asked, his arms folded across his chest.

  The barrister took pause. “Well, of course—I’m sure.” He swallowed as the power of their combined stares conspired against his nerve. “No. You’re absolutely right, and as a man of a legal mind I should have reconsidered. In retrospect, it could have been the prime minister’s wife—”

  “Or the prime minister,” Devon said.

  “It might have been,” the barrister said.

  Drake forced a laugh. “There you have it, Gabriel. All’s well, isn’t it? You’ve won. Shall we enjoy what’s left of our night? I do not travel abroad often since I am married.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Less than an hour later the three Boscastle men were sitting in Drake’s parked carriage in front of Audrey Watson’s exclusive brothel on Bruton Street. Drake and Devon had watched in dispassionate silence as Gabriel loosened his cravat and downed half a bottle of fine French brandy.

  Mrs. Watson’s guards had emerged from the house to investigate. Upon recognizing the Boscastles, the bordello sentinels had immediately withdrawn, only to return a minute later with another bottle of brandy and a personal invitation from the proprietress herself to come inside. The three men politely declined.

  At length a wind blew up, bringing fine rain. Gabriel, staring through the window, appeared not to notice. One of Drake’s two footmen coughed in a subtle bid for consideration. The coachman, an older man who had spent many more years in his master’s service and was less inclined to subtlety, stamped his heavily booted feet upon the box.

  Gabriel slumped back against the carriage seat, one hand covering his face. Of course the barrister had been mistaken, or there was a perfectly good explanation. Perhaps Hazlett had kept a mistress through Mrs. Watson, and the two women had wished to meet and, well, do whatever two females did when they realized they had been sharing the same man and that now he was dead. He wasn’t going to insult Alethea by asking about it.

  In fact, it wasn’t in his best interest at all to remind her she had loved another man. He would be a gentleman and pretend he’d never heard anything about the mysterious visit she may or may not have paid to the exclusive seraglio on Bruton Street.

  The problem was, unfortunately, that Gabriel had never cared until recently whether he was seen as a gentleman or not and had himself sought entry into this establishment. But he’d never seen a lady like Alethea in any of the rooms.

  Certainly Alethea had not since her betrothed’s death embarked on the merry life of a courtesan. Gabriel would have claimed her on the spot had he sensed that she was in the market for a protector. No. For his money she was what she appeared to be: a pretty young woman whose sensual potential would be buried in the country unless some sharp-witted squire won her attention.

  Devon, not the most patient of the Boscastle males, finally nudged Gabriel with his foot. “Well, go on. Audrey’s given you the invite. See what you can find out. We can’t sit here like gawking schoolboys.”

  “I don’t want to go inside,” Gabriel said stubbornly.

  Drake snorted. “Well, that’s a chapter for the history books. You never refused before, as I recall. Just go in and get it over with. When a man’s heart is involved in these things, it is useless to evade the truth.”

  Gabriel shook his head indignantly. “Why do you insist upon saying that my heart is involved?”

  “If this isn’t a matter of the heart,” Devon said, “it must be something corporeal, and I don’t doubt Audrey’s got an answer for that, too.”

  Gabriel’s mouth thinned. “You’re so glib and well liked, why don’t you go inside and do the honors?”

  “Me?” Devon held up his palms. “I’m a devoted husband, and I got into trouble once before over a visit to Audrey’s. Jocelyn would crown me if it happen
ed again, as innocent as I was.”

  Gabriel turned to regard Drake, who said bluntly, “No. My days of private sessions at Audrey’s are over. The fact that we’ve been sitting here for an hour will probably be reported in the papers, and I shall be hard-pressed to explain it. What do you say, Gabriel?”

  He smiled in resignation. “I say there’s no balm in Gilead or in London for me. We leave.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A simple roast beef with buttered potatoes and blancmange? Leg of mutton with braised cabbage and fruit compote? Alethea had reviewed the menu for Friday night’s supper a dozen times over. She’d heard from Mrs. Bryant, who’d heard from Mrs. Miniver that Gabriel had gone to London for a few days on some unspecified business. And when on Thursday morning the blue September skies darkened and angry thunderheads amassed above the hills, she tried not to take it as an omen or to be concerned that he had not returned. Or to wonder whether he would come back at all.

  She brought the cows in and, despite her brother’s steward Wilkins protesting, helped hammer up all the holes in the chick house and dovecote. She also made certain that Wilkins posted another sign on the bridge to Helbourne Hall—a good rain would wash out the stream, the local road, and anything else, living or not, that happened onto its path. The physical activity settled her nerves. A country gentlewoman could not afford to sit in idleness.

  On Thursday afternoon a storm swept in from the coast. Alethea barely had time for her after-tea ride, which included a run past Helbourne Hall, and no, she was not checking on whether Gabriel had returned. She rode by his house every morning as part of her daily exercise.

  But the rain broke in earnest just as she galloped up the drive. By nightfall Gabriel’s fields, fallow and unplanted, would be awash in mud. She doubted he cared.

  Once upon a time she had believed in fairy tales. She had trusted the handsome prince her parents had chosen for her until he stole not only her virtue but her faith in happy endings. Therefore, it made no sense that she hoped to tame a man who had never pretended virtue at her table. And yet she did.