The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Clarissa,” he pleaded in a low husky tone, finishing with the wrap. He forcefully removed her hands from his arms, his darkened gaze fixed on hers. “There is no point in dredging up the past.”

  She closed her eyes, swaying with relief at being able to draw deep, unfettered breaths with the wrap removed. James caught her and held her against him, his hands settling at her bare waist. Clarissa set her own hands on his. “I assumed that you wanted all of me too. How could I have been so wrong?”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him, catching her breath at the depth of emotion that played over his face. He felt the pain too, deep down in his heart, where she couldn’t have known it was hiding.

  And then he kissed her hard, his lips bruising hers as he demanded more. His tongue forced her mouth open, plunging with a possessiveness that both terrified and excited Clarissa. He picked her up, the strength of his arms wrapped around her, crushing her bare breasts against his chest. She laced her hands behind his neck as he walked toward the bed, her tongue meeting his with matching ardor.

  Then he tossed her in the air and she landed, sprawling on the soft, overstuffed bed.

  “Good night, Clarissa,” he uttered in a barely measured tone, his breathing labored.

  Her head was spinning and she closed her eyes, certain she’d misheard him. But when she looked again, he was gone. She was alone in the beautifully decorated blue room.

  BY STEFANIE SLOANE

  The Devil in Disguise

  The Angel in My Arms

  The Sinner Who Seduced Me

  The Sinner Who Seduced Me is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2011 by Stefanie Sloane

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-51744-9

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration: Alan Ayers

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  For Randall.

  No flowery words or clever turns of phrase.

  Just know that you own my heart

  and you always will.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from The Saint Who Stole My Heart

  Late Summer 1811

  PARIS, FRANCE

  “Crimson?” the male voice drawled in disbelief. “Vraiment?”

  Lady Clarissa Collins steadied her hand as she brushed the bright hue onto the canvas. She stepped back and narrowed her violet eyes critically over the voluptuous female model draped across the blue damask divan. The elegant sofa was placed several yards away from her easel and angled toward the outer studio wall. The late morning sun poured through the windows that made up the southern wall of the space, bathing the nearly naked woman in warm golden light.

  Clarissa considered the canvas once again and used the tip of her little finger to barely smudge the fresh paint before nodding with satisfied decisiveness. “Now, Bernard, observe. Would you like to ask me again?”

  Bernard St. Michelle, preeminent portrait painter of Paris and indeed all of Europe, frowned, lowered his thick black eyebrows into a forbidding vee, and turned toward the model. “You may go.”

  The woman lazily reached for her dressing gown and rose, nodding to both before disappearing down the hall.

  Bernard meticulously unrolled a white linen sleeve down one lean forearm and then the other. “Clarissa, how long have I been a painter?” he asked, his Gallic accent more pronounced.

  Clarissa dipped her brush into a jug of turpentine and vigorously swished the bristles back and forth. She knew the answer to Bernard’s question, of course. In fact, she knew the entire conversation that was about to take place, since they’d had it too many times to count.

  “Longer than I,” she answered, tapping the brush hard against the earthenware pitcher before dunking it a second time, resuming the swishing motions with more force.

  Bernard adjusted his cuffs just so. “And while you were learning to dance and capture the attention of unsuspecting young men in London, what was I doing?”

  Clarissa pulled the brush from the jar and rubbed the bristles with a paint-stained rag. Her grip was too tight, the pressure too fierce, and the slim wooden brush handle broke in two. “Destroying your tools?” she ventured, tossing the snapped end of the brush handle to the floor.

  Bernard sighed deeply, ignoring the broken wood as he walked to where Clarissa stood. “I was working in London too, cherie, honing my craft during the Peace of Amiens. Even when the war broke out, I painted night and day—”

  “Until returning to Paris—in the hull of a blockade runner, no less,” Clarissa interrupted. “I know, Bernard. And I will remember if I live to be two hundred and two.”

  “Then you know that when I question your work, you must listen? I believe that I’ve earned such respect. Don’t you?”

  He was right, of course. Since returning to Paris, Bernard’s popularity with the ton had grown, his limited availability making him only more desirable. Sheer genius combined with the adoration of the elite was difficult to deny.

  Clarissa eyed the other brushes in the pitcher, the urge to break wood calling to her like a siren. “But I was right, Bernard. The touch of crimson to define the subject’s lip line is exactly what was needed.”

  “That is hardly the point, my dear—and you know it.” Bernard pushed the table with the pitcher of brushes and the clutter of stained rags, paints, and palette knives beyond Clarissa’s reach. “How can you expect to grow as an artist if you do not allow the world—and others with more experience—to inform your work?”

  His midnight black hair had escaped its queue and feathered about his temples like so many brushstrokes, piled one atop another.

  No matter how hard she tried, Clarissa could never stay angry at Bernard—especially when he was right. And since the day she’d met him, he’d been right about everything, unlike the long list of French painting masters who, despite her talent, had refused to take her as an apprentice because she was female.

  Five years earlier, when their world in England had come crashing down, Clarissa had agreed to flee with her mother to Paris. The prospect of studying with François Gérard or Jacques-Louis David had held all her hope for the future. When both artists scoffed at her request simply because she was a woman, Clarissa dismissed them as the idiots they clearly were and moved on, working her way down a list of suitable teachers in Paris.

  Despite her impressive portfolio of work, everyone she approached refused, until she was left with one: Bernard St. Michelle, the highly respected and, arguably, most talented painter on the
European continent. She’d not placed St. Michelle higher on her list, having overheard that even male artists of her caliber could not secure a position with him.

  But when she’d found herself with nothing to lose, she’d had her finest painting delivered to him—signed “C. Collins”—and St. Michelle had granted her a personal interview. Clarissa had procured suitable men’s clothing and made her way to his studio, intent on letting her art speak for itself rather than her sex doing all the talking.

  He’d agreed to take her on and, with a handshake, the deal was sealed. Clarissa had taken particular pleasure in ripping the beaver hat from her head and revealing her topknot of glossy black curls.

  Bernard had only sighed deeply and instructed her to arrive by eight in the morning—no earlier, no later—then told her to go.

  Though he was her senior by only a handful of years, Bernard had become a mentor and friend, father and confidant. As trustworthy as he was endlessly talented. And he’d taught her more about her art and her life in the last five years than she’d learned in the previous nineteen.

  The memory of just how much she owed this man had Clarissa sighing, her annoyance evaporating. She placed the flat of her palms on Bernard’s cheeks, cupping his face, and gently squeezed. “At least I did not throw the brush this time, oui?”

  He raised a thick black eyebrow in agreement. “Nor did you shout. Improvement, indeed, my dear. The fire in your heart is beginning to meld with the sense in your head. One day you will be the finest portrait painter the world has ever seen. Such self-possession will be of great value when working with the aristocracy.”

  “That, and my beaver hat,” Clarissa replied teasingly, playfully pinching Bernard’s face before turning to attend to the remaining brushes.

  The sound of the front door slamming below followed by the heavy tread of feet on the stairs caught Clarissa’s attention.

  “Jean-Marc?” she asked, referring to Bernard’s paramour.

  “No.” Bernard shook his head, waving her toward the dressing screen in the corner. “He attends to his mama today,” he whispered. “Go.”

  Clarissa complied, leaving the brushes to the turpentine and tiptoeing quickly toward the colorful screen. She’d made use of the hiding place many times before when delivery boys or Bernard’s friends had dropped in unexpectedly. A strategically placed peephole located in the upper corner of a painted butterfly’s wing allowed her to see all that was happening without revealing her presence.

  She’d barely whisked out of sight when three men entered the spacious studio.

  “Bonjour, messieurs,” Bernard greeted them in his native French.

  “Bernard St. Michelle?” the tallest of the three men asked. He was perhaps Bernard’s age, with small, glistening, black eyes and a balding head.

  Bernard nodded. “Yes. And who might you be?”

  The ratlike man stepped closer to view Clarissa’s canvas, eyeing the painting with a lascivious gleam before turning back to Bernard. “I’m a man with a business proposition that I feel certain you will not refuse.”

  “If you’re in need of my services, I’m afraid you will leave here disappointed. I am committed to the Comte de Claudel until next year,” Bernard replied, his tone remaining even.

  The Rat licked his thin lips. “Are you certain?” he inquired, gripping the carved silver top of his walking cane. With a quick twist, he pulled out a slim épée, the lethal fencing sword sliding silently from its hiding place. “Because, as I mentioned before, I’m quite certain you’ll find this proposal impossible to refuse.” He raised the blade and brought it down with force on the canvas. The painting ripped in two, a jagged cut appearing down the center of the model’s reclining body. “And I am never wrong,” he said, the words remarkable for their total lack of emotion.

  Clarissa bit her hand to stifle the scream building in her throat. The men were more than common street ruffians and she was sensible enough, even when outraged by the wanton destruction of her canvas, to know when to keep quiet.

  Bernard regarded the painting with quiet concern. “You have my attention, monsieur.”

  The two men positioned behind the Rat smirked in unison, their broad heads nodding with approval.

  “You’ll leave in three days’ time for London to paint a portrait for a wealthy Canadian. There will be compensation, of course, as would be expected. And lodging …” the ratlike man paused and flicked a disdainful gaze about the cluttered studio, “… that will suit your needs.”

  Bernard folded his arms across his chest. “And the comte?”

  With a swift, smooth flick of his wrist, the man slashed the blade at Bernard and a thin line of blood appeared on his face. “Tell the comte what you will. It makes no difference to me.”

  “And if I do not?”

  “If you do not?” the Rat parroted disbelievingly. Without warning, he lunged at the dressing screen, the blade slashing the painted silk covering until all that stood was the wooden frame. “Then my employer, Durand, will kill the girl—and her mother, for good measure.”

  An instinctive survival response had sent Clarissa stepping back and away from the deadly tip of the weapon. Now she was exposed by the shredded silk screen and she lunged at the swordsman, raking her nails against his cheek. “Not if I kill you first,” she spat out.

  The Rat stood motionless, seemingly suspended by his utter surprise at Clarissa’s attack. The neckless pair stared at the unexpected sight of the slender woman in blue dimity attacking their superior.

  Of the four men, Bernard recovered first, grabbing Clarissa and shoving her protectively behind him. “Three days, gentlemen. I trust you’ll stand by your word?”

  The Rat touched his face, dabbing at the blood left by Clarissa’s nails before licking the red stain clean from his fingertip. “Three days. No more, no less,” he confirmed, his cold, menacing smile directed at Clarissa before he turned toward the hallway. The muscular pair of henchmen followed behind, their heavy footfalls growing more muted, until the outer door to the street below slammed and they were gone.

  Bernard turned, his face set in stark lines.

  “Do you remember what I said regarding the fire in your heart and the sense in your head?” he asked, clutching Clarissa’s arms so tightly the skin beneath his hands turned white.

  “Yes,” she answered, wincing at the pressure of his fingers, a thousand unanswered questions threatening to spill from her lips.

  “I was wrong.”

  Clarissa eased from beneath his hands and lifted the hem of her smock, pressing it firmly against the line of blood welling on Bernard’s cheek. “Who were those men?” she asked, unable to control the tremble in her voice.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Bernard said grimly, his dark gaze meeting Clarissa’s wide eyes. “But I may know someone who can tell us more.”

  James Marlowe detested salt water. Swimming was all well and good, but taking in repeated mouthfuls of the briny liquid was, in a word, hell. He dug his heels into the wet sand and looked out over the black water of the English Channel. A full moon rode high in the night sky, illuminating the crest and curl of the rolling waves.

  He’d known from the beginning that penetrating Napoleon’s darkest of organizations, Les Moines—The Monks—would be difficult. But when Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael, asked, one hardly thought in terms of ease.

  He spat once, then twice, grimacing when the salty taste failed to disappear. James was an agent within the Young Corinthians, an elite British government spy organization that operated outside the bounds of normal channels.

  Carmichael was the liaison between the spies and those in control of the British government at the highest level—and those at the top were anxious to be rid of Bonaparte. When intelligence reports revealed Les Moines’s troublesome strides toward securing Napoleon’s dreams of adding Russia and Britain to his continental empire, Carmichael was tasked with putting an end to their efforts—once and for all—by fair means
or foul.

  James untucked his sodden linen shirt, pulling it free of his waistband, and rolled his aching shoulders. Carmichael had made it clear that no one but himself would know the true nature of James’s assignment. He’d have very little in the way of resources other than his skill and wits. James was well aware that eventually all within the Young Corinthians would assume he had betrayed his compatriots and become a traitor to Crown and Country. It was not a role he relished, but he’d rather take it on himself than have Carmichael hand it off to one of his fellow Corinthians. Compared to others, he had little to lose—and no one to care if he died while carrying out his assignment.

  And so he’d agreed. It had taken over a year to secure his footing within the organization, and six months more to prove his dedication to the cause, establishing a place in the despicable group.

  Which had landed him squarely on the beach of St. Aldhelm’s Isle, where he’d done battle with his fellow Corinthians mere hours before. His most recent undertaking for Les Moines had had him hunting for emeralds in the wilds of Dorset. He’d managed to ensure that the jewels would not fall into Napoleon’s hands, but not without incident. The time had come to reveal himself as a traitor to his fellow Corinthian agents, and thus he’d been shot at by a baronet’s daughter while trying to board a boat. Acting on instinct, he’d sunk below the waves and swum until his lungs nearly burst. When he’d surfaced, the Corinthians were gone, leaving the world to mourn the loss of James Marlowe, traitor.

  He doubted anyone would spend more than a passing moment regretting his “death.”

  Out on the dark water, a light flickered, rising and falling on the swell of the waves.

  He shoved himself up from the wet sand, standing as the light drew brighter with the approach of a boat that was scheduled to retrieve both James and the jewels.

  There would be hell to pay for the loss of the emeralds, he thought, and his apparent untimely demise would be a nuisance. But James was well versed in the art of improvising.