The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  And then the twin had lost his temper and thrown the man across the room.

  “Oh, my God, Bernard!”

  James spun around at the sound of a woman’s voice.

  It couldn’t possibly be.

  He caught a flash of pale skin, raven-black hair, and violet fabric as she rushed toward St. Michelle, dropping to her knees and bending low over the fallen man.

  “What have you done?” the woman demanded, twisting to look over her shoulder at the men. Her appalled gaze reached James and she froze, eyes widening with shock.

  But it was.

  Those violet eyes, which he’d thought never to see again, narrowed in anger and outrage as her gaze swept swiftly over him before returning to meet his.

  “You!” Clarissa’s voice was choked with emotion.

  “No, mademoiselle, not I. Him,” James replied lightly, pointing to the twin. “He is responsible for this—well, that’s not entirely true. But the broken arm was certainly all his doing.”

  Every inch of his body wanted to react to the sight of her. Rumors had raced through London when she and her mother had fled to Paris five years before, but James had never entertained the possibility of seeing her again.

  “How can you—”

  “Allow such a thing to happen?” James interrupted, silencing her, at least for the moment. “It’s simple, really. St. Michelle had a choice to make. Clearly, he made the wrong one.”

  He could not let his feelings get in the way. Revealing the fact that he and Clarissa knew each other would pique even the twin’s limited interest.

  St. Michelle groaned in pain and clutched Clarissa’s arm. She quickly pulled off her pelisse, bundled it into a makeshift pillow, and carefully tucked it under the artist’s head. “Do not move,” she ordered, then stood. “He has a broken arm. How do you miscreants propose he paint your portrait now?”

  “At least he’s not dead,” the twin offered a second time.

  Clarissa moved about the room at an efficient clip, gathering a basin of water, lavender soap, and clean cloth rags. She was familiar with the space, even proprietary. “He might as well be dead,” she hissed. “Without the use of his right arm, he cannot paint. And if he cannot paint, what good is he to you?”

  Understanding finally dawned on the giant’s face. He rubbed his bald head in consternation before shoving his hands into his pockets. “What do we do now?”

  “Yes, what do we do now?” Clarissa repeated as she knotted two of the rags into a sling.

  St. Michelle groaned again.

  “Give me a moment to think,” James growled. He’d not spent a year and a half of his life on this assignment only to be bested by a brainless giant.

  “This portrait, who commissioned it?” Clarissa asked as she wiped smears of blood from St. Michelle’s bruised and cut face.

  James scrubbed one hand over his forehead. “A Canadian, newly arrived in England,” he said wearily.

  “I can assume, then, that this Canadian has never met Monsieur St. Michelle before?”

  St. Michelle’s good hand grasped Clarissa’s. “No, do not even think of such a thing.”

  “It would be easy enough, my friend,” Clarissa said gently but firmly, prying his fingers free so she could continue her ministrations to his battered face. “I fooled you once, so why not the Canadian? Besides, my talent is up for the task, would you not agree?”

  The giant frowned. “What are you two going on about?”

  James’s jaw clenched. She couldn’t possibly be proposing that she … No. It could not be, though her presence here in St. Michelle’s studio made much more sense now. She’d spoken often of her desire to study with a great artist—and lamented that being female would make success difficult, if not impossible. Clarissa’s talent had been enormous, astonishing, five years ago. James could only assume that her artistic skills had grown under the tutelage of St. Michelle.

  But not enough to risk her further involvement with Les Moines, he thought grimly.

  “I will go in his place,” Clarissa stated firmly, rising to her feet to face the men.

  The twin wrinkled his bulbous nose. “But you’re a woman.”

  Clarissa’s mouth compressed into a thin, straight line. “Yes, a woman, with enough talent to pass for St. Michelle. And,” she paused, planting a hand firmly on each hip, “your only hope. I’ve masqueraded as a man successfully before. Let’s see if I can manage it again, shall we?”

  “No,” James and St. Michelle roared in unison.

  The twin held up one beefy hand. “Wait a minute.” He took Clarissa’s upper arm and dragged her to a window close to where the artist lay. “Look there, out the window,” he commanded.

  Clarissa complied, tilting her head and peering upward to let the sunlight fully reveal her face.

  The giant looked from Clarissa to St. Michelle and back again, his feeble brain comparing the two. “I think it might work. She’s close enough to the same height, her voice is husky, her coloring is similar, and her breasts are flatter than my grandmother’s crêpes,” he stated, pointing toward her bosom beneath the high-necked violet gown. “With a morning coat and cravat—well, yes, it just might work.”

  “Not a chance in hell,” James bit out. “I will not leave this to a woman.”

  Clarissa batted the twin’s hovering hand away from her bosom as if it were no more than an annoying gnat and turned toward James. “You’ve no choice. If this Canadian has his heart set on a St. Michelle portrait, no other artist will be acceptable—and you well know it.”

  “She’s right,” the twin said.

  James wanted to hit the bastard. “Durand will never agree.”

  “Not that I would presume to know this Durand nor his affinity for common sense, but perhaps speaking with him would be prudent?” Clarissa said stiffly, directing her question to the henchman. “But first, a doctor is needed. Please, on your way to inform your superior, summon Monsieur Leveque and bid him come at once.”

  She turned her back on the men to kneel once more at St. Michelle’s side and reassure him that all would be well.

  Not bloody likely, James thought, though he kept the conviction to himself.

  Clarissa waited until she heard the door slam shut below before peering out the small studio window that looked out on the building’s front steps. She bit the inside of her cheek as she watched James confer with the ruffians and then stride off down the avenue, one giant keeping pace beside him while the other remained to stand guard at the entrance.

  Not until James disappeared did she press the torn rags clutched in her hands to her face, giving way to the storm of tears that had been building since she entered the studio.

  “You are weeping?” Bernard asked, groaning from the effort.

  Clarissa was unable to respond. Sobs shook her shoulders, easing the overwhelming tension of the last moments and the effort needed to hold them in. At last, she patted her face dry and took three deep breaths.

  “I was weeping, and now,” she replied, turning to face Bernard, “I am not.” She resolutely walked to him and bent over, catching his shoulders in a gentle but determined grip. “To the divan with you.”

  Bernard awkwardly sat up, then used his one good arm to scrabble and push himself to his feet. “You cannot do this, Clarissa. You’ve no idea who those men are.”

  “Then tell me,” she said simply.

  They reached the divan and Clarissa helped lower Bernard as gently as she could, propping his legs up on an old wooden bench before settling in on the floor next to him.

  “The ‘Durand’ that the man mentioned,” Bernard began, protectively holding his injured arm close to his chest, “is well known to all within the Parisian underworld. He dabbles in legitimate businesses, but his real interest lies in somewhat darker undertakings—thievery, kidnapping. Even murder. Antoine said Durand is rumored to have ties to Napoleon.”

  “And you trust the word of your barkeep?” Clarissa asked skeptically.

>   “Implicitly.”

  Clarissa sensed she was painfully close to crying again. How could James have gotten himself involved with such men? She hated him for what he’d done to her—in some ways she hated him even more now than when it had happened—but to think that he was capable of treason.

  “Why did you not run when Antoine told you this?” she demanded, swiping at an errant tear dampening her cheek.

  Bernard closed his eyes tightly. “I did. I made it as far as Orly before this sent me back.” He clumsily reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

  Clarissa sighed at the sight of it. Some months back, after Bernard was discovered sleeping in the kitchens of a tavern in Rouen, she’d insisted that he record his name and address on the scrap and carry it with him at all times. Apparently he’d been drunk in Orly and someone had found the slip of paper and sent him home.

  “I would have protested my return if I’d been able,” Bernard assured her. “As for you, I suppose it was too much to hope that you’d stay out of all this.”

  It was not the first time Bernard had attempted to fix a problem with copious amounts of drink, but Clarissa saw little point in bringing that up now. “Yes, my friend, it was.”

  “In that case, you must run,” he said in all seriousness, as though it were a simple matter.

  Clarissa eyed him wearily. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  Bernard crumpled the note in his fist. “Be sensible, do not let your pride get in the way of your safety. You are afraid—as well you should be. Escape before it is too late.” He tossed the scrap and Clarissa watched it land on the paint-stained floor near the broken table.

  Fear was just one of many emotions Clarissa had encountered since waking this morning—all of them were unwelcome. “You’re right. I am terrified. But one man guards the door below and the other two will return soon enough. It is too late for escape. Our fate is in my hands.”

  Durand stared at the neckless twin, his displeasure evident. “You broke the man’s arm?”

  Neckless moved restlessly in his seat. “How could I have known he would land on his arm?”

  “And you brought Marlowe here, without consulting me?” Durand pressed, his hands gripping the mahogany desk that occupied most of the northern wall of his office.

  “Time was of the essence,” Neckless answered anxiously, nudging James with his elbow. “Tell him.”

  It hadn’t been at all difficult to convince the twin that a meeting with Durand could not wait. James had seen fit to work the man into a lather over the injured artist, advising the lackwit that Durand would be livid over such a mistake. The twin had hastily agreed and called for a carriage at once.

  They’d ended up not far from Tout et Plus in the 3rd arrondissement, where the questionable intersected with the respectable.

  James looked at the twin from the corner of his eye, nearly feeling sorry for the man. Durand would have his head for the day’s work. Such was the nature of the game they played.

  “As I see it,” James answered, distancing himself from the twin’s efforts, “we’ve very little choice in the matter. Either the girl masquerades as St. Michelle or we call off the deal altogether. There’s no time to find another artist—nor, dare I say, would we find one competent enough to undertake the portrait. The girl is our only hope.”

  Durand cursed and slammed his fist against the desk. “And if I agree? What assurance do I have that this bitch will cooperate?”

  “Threaten to kill St. Michelle?” Neckless offered enthusiastically.

  Durand looked at James. “Will this be enough?”

  “From what I witnessed, there is true affection between the two. Perhaps taking the man into our custody would convince the girl—”

  “Or the mother,” Neckless interrupted, rubbing his hands together. “Yes, the mother. I’ve been watching their house long enough to know that the two are very close. Take the mother and the girl will do anything you ask.”

  James resisted the urge to clout the twin across the face, and instead watched Durand take in the information with disturbing interest. James knew damned well that the twin was correct. Clarissa’s mother was all that she had left in the world. As such, he could not let this happen.

  “The mother, you say?” Durand asked, drumming his fingers on the desk.

  “Come now, the last thing we need is a weeping mama on our hands. St. Michelle will do nicely—and all that he’ll require is an unlimited supply of wine. The mother would prove exhausting, I assure you.”

  James knew that he needed to tread lightly. One false move, one slim indication that he valued the needs of Clarissa and her mother over those of Les Moines, and Durand would pounce with pantherlike swiftness, putting an end to James and all that he’d worked for.

  Durand ceased drumming and looked straight at James. “We’ve dealt with such women before.”

  “And the girl? If it is true that her mother and she are indeed as close as we believe, what if the pressure is too much and she’s unable to go through with the plan?”

  James held tight to his restraint as he teetered on the precipice. He was doing everything in his power to keep Clarissa and her mother safe, but he was afraid it wasn’t nearly enough.

  “It is your job to ensure that she does,” Durand replied dryly, then stood from his chair and walked around the desk. “Go,” he told James. “I’ve unfinished business with this one.”

  Every inch of James’s body tensed with the desire to argue, but he fought against it and stood, nodding to Durand. Neckless caught his eye with a pleading look, but James only turned toward the door and left. He couldn’t do anything for the man now without compromising his own position. There was no point in offering hope when there was none to be had.

  The carriage rolled to a slow stop behind another carriage waiting just outside 123 rue de la Fontaine, Clarissa’s home. The door suddenly opened and one of the overgrown brothers appeared first, followed by Lady Westbridge and a second man, whose arm was wound tightly about the woman’s waist. She was pale though composed, a glacial calm in her eyes as she looked quickly up and down the street.

  She’d hardly aged in the five years since James had seen her on that fateful night he’d been refused entry to Westbridge House but had forced his way in, making it only as far as the entryway before four footmen wrestled him to the floor.

  Lady Isabelle had appeared at the top of the stairs and called his name before descending. She’d gripped the banister for dear life as though she barely had the strength to walk. After insisting that the men release James, she’d offered him her hand. He’d held fast to her slim, soft fingers, hardly able to believe that it had all come to this point.

  Some months before, when James had been recruited into the Young Corinthians, Robert Collins, the Marquess of Westbridge, had taken him under his wing. James had been grateful for the man’s help with his first official case as a Corinthian and eager to learn all that he could. He’d looked forward to dinner with the marquess and his family, for James’s gratitude had grown into true admiration and affection for Westbridge.

  He couldn’t have known that he’d meet the love of his life that evening. Lady Clarissa walked into the drawing room and straight into his heart. James had never pondered love before. As the second son of a baron he allowed himself to harbor hopes for a wife with money but never one he would love.

  But Clarissa bowled him over with her beauty and independent nature. She was an emotional creature, something many men would tire of easily. But James admired her for it, her honesty rather refreshing.

  She’d loved him unabashedly, giving of herself and her time as if James was the most important person in the world to her.

  And then the rumors had begun. Whispers of an affair between Clarissa’s father and a well-known courtesan were far too delicious for the ton to ignore, and naturally, the talk had made its way to Isabelle’s ears.

  The woman had been devastated and Clarissa right along
with her. “Theirs had been a love match,” she’d sobbed when she told James the news. She’d looked to him for support and assurance that he would never do such a thing to her.

  The problem was that James suspected the rumors were false. The marquess had been on assignment, the courtesan a Young Corinthian informant. But he could hardly admit as much to Clarissa. So he’d assured her that, no, he would never even entertain the thought of betraying her trust.

  He’d held her close and calmed her. Then suggested that perhaps the rumors were just that—unsubstantiated and quite possibly false. James could not stomach the idea that all of society, most especially Westbridge’s own family, thought the marquess capable of such betrayal. He felt it his duty to in some small way defend the man.

  Clarissa had flown into a rage, claiming that James’s support for the man who had broken her mother’s heart and so dreadfully disappointed his daughter showed how little he knew of the true nature of love.

  James had erupted as well, declaring Clarissa’s inability to trust him revealed she was not the woman he’d believed her to be.

  She’d told him to leave and never return.

  He’d assured her he would do just as she asked.

  And yet he’d found himself on her doorstep, holding Lady Isabelle’s hand and searching for the words that would put everything back in order.

  No words had come.

  Lady Isabelle’s eyes had filled with tears when she told him to leave her daughter’s life forever.

  “Sir?”

  The voice pulled James from the painful memory and he turned to look at the man sitting next to him.

  “Yes, Dupont,” he answered the tailor, watching as the marchioness was forced into the carriage. The twin climbed in after her while the other man slammed the door shut and yelled for the coachman to drive on.

  James turned when Dupont pulled an ornate gold pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted the time. “I have an appointment in an hour.”