The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Of course,” James concurred, turning to the carriage door and opening it. He stepped from the coach and waited as Dupont alighted, a serviceable satchel in hand. They started up the steps, nodding at the man who stood guard outside the front door.

  “Dupont,” the burly man said by way of hello.

  “Simon,” the tailor answered simply, gesturing for the man to open the door.

  He complied, pushing the red lacquered door wide enough for the two to step inside.

  A young maid met them in the foyer, her body shaking as she dipped a polite curtsy.

  “Upstairs, I presume?” James asked, moving toward the stairs.

  The maid threw herself bodily in his path. “I’ll ask my lady to come down. You will wait here.”

  James nodded and watched the girl practically fly to the upper floor, disappearing down an east-facing hall.

  Dupont checked his pocket watch a second time.

  Clarissa’s irate voice echoed from above. “Am I to understand that he requires my presence below? You may tell the man I’d rather ride a horse—”

  The tirade was cut short by the sound of a door slamming shut. The maid appeared shortly after, descending the stairs at a markedly slower pace. “I’m afraid Lady Clarissa is indisposed at the moment.”

  James looked at Dupont. “Shall we?”

  “We shall,” the tiny tailor confirmed, hefting his satchel in one hand and awaiting James’s sign.

  The maid reached the bottom of the stairs and readied to curtsy again, obviously hopeful that the men would take their leave.

  “Now,” James said to Dupont.

  The tailor ran toward the stairs just as James reached for the maid and held her still.

  “Do not follow,” he warned the maid, releasing her. “Or I’ll have reason to be angry.”

  The girl blanched at the thought and scurried toward the back of the house.

  James took the stairs two at a time, discovering Dupont waiting for him just in front of the only closed door.

  “Coward,” James taunted.

  “Smart,” the man countered, stepping aside so that James might enter first.

  James raised his hand to knock, then thought better of it. The element of surprise would prove beneficial in this situation—or at the very least, would hopefully ensure fewer injuries for himself and Dupont.

  He noiselessly turned the polished brass handle, pushed the door open, and stepped in, allowing Dupont to slip in behind him before slamming it shut.

  “How dare you!” Clarissa sat bolt upright in the middle of her bed, a multitude of embellished pillows in shades of blue surrounding her. She wore only a thin white night shift, and her hair was undone, cascading all around her shoulders and falling in a spill of glossy raven black silk reaching below where the coverlet met her waist.

  She threw a pillow at James’s head. He caught it neatly before it hit him square in the face. “How could you let them take her?” She’d been crying, he could tell. Her violet eyes were reddened, her lids swollen.

  “They’ll not harm her, I promise,” James answered, needing to calm her. It would be so easy, he thought to himself, the desire to hold and comfort her surging free and surfacing from where he’d buried it five years ago. Two steps, three at the most, and he would be at her side.

  “Your promises mean nothing to me,” she said, fixing him with a cold glare. “You know that.”

  “It’s all that I can offer you—and it’s all that you’ll get from the men I work for. Please, Clarissa, you’ve no other choice.” James fingered the brocade fabric of the pillow, wanting to tear it in two. “Your mother will be taken to the country and treated with the utmost respect, I assure you. It’s in the organization’s best interest too.”

  “Of course,” she replied, her voice devoid of emotion. “I’d forgotten that you’ve everything to gain from keeping me happy—at least for now.” She paused and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Clearly, the money this Canadian is willing to pay for the portrait is of great importance to you. If you wish to receive the payment, you’ll provide proof of my mother’s continuing safety. If not, I’ll make sure that not a penny of the portrait fee returns to Paris. Do you understand?”

  James tossed the pillow back, the small, rectangular frippery landing at the end of the bed. “Of course.” He knew Clarissa like the back of his hand. If she said that she would make the money disappear, she would. And probably destroy the painting as well.

  “Letters. I’ll require letters from my mother. Written in her own hand,” Clarissa added, drumming her fingers against the coverlet.

  James wanted to hoot with delight over the woman’s clever scheme, but knew he could not. “I’ll ask Durand—”

  “No,” she interrupted, staring him straight in the eye. “You’ll tell your superior that this is required—or I’ll not move from this chamber. Do we understand each other?”

  Dupont cleared his throat. “I’ve a little under an hour.” He bent to open his satchel. “I suggest we begin.”

  James returned Clarissa’s fierce stare with one of his own before nodding at the tailor.

  “What is going on?” Clarissa asked incredulously, pulling the coverlet higher to drape around her shoulders.

  “I’ll warn you, I’ve little experience with gowns.” Dupont continued, efficiently producing a measuring tape, scissors, a length of chalk, and a small metal box of pins from his kit. “And with our time nearly gone. Well, I’ll do what can be done, but I’m hardly a miracle worker.”

  “What. Is. Going. On?” Clarissa ground out for the second time.

  James addressed Dupont first. “She’ll require five suits, complete with shirts, vests, breeches—everything.”

  The man nodded, his experience in working with Les Moines clear from his lack of surprise. “Very well. Please, come and stand here,” he directed Clarissa, pointing to where a woven rose twined intricately with an ivy pattern just at the corner of the carpet.

  “Clarissa, we must be sure your appearance as St. Michelle is believable. You cannot travel to England without the proper attire,” James explained. “Do as Dupont has asked—and do it quickly. The cobbler will be here any minute.”

  “Laurent?” Dupont inquired. “You do not want to keep that man waiting. Come, mademoiselle, there is no time to lose.”

  Clarissa tossed her hair back over her right shoulder and rose from the bed, coming to stand in exactly the spot that Dupont had indicated.

  “Thank you.” James leaned against the oak door and folded his arms over his chest. His casual pose was deceptive. His muscles were strung tight as he fought to control the urge to carry Clarissa out of the house to safety.

  Clearly unaware of the conflict of emotions that tore at James, Clarissa’s stormy violet eyes shot daggers at him. She held out her arms and allowed Dupont to begin. “Do not thank me. This is not for you—not now, not ever.”

  After a day fraught with worry, Clarissa climbed the stairs and sought her mother’s room. She pulled a brush through her long hair and stared into the triple dressing-table mirror in her mother’s chamber. The maid had turned down the bed out of habit, then hastily attempted to remake it, until Clarissa assured her she needn’t.

  There was something comforting about the turned-down bed. As if at any moment her mother would walk through the chamber door and wonder at Clarissa’s presence in her room. Clarissa pulled the brush through her thick fall of hair again and waited, but her mother did not appear.

  She’d not even told Isabelle of seeing James again, Clarissa thought. By the time she arrived home from caring for Bernard, it was far too late to discuss such matters. And Clarissa hadn’t really had the time to properly consider James. The danger of the situation had kept her mind spinning with concern. The sight of him in Bernard’s studio flashed in her mind. There was a hint of the young man she’d known, his deep brown hair and umber eyes the same. But he’d grown into a more commanding male, his cheekbones and nose more
chiseled, his physique honed to muscled perfection.

  “James,” Clarissa said his name out loud, then dragged the brush so hard through her hair that her scalp tingled. He’d broken her heart when he’d sided with her father five years before. He’d even gone so far as to question the quality of her love—as if her refusal to believe her father’s innocence meant she’d somehow failed James.

  She set the brush down on the mahogany table. James had convinced Clarissa of his love. Shown her with his embraces and told her time and again. She’d believed him, because she wanted to, and also needed to. Other men had paid her pretty compliments and pretended to find her emotional nature charming. But she’d always seen through their flattery, no matter how much they tried to convince her otherwise.

  James had recognized Clarissa’s nature for what it was—an essential part of her, no more changeable than her arms or legs. He’d understood the value in her temperament, come to appreciate her rich emotional exuberance. And when he’d left, claiming her heart had gotten the better of her head, she was inconsolable.

  She pulled her long, thick hair over her shoulder and began to plait it. The last five years in Paris under Bernard’s tutelage had done wonders to restore Clarissa. He’d made her see that a balance between the two was ideal—a blending of mind and emotion allowed her to discover the truth in her subject while remaining objective enough to be authentic in her work.

  She’d worked hard to forget all that James had wrought. Yet here he was in her life again.

  Clarissa finished with the braid and stood, walking to her mother’s bed. She’d thought to speak with her mother that very morning about him, after she’d had the opportunity to think on things. But she’d overslept, dreams of the Rat and the neckless twins plaguing her the entire night.

  She lifted the skirt of her pale blue muslin night rail and climbed into her mother’s bed, slipping under the coverlet with one of the pillows tucked into her arms. The linens smelled of her mother, the delicate hint of rose both comforting and distressing to Clarissa.

  She cried herself to sleep, fearing for the morning but knowing full well that dawn would come.

  “Do you require assistance?”

  James stood outside Clarissa’s door, with Dupont by his side.

  “No!” Clarissa ground out, and silence fell over the house once again.

  He’d been required to recount through the door his hasty conversation with Durand regarding the marchioness’s safety. The man had acquiesced to Clarissa’s demand that her mother be allowed to write to her, though James felt they could not spare a moment lest the Frenchman’s word suddenly became worthless.

  Clarissa had accepted the newly tailored garments then promptly slammed the door in his face. And that, by James’s estimation, had been nearly twenty minutes before.

  The tailor began to pace. “I wasn’t sure how to accommodate her …” he trailed off. “There’s a length of linen,” he continued, his short legs covering the hall with surprising speed. “She’ll need to wrap it thusly.” He stopped in front of James and began to demonstrate on his own stout torso.

  Behind them, the door opened and she stood in the threshold.

  The two men turned in unison and looked at her.

  “A fine job, if I do say so myself,” Dupont exclaimed with delight, pulling Clarissa forward and gesturing for her to turn slowly. “The binding looks to have worked well,” he said distractedly, eyeing her breasts critically. “And the breeches! Well, if I didn’t know better, I would assume those to be the legs of a gentleman. Mind you, your build made the task far easier than if you possessed a more feminine form …”

  James ignored Dupont’s observations and simply watched Clarissa revolve. He had to agree with Dupont—the binding worked, as did the breeches. If he were to encounter her on the street, James would not look twice. Even her hair, tucked up beneath a hat, was passable, though they would have to cut it off before reaching England. But he knew her—remembered every intimate detail of her body, which made the moment that much more bizarre.

  “If you two are done, I’ll need some assistance with the boots.” Clarissa turned on her stockinged heels and returned to her room. “Dupont,” she called after the tailor.

  “The remainder of the clothing is downstairs. Please make sure that it is carefully packed,” the tailor requested of James, then joined Clarissa, closing the door behind him.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  Clarissa swept the dark, dank ship’s cabin with a critical eye, then looked at James. “Not in the least. Did you specifically request the most inhospitable of ships or was it merely my luck?”

  James took one step toward the scarred lattice-backed chair where Clarissa sat, the planked floor creaking ominously under his boots. Then he stopped, uttered some sort of oath, and turned abruptly toward the captain’s bed situated along the wall of the low-ceilinged cabin.

  This would be the first significant amount of time they would spend in each other’s company since their unexpected reunion. Clarissa had insisted James accompany her on horseback rather than ride in the carriage. And then she’d shut herself up in her room for the entirety of their stop last night. Clarissa couldn’t help but miss the distance that had so conveniently separated them until now.

  “There is a blockade in effect, Clarissa. Besides, it is important that we not be seen. Our presence will draw less attention in a ship of this nature rather than a more ‘hospitable’ vessel,” he said tightly.

  “By nature, I assume you refer to the fact that it is piloted by common criminals?”

  Clarissa sat straighter in order to gain some relief from the tightly wound fabric about her chest. Unwanted emotion churned in her stomach. Anger? Fear? Certainly, though there was something else. Something she didn’t want to consider too closely.

  “Are you well?” James asked, leaning against the opposite wall and folding his arms across his chest.

  Clarissa breathed as deeply as she could, the binding fabric chafing against her skin as she did so. “Why would you ask such a question? No, of course I’m not well. You’ve placed my mother in danger, forced me into service, and torn me from my home.” She rose from the chair and leaned her head against the wall, the wood rough beneath her forehead as she attempted to draw another, deeper breath. “Really, James, you’ve grown lack-witted in our time apart,” she added caustically, her head beginning to spin.

  Dimly, she heard the sound of footsteps, then his hands were upon her, ripping the linen shirt from her waistband, before slipping them beneath the soft fabric.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, batting at his hands as she tried to escape his hold.

  He spun her around and yanked the bindings loose, quickly unraveling her with deft skill. “When I asked if you were well, I was referring to your physical state. This,” he paused, holding a fistful of the bindings at her eye level before tossing the length of fabric on the floor, “was slowly suffocating you.”

  Clarissa stared at the length of soft white fabric on the floor, drawing in welcome draughts of briny sea air while she caught her breath. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, unable to look at him.

  “For what, Clarissa?” he asked, gently catching her chin and turning her face up to his.

  His touch was just as she remembered. Firm, yet gentle. “It’s been so long, and yet I’ve fallen into our old pattern.”

  He cupped her cheek in his hand, his eyes searching hers. “Of quarreling? Yes, it has been quite some time, but I remember that part clearly.”

  Clarissa shrank back, pressing against the rough wall behind her. James’s nearness suddenly threatened to overwhelm her senses. “It takes two to quarrel—”

  “Clarissa,” he interrupted, laying one finger against her lips. “Please, I’ve no desire to fight with you. What’s in the past is just that—in the past.” He removed his finger and stepped back, gesturing for Clarissa to take the chair while he lay down on the bed.

 
She instantly missed the feel of his skin on hers—and hated herself for it. She knew he was right. There was no point in wasting time when her mother was in danger. And James was, in all likelihood, her only hope of assuring her mother’s safety. Durand and the rest of his gang were hardly the sort to inspire confidence in their promise to leave Isabelle unharmed if Clarissa completed her assignment.

  And to succeed, she needed James’s help.

  Still, his transformation troubled Clarissa; his ability to remain calm and rational in her presence confused her. Or was it her response to him that frayed her nerves? She watched as he effortlessly folded his arms and cradled his skull in his intertwined fingers.

  “And the present?” she queried, suddenly needing to think upon anything else but their shared past.

  He appeared to be rocking slowly back and forth, the movement of the waves below providing an easy rhythm. “Once we arrive in Dover, we’ll travel by coach to Bennett’s London home—no more than a two-day ride. You’ll begin the painting no later than—”

  “You misunderstand me,” Clarissa interrupted, tucking the tails of the linen shirt into her snug breeches. “What I meant was, how did you find yourself here, in the employ of such men?”

  James dropped one booted foot to the floor. “Why do you want to know?” he asked, shifting to look at her.

  “Why?” Clarissa parroted in disbelief. “Although you broke my heart, you were, at one time, an honorable man, James.” She struggled to remain calm. “I suppose I’m curious, that’s all. Why would the son of a British peer cast his lot with such a crew?”

  James turned his head and stared once again at the low ceiling above him. “I broke your heart? Is that how you remember it?” he asked, his voice a low murmur.

  “How else should I remember it? My father ripped apart the fabric of his marriage by taking a mistress and exposing my mother to the worst sort of pain imaginable. And you refused to lend your support to me—and my mother—at what was arguably the most difficult time in our lives—”