The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  Clarissa could feel the beginning of a small smile on her lips despite her desire to remain unaffected. “I’d not even thought to catch you so, but I cannot deny that your logic is …” She dropped her palms to the leather seat and leaned back, her eyes looking up at the gilt border just where the walls met the ceiling as she searched for the right word.

  “Logical?” James offered helpfully.

  “Yes, actually,” Clarissa agreed, continuing to examine the decorative touch.

  James’s low laugh held amusement. “You needn’t sound so surprised. I can be rather clever when it’s absolutely necessary.”

  Clarissa’s gaze drifted back to James. This felt altogether too comfortable. Too familiar. Too dangerous. Especially with a man who’d insisted her mother be taken hostage. Pettibone’s revelation concerning her mother had hurt far worse than Clarissa could have imagined. James was keeping more from her than she’d realized. Well, two could play at that game.

  “Thank you for seeing to Pharaoh’s bath,” she said politely, cutting short the flirtatious moment.

  James only nodded in response. “Pharaoh, is it?”

  The cat jumped awkwardly into Clarissa’s lap, settling himself down upon her fawn breeches. “Looks as if he already knows his name. Then Pharaoh it is. Now, I suppose I should return to my work.”

  “There is something I need to speak with you about—beyond Pharaoh,” James replied, his tone turning serious.

  Clarissa began to stroke the cat, her mind working furiously. Did he know of Pettibone’s visit to the studio? And if he did, what was she going to tell him? She’d not yet decided. She’d come to the portrait gallery for that very reason; critically examining the work of others was a way of freeing her mind to think on other things. But she’d only begun the process, the last hour hardly sufficient time to complete such a task. She hated him for treating her mother so inexcusably. But did she hate him enough to endanger his life? For Pettibone inspired in Clarissa an intense mistrust that she felt sure was warranted.

  “I’ve decided on Iris’s next outing.”

  Clarissa nearly let out an audible sigh of relief. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. A boxing match—not far from here. It shouldn’t draw many members of polite society, but enough that Iris will be pleased.”

  Pharaoh growled in irritation and swatted at Clarissa’s hand. “How on earth will you explain the presence of a lady at such an event?” Clarissa asked.

  “Really, St. Michelle?” He lifted a brow, lips quirking in a small smile.

  Clarissa resumed stroking the cat at a more leisurely pace while she mulled over James’s response. Suddenly, it occurred to her that the man just might be fool enough to repeat his daring use of disguise. “You cannot mean to—”

  “But why wouldn’t I?” he interrupted, examining Clarissa from head to toe. “It has worked well, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “First of all,” Clarissa said matter-of-factly, “the girl is far more endowed than I. Where do you think to put those?”

  James’s critical gaze rested on Clarissa’s bound breasts. “True enough. Hers are roughly three times the size of yours. But this is for one night only. Don’t you think an additional binding or two would suffice?”

  Clarissa folded her arms across her chest and fought the urge to tell James just what she thought he should do with his “additional bindings.”

  “As for the rest of her far-more-feminine form,” he continued, “we’ll just have to do the best we can. The majority of the men at the match will be foxed, which should aid our efforts.”

  Clarissa crossed her legs, sending Pharaoh jumping for the space between herself and James. “Yes, I believe it was my grandmother who said, in a pinch, public drunkenness is always helpful.”

  “We’ve no choice in the matter. Better to accept that now,” James replied, standing. “I’ll fetch Iris and meet you at the servants’ entrance tonight at one o’clock. Agreed?”

  “Will Pettibone be joining us for the outing?” Clarissa inquired, attempting to keep her tone disinterested, though she was eager for information on the man.

  “No,” James replied. “Why do you ask?”

  She shouldn’t have mentioned Pettibone, that much was clear. James was readying to leave and now here he sat, asking a question that Clarissa couldn’t begin to answer.

  “Why do I ask?” she countered, attempting to secure a bit of additional time.

  James picked up Pharaoh and set him gently on the floor, then slid the distance between the two on the bench until his leg brushed up against Clarissa’s. “Pettibone is mine to deal with, not yours,” he said firmly.

  “Of course,” Clarissa agreed, running her fingers through the short hair at the nape of her neck. “Really, there’s no need to turn so serious. It was a simple question.”

  James reached out and caught her chin between his forefinger and thumb, staring hard into Clarissa’s eyes. “There is nothing simple about Pettibone—nor the men that we work for. This is a matter of life and death, Clarissa. I need to know you understand that.”

  The feel of his warm, strong fingers on her skin made Clarissa tense, as did his words. He had no idea just how right he was. Pettibone was up to something, Clarissa could feel it in her bones.

  She searched James’s eyes, finding nothing beyond a cool, calculated concern. If it was true that the eyes were the windows to the soul, Clarissa believed she’d found her answer.

  She nodded, then pulled away, needing to be free of his touch.

  “We’ll be one step closer to our goal by the end of the evening. Just keep that in mind.” James stood and strode from the gallery, leaving Clarissa with only Pharaoh and her thoughts for comfort.

  Clarissa listened until she could no longer hear his boots upon the oaken floors. She lifted Pharaoh from beneath the leather bench and buried her face in his soft fur, his small, warm body comforting her sore heart.

  “It’s so dark! I can’t see anything.”

  James gripped Iris’s hand harder and continued on down the hall. “It’s meant to be dark, mademoiselle. How else would we make our way through Kenwood House undetected?”

  “Oh,” she said conspiratorially, then added, “Still, would one candle have ruined everything?”

  James wanted to say that she’d already ruined everything, but held his tongue. The silly girl had tried his patience time and time again. And James was not a patient man to begin with.

  He’d waited nearly an hour outside her chamber door while her maid fussed with the preparations. Iris had asked after a modiste to adjust the cuffs of her shirt—requiring that James explain the ridiculousness of such a request at the late hour. Daphne needed two explanations of how to properly button the breeches, ending in James demonstrating on his own. Then Daphne had nearly fainted at the indecency of it all—a malady cured quickly by the addition of funds to what she’d already been promised by Pettibone. James had wanted to tear down Iris’s door and dress the woman himself, but even he could understand why such an act would be disastrous.

  When she’d finally stepped from her room, the pleased look on her face only irritated James further. He’d straightened and rebuttoned her coat as best he could until he felt she could pass for a man—at least for one night.

  Agreeing to more “adventures”—as Iris had been so fond of calling them—would hopefully prove fruitful. Pettibone was so tight-lipped about Les Moines that James felt sure he’d hardly get anything useful out of the man.

  And James wanted information. It wasn’t enough to intercept the funds. He wanted to destroy every last one of the conspirators, from Durand and Pettibone to the woman at the Cyprians’ Ball and all the way up the ranks to the person who pulled the strings. James was a loyal Young Corinthian, and that had been enough to convince him to accept the task in the beginning.

  But now? Now he wanted someone to pay. His time at Kenwood House had only served to remind him what he’d learned so long ago: Anything beyond ph
ysical lust was pointless. He mentally slammed his fist into the wall for allowing thoughts of Clarissa to enter his mind. What James would not give if she’d never seen fit to reappear in his life.

  But the neckless twin, in all of his infinite wisdom, had broken St. Michelle’s arm. And if Les Moines had not employed the neckless twin? Well, James would probably still be scurrying down a dark hallway with Iris in tow, but he certainly would not be scurrying toward Clarissa.

  “Ouch,” Iris squeaked as she struggled to keep pace. “You’re about to break my wrist.”

  “My apologies, Mademoiselle Bennett,” James murmured, though he could hardly find it in himself to feel anything but irritated.

  He knew that Clarissa was as much to blame for his situation as anyone—including himself. When they’d parted years ago, he’d told her she was weak for not trusting in him. And he’d believed it. But he hadn’t blamed her. She was, after all, a woman.

  So he could hardly hold her accountable now. She was, despite appearances, the same feminine creature who had drawn him to her like a moth to the flame. As of late, though, something had come over Clarissa. He could not quite put his finger on it, but she’d altered her demeanor—and purposefully. Purposefully. Such a word in relation to Clarissa was unthinkable. She was anything but purposeful. Headstrong. Emotional. Mercurial. Those were descriptions suitable for the woman he’d known.

  James stopped abruptly at the end of the hallway. “Attendez. There’s a light up ahead,” he whispered into Iris’s ear. There was no one about, but he thought it best to embellish a bit while the woman was fully aware.

  “How utterly exciting!” Iris whispered urgently, peeking around James’s shoulder. “I feel as though I’m a spy in His Majesty’s service!”

  Iris’s words were akin to being brained by a cricket bat. James pulled the girl toward the stairs and made haste for the main floor.

  And suddenly realized that Clarissa was turning into a spy. Before his very eyes, no less. He’d hardly thought of her in such a way, but it was true. He’d come to rely on her—through no fault of his own, of course; the utter lack of Corinthian support made it completely necessary. But she was becoming his partner.

  Where were he and Iris off to at that very moment? To meet Clarissa. Who was needed to part Bennett from his money? Clarissa. James missed the last step, stumbled, and almost pulled Iris down with him.

  “Now where?” she whispered eagerly.

  Clearly, the near fall had only heightened the sense of danger for her. “This way.”

  They continued silently toward the rear of Kenwood House, reaching the servants’ stairs quickly.

  It was difficult to accept that his fate lay, in part, in the hands of a woman—even more disturbing that the woman was Clarissa. But more than that, he’d somehow robbed her of what made Clarissa Clarissa. And he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself for that.

  “Careful on the stairs,” James hissed to Iris as they descended, a faint glow of candlelight dimly illuminating the hall as they approached the bottom.

  He guided her through the servants’ dining room, toward the large kitchen, the light growing steadily brighter.

  “Mes petits, I was afraid you’d decided against going,” Clarissa remarked upon their entry, her perfect French accent both seductive and startling to James.

  She was St. Michelle. From her shorn glossy black locks down to her perfectly polished Hessian boots, she’d become what he’d wanted her to be.

  “I would not miss this for all the world,” Iris answered teasingly.

  “Non, I suppose you would not,” Clarissa answered, then threw the lock on the sturdy wooden door. “Allons-y!”

  “You cannot mean for me to ride astride.”

  Clarissa ducked down below Winston’s side and fiddled with his saddle pad in an attempt to hide her relief. “I suppose that we will not be able to go? Dommage.”

  Iris let out a huff of irritation. “Why is it necessary for us to travel by horse when we possess perfectly serviceable carriages?”

  James smoothed out the saddle pad on the dappled gray before setting the saddle atop the horse. “This is not the Cyprians’ Ball, mademoiselle. There we had the advantage of masks.”

  “But I am wearing the costume, just as you requested,” she replied, gesturing to her hastily tailored clothing.

  Clarissa stood and looked at Iris. All the bindings in the world would not make the woman look like a man. Her curves were somewhat hidden, though recognizable if one bothered to look closely. Her hair, the fair complexion, the ridiculously pert cupid’s bow of a mouth. The disguise was lunacy. Clarissa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing and walked to the tack room, eyeing the saddle she’d used on her first ride.

  “Oui, the costume is a start. But we cannot arrive in an expensive carriage and expect to go unnoticed. This is a completely different clientele, Mademoiselle Bennett,” James replied, cinching the saddle of the chestnut intended for the girl. “Très dangerous, on that you can be sure.”

  Clarissa knew that what James was keeping from Iris had everything to do with the two of them and nothing to do with the girl. It would be the end of everything if they were recognized at the boxing match by an acquaintance. From what Pettibone had suggested, James had only been involved with Les Moines for a year and a half—hardly enough time for the ton to forget his appearance.

  And if they were recognized? Clarissa couldn’t bear to think on what would happen then. Everything that meant anything to her would be lost—perhaps even her own life.

  “But there will be ton in attendance, yes?” Iris pressed, the sound of her voice grating on Clarissa’s nerves.

  James had done everything but assure the woman that they would be dead by sunrise, and all she could think to do was inquire after polite society? Clarissa hefted the saddle into her arms and returned to Winston.

  “Oui, but you’ll not be able to speak with them. Remember, Iris,” James paused, coming to Clarissa and taking the saddle from her, his face filled with exasperation, “you’re not the daughter of a wealthy Canadian banker. Tonight, you’re someone else altogether.”

  Both Clarissa and James looked at Iris. Her eyes reflected something akin to frenzy, and her foot tapped furiously on the earthen floor of the barn. “Yes, of course,” she said, breaking the trance with a wicked grin. “I’m someone else.”

  Clarissa wished with all her heart that the girl was, in fact, someone else. Someone who lived a good distance from here and rarely left her home. She turned to watch James put the saddle on Winston and glanced back at Iris, severely disappointed when she discovered her wish had not come true.

  “Right, then,” Iris said firmly, taking the chestnut’s reins in her hand and pulling the mare toward a barrel. She scrambled up on top of the barrel and threw one leg over the mare’s back, her second coming quickly behind—and before she’d managed to secure the first stirrup. She instantly slipped from the saddle in one swift movement, almost as though she’d intended to do so.

  James rushed to where the girl had landed somewhat unceremoniously on her backside. “Are you quite all right, mademoiselle?”

  “That is harder than it looks,” she replied, waving off James’s offer of help to collect her from the ground and getting her feet beneath her all on her own. She stood, wiped the dust from her breeches, and looked at James. “Now, give a man a foot up, won’t you?”

  James held the mare’s reins with one hand and cupped Iris’s foot with the other, supporting her until the boot was firmly settled in the stirrup and her other leg had cleared the mare’s back. She hooked her second foot into the iron and beamed triumphantly.

  James turned to Clarissa but she pinned him with a warning glare as she took up Winston’s reins. She’d been masquerading as a man far longer than Iris. If she couldn’t mount her own horse … Well, she wasn’t quite sure why it was important at that very moment, but it was, and that was enough.

  “Do prepare for a
long night, won’t you, Winston?” Clarissa whispered to the Thoroughbred. He snorted in reply. She lifted her foot and placed it securely in the stirrup, offering a prayer before firmly gripping the saddle and pulling herself up while pushing down hard on the stirrup. She hastily threw the other leg over Winston’s back, then slid into the saddle and willed herself to stop. “Rougier, dépêchez-vous,” she said reproachfully, then caught the second iron with her booted foot.

  The servant had only been able to supply James with the farmer’s name and a general idea of the location of the match. But they’d ridden toward Cricklewood, where the light from the torches glowed ahead of them.

  It was meant to be an inconsequential match between two promising, but by no means important, pugilists. The growing din of human voices as the three continued down the dirt road toward the light made James wonder whether the servant had been correct.

  “Oy. Out of the way,” a driver yelled from behind. James gestured for Clarissa and Iris to follow him onto the grass.

  The carriage navigated the rutted road and made to pass them. “Plenty of people for such a small match, yes?” he asked of the driver.

  “Seems Percy was released today. Came straight here to fight,” the man replied, clucking to the bay to keep moving.

  James slowed his gray and allowed the carriage to move on before reclaiming the road.

  “Percy?” Clarissa asked, appearing at his side.

  James clenched the leather reins between his fingers. “Thomas Percy. Best boxer in London—some say all of Europe and beyond too. He most recently resided in Newgate Prison.”

  “Why?”

  James turned to Clarissa. “You do not want to know.”

  “Well,” Clarissa began pragmatically, “at least none of us is his opponent. What do you know,” she added, low enough so that Iris could not hear, “there is a silver lining of sorts.”

  “What are you two discussing?” Iris asked, awkwardly urging her mare up alongside James’s gray.