The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  Being detained between two beautiful women was normally something that James would have enjoyed. But their incessant questions were making it very difficult to do so. “Apparently, one of the boxers has been replaced by a much more notable pugilist.”

  “You say this as if it’s a bad thing,” Iris replied disbelievingly. “Wouldn’t you rather watch a famous fighter ply his trade?”

  “Although,” Clarissa answered, “an accomplished fighter against one who is not as skilled could become quite messy—”

  “Do you mean physically? I’ve never had much of a stomach for bloo—”

  “The problem,” James interrupted, needing the two to stop talking, “is not the quality of the fight. It is Percy and the crowd he has drawn.”

  “Oh,” the two women said in unison, then fell silent, Clarissa clearing her throat in what she hoped was a manly way. The sound of the crowd was growing louder, and they were passed a second time by a carriage, the men contained within shouting in delight at having finally arrived to watch the great Percy fight.

  “We must turn back,” James said. He tugged the reins gently and the gray came to a halt. Looking toward the crowd then at the farmland surrounding them, James knew there were Les Moines agents out there, somewhere. Pettibone had made it clear that he would send a handful, though he’d refused James’s request that they be made known to him beforehand.

  “We cannot!” Iris replied vehemently, continuing on toward where the match was to be held. “I’ve ridden—astride, no less!—nearly an hour to attend. And attend I will.”

  James was torn. The appearance of Percy would mean far more members of polite society in attendance—perhaps even Young Corinthians, though he could not say for sure. But by the same token, identifying additional Les Moines agents was part of his assignment, something he could not accomplish without giving Pettibone cause to send the agents out in the first place.

  “As you said this afternoon, with the completion of this evening—or early morning, as the case is—we will be one step closer to our goal.”

  James could hardly believe that the words—so defeated and willingly so—could have come from Clarissa’s lips. If it were not for the fact that she’d followed the statement by urging Winston on toward the fight, he would have assumed a fourth rider had joined their party.

  He urged the gray into a trot and drew even with the two women. “It will be necessary for us to be even more careful than I’d first thought necessary,” he warned Iris.

  “Monsieur Rougier, you are beginning to bore me,” the girl replied teasingly, then took off at a canter toward the crowd.

  Clarissa watched Iris as she bounced and barely hung on to her seat atop the chestnut, her hat nearly flying off every time a hoof connected with the ground. “This was all your idea—you’d do well to remember that fact.”

  “You’ve no need to remind me,” James said gruffly. “Come, we best catch up with her before she rides directly into the bout.”

  James allowed Clarissa to go first, realizing he would have to watch both women carefully. He wasn’t an agent who found adapting difficult—quite to the contrary, actually. James had lived his life since Clarissa’s betrayal with little concern for what should happen and an eye toward what might.

  But even James found the current state of his assignment challenging, “Devil take both the bothersome wenches.”

  “It’s completely barbaric!” Iris exclaimed, her eyes glowing with excitement.

  Clarissa flinched as a spattering of blood from Percy’s opponent’s lip hit her on the cheek. She swiped at the spray and continued to watch as one man beat the life out of the other. “I suppose to a woman, such a sport makes no sense.”

  It certainly made no sense to Clarissa. Iris had insisted that they edge their way quite near the ropes outlining the ring. James was doing his best to protect the two, wedging his body between the taunting crowd and herself and Iris, but he could do nothing regarding the roaring noise. Nor the scent of sweat and inhumanity laid bare. It was as if every man in attendance had forgotten to bring his sense of decency.

  A particularly vile individual spat into the ring at that very moment. Clarissa’s stomach churned. Perhaps she had been too accommodating when she’d assumed the men had simply forgotten their decency—she was more inclined to believe they’d had none to begin with.

  Iris let out a high-pitched scream of delight when Percy landed a particularly nasty blow to the man’s stomach. “It’s so male—so different from anything we women are allowed to enjoy. But you’d not understand such a thing.”

  Clarissa couldn’t help herself. Her eyes widened in complete and utter confusion. She watched as an umpire called the end of the round and sent the two to their respective corners. Percy didn’t make use of his knee man but did accept some water and an orange slice from his bottle man. His opponent was finding it difficult to remain upright, his knee man literally gripping the man’s arms in an effort to keep him conscious. Blood flowed from several cuts upon his face, and Clarissa could swear that bruises were already forming angry black and blue marks across his chest and stomach.

  Iris had been correct about at least one point: It was barbaric. The umpire brought his fingers to his lips and whistled, signaling the beginning of the next round.

  Clarissa turned her head toward James, went up on her toes, and brought her lips close to his ear. “Just how many rounds are there?” she asked, not sure if he’d heard her over the cacophony of jeers and yelling all around them.

  “They fight until one or the other falls,” he yelled into her ear, his warm lips brushing her lobe.

  “Or one dies,” she answered distractedly, turning her attention back to the ring in order to stop the sudden tingling of her skin.

  Percy led with a swift right hit to the man’s jaw, much to the approval of the crowd, who yelled with glee. His opponent teetered for a moment as though he would fall, then gathered his strength and lifted his fists. The crowd turned on him even more aggressively, one man next to the rope suggesting that he give in and die. Clarissa looked closely at the man. He was attired in expensive clothing and held a brass eagle–topped walking stick in his hand, which he enthusiastically raised high each time Percy landed a blow. He was clearly a member of the aristocracy, though his behavior hardly alluded to such.

  Clarissa continued on, noting with rather unpleasant interest just how many of the ton’s males were present. She didn’t recognize anyone, per se, but their clothing and demeanor set them apart. James had been correct in his assumption that Percy would draw a larger number of the ton. Clearly the chance to witness complete and utter annihilation was more than these men could refuse.

  “Marlowe!”

  The sound of James’s name, barely audible above the din of the crowd, made Clarissa look back to where a man held his arm aloft in salutation. He shouted again then began to make his way from the back of the crowd to where they stood.

  “Look away now,” James whispered urgently. “Appear as though you know nothing of this ‘Marlowe.’ ”

  Clarissa did as James had asked and turned her attention back to the ring.

  Percy slammed a savage blow to his opponent’s chest, sending the fighter buckling to his knees.

  The man with the walking stick bellowed at him anew as the crowd pressed against the rope barrier.

  James caught Clarissa’s arm in an iron grip and strengthened his hold on Iris. But it was too late. The crush of spectators knocked her down. James physically threw men off of the girl in his attempt to lift her from the now muddy field.

  Iris recovered her smashed hat and quickly returned it to her head before taking James’s offered hand and rising.

  And then she planted a none-too-delicate punch directly on the nose of the man who’d brought her down. “For your trouble,” she said caustically, then cradled her fist against her heart.

  The man, as short as Iris but four times her width, brought his fingers to his nose and examined i
t gingerly. “You broke my nose, boy,” he muttered, wiping the blood on his coat sleeve. “And that’ll not do at all.”

  James released Clarissa’s arm and pushed her to her knees. “Stay low to the ground. Go directly to the horses and wait.”

  “What on earth—”

  But Clarissa didn’t have the chance to finish her sentence. A large man with a ruddy complexion yelled out something about a fight and then all hell broke loose. James grabbed Iris and threw her to the ground next to Clarissa. Then he began to punch whomever came into his line of sight.

  “Follow me,” Clarissa yelled to Iris, pointing toward the ring.

  The crowd surged forward, apparently anxious to participate in the brawl. Clarissa looked once more to where James stood, his head down and his arms swinging as he worked his way in the opposite direction from where the man who’d uttered his name had last been seen. There was no point in thinking on just who the man may have been—at least not now.

  She looked at Iris then pointed toward the ring, crawling as fast as she could for the rope. Iris quickly caught up and matched Clarissa’s speed.

  “Where are we going?” she urgently asked, barely avoiding a man as he fell to the ground just in front of her. She screamed and scrambled toward Clarissa, knocking the two off course.

  Clarissa righted herself and pushed Iris back into a crawling position. “To the horses. Keep low to the ground and you’ll be safe. Comprenez-vous?”

  “Low to the ground,” Iris repeated to herself, then repeated it again.

  Suddenly her backside rose up in a most unnatural position. She let out a second scream and flailed her arms.

  Clarissa wheeled about and discovered a man had grabbed Iris’s breeches and pulled, picking her up off the ground. In order to do what, Clarissa could hardly imagine.

  She beat at the man’s feet with her fists and he only laughed, clearly amused with Clarissa’s lack of strength.

  Iris continued to flail, adding her legs to the mix and nearly knocking Clarissa unconscious with her foot.

  She’d had enough. Clarissa reached for one of the stakes that had held the rope around the ring. It had been stepped on in the fray and loosened from the ground. She wrapped her arms and legs around it and pulled with all her might, falling backward when it came free.

  She took the stake in hand and stood, the crazed crowd about her nearly jostling her down again. It took a moment to find the two, the man having made fairly good progress by employing Iris as a sort of battering ram. Though the girl’s limbs were slim, she was quick and her flailing almost timed perfectly.

  Clarissa waded toward the middle of the ring, ducking to miss a punch intended for another before reaching her intended target. She tapped the man on the back and waited for him to turn, then she swung with all her might, hitting him squarely across the cheek with the wooden stake. His head snapped to one side and he faltered, his grip on Iris loosening.

  Suddenly a fist flew from out of nowhere, the sound of bones crunching reaching Clarissa’s ears as the man staggered back from the force of the blow. He listed first to the right, and then to the left, before falling backward, taking Iris with him.

  Iris rolled off the man onto all fours and began to crawl furiously toward the edge of the ring where, just beyond the torches and down a grassy hill, the horses waited.

  Clarissa turned to thank the owner of the fist, only to be pushed down to the ground once again.

  “I told you to stay down.” It was a familiar voice that delivered the rebuke and Clarissa hazarded a glance up the length of his body to find an incredibly unhappy James looking down on her. “Go!” he demanded, then quickly bobbed to elude a new opponent.

  Clarissa dropped to her hands and knees and resumed her desperate attempt to escape. She scrabbled toward the edge of the ring, weaving as best she could on all fours as men dropped around her.

  Finally reaching the rope, she pushed herself under it then stood to run toward the darkness, stopping only when she sensed she was far enough away from the battling crowd to be safe. She looked about frantically for Iris, finding her not far off from where she stood.

  “Iris,” she called, running toward the girl. “Come, quickly. We must fetch the horses.”

  Iris simply stood stock-still, her eyes focused on the crowd. “He’s amazing.”

  Clarissa looked back to the ring. James was moving ever closer, plowing through men as if they weighed nothing at all. She paused for a moment, understanding what had captured Iris’s awe. The moment passed as quickly as it had come.

  She jerked Iris by the arm and set off toward the horses. “Amazing or not, it will be the end of us if he discovers we’re waiting here in the dark. Now, dépêchez-vous, idiote!”

  “Such an early start after a rather late evening?”

  Pettibone’s appearance in the studio did not frighten Clarissa this time. Pharaoh had alerted her to the man’s approach, the cat’s willingness to leave his comfortable station atop the chair her first clue. His low growl of displeasure was the second and had told her it was the Frenchman.

  Clarissa eyed the man with cool acknowledgment. “Are you all knowing, then, monsieur?”

  “In a way,” he confirmed, coming around to stand directly behind her left shoulder before holding out a letter. “My, you’ve been busy,” he commented as he looked at the canvas.

  The boxing match had upset Clarissa. So much so that sleep had proven elusive. She’d tossed and turned for more than two hours before dressing and traversing the silent wing to the studio.

  “Yes, well, inspiration seems to have struck,” she replied, taking her mother’s letter and swallowing her irritation with Pettibone as he continued to watch over her shoulder.

  She couldn’t really say what one thing about last night she’d found so distressing. The match itself, with the blood and jeering crowd had made her stomach turn. Iris’s surprise punch and general lack of maturity had been irritating at best, worrisome at worst. And then there was James. Clarissa understood that she and Iris were no more than commodities to him. But as she’d watched him bring down man after man to ensure that they made it safely to the horses, well, she’d been impressed. And a tad curious. She felt sure there had been fear in his eyes when he’d bested the man who’d taken Iris. Not over the task—no, his methodical dismembering of all who strayed across his path had proven him more than capable of the fight. No, it had been a different fear altogether, as though Iris’s safety had meant more than just a means to an end.

  “How much longer will it take?”

  Pettibone’s question pulled Clarissa from her thoughts and she focused on the canvas once again. “Three weeks?” she ventured to guess. She’d completed the preliminary work and was now moving toward the multiple applications of color for shading and effect.

  “And your third outing with Miss Bennett?”

  “Oh, there will be no third outing, on that you can depend,” Clarissa answered quickly, turning to face Pettibone with a resolute stare. “The boxing match was absolute chaos. Even Iris could not have found it enjoyable. I’m sure the girl will see the sense in forgoing her final ‘adventure,’ though I can’t imagine what she could have found adventurous about last night.”

  Pettibone nodded, though he looked skeptical as he walked to where Pharaoh was sunning himself near the windows. “Miss Bennett is quite headstrong, and desperate for excitement. What you found to be chaos—well, one has to wonder whether she didn’t find it that much more thrilling. Do you think she’ll agree to let loose of the last?”

  “With all due respect, Pettibone—or whatever your true name may be,” Clarissa began, walking around the easel to address him, “if not for Marlowe, we would have been pummeled into the ground, and very likely still stuck in that field right now. As far as I’m concerned, it’s for the sake of Miss Bennett’s own safety that we must put an end to the outings. I would think you would agree.”

  Pettibone reached down to pet Pharaoh, eliciting a
low hiss from the cat. “Yes, of course.”

  “After all, without Miss Bennett, there is no money. And without the money …” She paused, looking at him knowingly. “Well, I would think that your superiors would be quite displeased.”

  Pharaoh swiped at Pettibone’s hand, his needlelike claws slashing into the skin. The man examined the wound then grasped Pharaoh by the scruff of the neck and tossed him to the floor. “And you would be right in your assumption.”

  Clarissa hurried to where Pharaoh sat, dazed by Pettibone’s casually cruel move. She gently picked him up and held him in her arms, stroking her hand slowly across his bristling back.

  She didn’t like Pettibone—she never had. Nor did she trust him. But there was something else, something far more sinister about the man than she’d first realized. She turned back to the easel and slowly walked toward it. What was it, exactly? He was, after all, a criminal, which implied a certain level of natural debasement. She narrowed her eyes and thought back on all that she knew of the man. What did she find so troublesome? What was pricking at her mind even now as she attempted to puzzle out Pettibone’s secret?

  “You’ve done an admirable job, by the way. Most in your situation would not have been able to perform so well.”

  Clarissa’s skin crawled at the compliment. Was that it, then? His attempts at flattery? There was simply no way that the man actually cared for her. She saw it in his eyes. In his superior air. Felt it in the tension that sang between them every time they spoke.

  Even James had done her the courtesy of resisting such an approach to motivate her to work faster.

  James? Clarissa continued to stroke Pharaoh, the act seeming to help her think. Pettibone’s revelation that James had insisted on her mother being held had been excruciatingly painful. His proposal that James was perhaps not trustworthy, that had seemed odd, but not beyond the bounds of sense.

  Pharaoh let out a low growl and Clarissa realized she’d begun to stroke him too hard. She offered a kiss between his ears as amends, then bit her tongue. Pettibone had played her, and played her well. She felt sure that the man was not privy to her past relationship with James, but clearly he’d deduced enough to realize that she felt some sort of attachment to him.