The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  She mentally pictured Pettibone buried up to his chin in freshly dug dirt, while she pounced upon his head over and over. And over again.

  Clarissa did not know precisely what was going on, but she was going to find out.

  “Am I interrupting?” James closed the door behind him, carefully keeping his expression blank.

  Pettibone stood by the windows, looking as though he was awaiting a response from Clarissa. For her part, Clarissa appeared unaware that she’d been addressed. Her back was to Pettibone and she held Pharaoh in her arms, a look of concentration on her face.

  She started at the sound of James’s voice and adopted an amiable if somewhat remote smile. “No, not in the slightest.”

  James turned to Pettibone in search of a reply.

  “Lady Clarissa and I were discussing the events of last night,” he began, his face neutral. “I thought reviewing the information might be helpful. Would you agree?”

  James nodded and walked to a Windsor chair, settling into the seat with nonchalance. “Of course,” he concurred.

  Pettibone took the seat opposite and crossed his long, spindly legs one over the other. Clarissa joined them as well, arranging Pharaoh in her lap.

  “I’ve already told Pettibone my thoughts on the boxing match,” Clarissa told James, her tone direct, but not discourteous. “It was far too dangerous—for all of us. We cannot allow Miss Bennett’s final adventure to take place.”

  James rubbed at his tired eyes. He’d spent most of the night thinking on the match and all that had taken place. Clarissa was right; the evening had proven entirely too dangerous, though she only knew the half of it. James wished he could say that Iris’s behavior had shocked him. But it had not. The woman’s devious delight in breaking every rule of propriety was seemingly endless.

  Though he did have to admit that her skillful jab was surprising in both force and aim. He shuddered at the thought of whom she may have practiced that punch on.

  No, Iris had not been the worrisome bit last night. It had been the Young Corinthian in attendance. He’d not known Michael Sterling well, never having worked a case with him, but they’d crossed paths socially and he’d heard Carmichael mention him now and again.

  Clearly, Sterling had known enough of James to remember his name—but not enough to have heard that he’d turned traitor and then died in the sea off the Dorset coast. It was entirely possible that the man had simply come for the match. But James could not help but wonder at his presence.

  “Never mind the fact that someone recognized you,” Clarissa added.

  James gritted his teeth but remained calm.

  “Recognized?” Pettibone asked as he examined a scratch on his hand. “By whom?”

  “I’m not sure,” James answered, hopeful that the man would drop his inquiry, at least for the time being.

  Pettibone’s eyebrows furrowed as if he’d encountered something distasteful. “Not by a Young Corinthian?”

  It was all James could do to keep from throwing himself at the man and breaking his neck in two.

  “Young Corinthian?” Clarissa asked, clearly confused and, much to James’s annoyance, curious.

  Pettibone appeared thoroughly surprised. “Has he not told you?”

  “Why on earth would I?” James asked him, holding on to his restraint by a thread.

  Pettibone offered James an apologetic look. “I suppose I’d just assumed that you had. After all, you two have been working closely together.”

  “Well, he somehow failed to inform me,” Clarissa replied testily. “On that point we can be sure. Now, would one of you please tell me what’s going on?”

  Pettibone feigned offense. “I would not presume to divulge Marlowe’s secrets.”

  James gripped the armrests with punishing force. “How kind of you.”

  “I’ve had enough of niceties, gentlemen,” Clarissa interjected, exasperated.

  James’s mind quickly cataloged his options. Unfortunately, there were none that would safeguard his relationship with Pettibone and also keep Clarissa from thinking him a traitor. Obviously, the assignment was more important than her opinion of him.

  And yet, he paused. The very awareness of this fact made him even more committed to his decision.

  “For a time, before joining Les Moines, I served within another organization.”

  Clarissa mulled over the information with little obvious concern. “And this other organization, was it French or English?”

  James cleared his throat. “English.”

  Clarissa’s facial expression changed instantly. She’d put the pieces together—and was clearly not happy with the result. “And did your affiliation with this English organization end before you took up with Les Moines?”

  “Oh, no, that was the brilliant part,” Pettibone replied with malicious relish. “Marlowe remained with the Young Corinthians long after he’d begun working for our organization.”

  Clarissa’s quick intake of breath was accompanied by a look of shock and horror that settled over her troubled face. “So you were spying on your own country while pretending to serve?”

  “Well, that is generally the job of a turncoat—” Pettibone began.

  But James raised his hand and silenced the agent. “This has nothing to do with the assignment.”

  Clarissa captured him with an icy glare. “But it does. It speaks to your very nature. What kind of man could turn on his own country? And for what? Money?” she ground out, her voice quivering. “I thought your involvement with Les Moines was despicable. But to know that you’re capable of such …” Her voice trailed off and she turned to look at Pettibone as though for support.

  James wanted to tell her that she was wrong. That he was playing this deadly game all in the interest of England. He craved nothing more than to convince her of his worth. Of the truth. But he could do no such thing. And now she believed him to be even worse than she’d first thought. This would actually work to his advantage, and in the end prove to be a good thing. So why did her look of utter revulsion slay him so?

  “As I said, this has no bearing whatsoever on our current situation,” he repeated, a cold emptiness filling his chest.

  “Marlowe is right,” Pettibone agreed, though the look of pretend sympathy he offered Clarissa said otherwise. “You must concentrate on finishing the portrait.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, her haste to do so needling James.

  “I’ll inform Iris that the final outing has been canceled.” James saw no point in pushing the conversation further. It was already apparent that Pettibone’s information regarding the Young Corinthians had swayed Clarissa and there was nothing that he could do—or should do—to convince her otherwise.

  Clarissa lifted Pharaoh from her lap and stood, depositing the cat back on the warm seat of the chair. “I’ve work to do. If you both would please leave?” She didn’t look at James, but walked to the easel. From the sounds of it, she immediately began to beat a paintbrush back and forth in the turpentine-filled jug.

  The emptiness in James’s chest had turned to something far more disturbing—something more akin to the ache of regret.

  “Rougier!” Iris called, pulling away from the dance master and running across the polished floor of the Kenwood House ballroom as though she were flying. “I have the most amazing news.”

  James braced himself as she came to a sudden halt in front of him, then bobbed a serviceable curtsy. “Mademoiselle Bennett, may we speak—”

  “Quite rude of you, Rougier. Never interrupt a lady,” she admonished before smiling brightly. “Besides, my news is far too important to wait.”

  James wanted to shake the girl until her head, clearly filled with nothing more than nonsense, came loose and spun across the room like a top. Instead, he gritted his teeth and indulged her, managing a small, polite smile. “Of course, Mademoiselle Bennett. Please, do tell me this ‘most amazing news.’ ”

  “Oh, there’s no need for me to tell you, Rougier, w
hen I’ve the invitation right here.” She fished a letter from her pocket and handed it to him. “You simply won’t believe your eyes.”

  James looked at the invitation, noting the wax seal on the outer piece of paper. It bore the royal imprint. James himself had never received correspondence from anyone within the royal family. But as a Corinthian he was expected to know everything there was to know about each member of the family, down to how they took their tea and who was cavorting with whom. The royal seal was, by far, much easier to keep track of.

  He slid his finger under the wax and cracked it anew.

  “Can you believe my good fortune?” Iris clasped her hands as if in prayer, her elation barely contained.

  There was no need for James to read the invitation, but he did so anyway, taking care to raise his eyebrows with enthusiasm at regular intervals. It would hardly do for someone with Lucien’s status to know anything of the queen’s drawing rooms. “Am I to understand that you are going to be—”

  “Presented to the queen?” Iris interrupted, completing a pirouette around James. “Indeed you are!” she answered, affecting a British accent.

  He couldn’t help but laugh, his amusement encouraging Iris into a second pirouette. It was a ridiculous ritual, as far as James was concerned, this debut business. So much time and money spent on readying a girl—and for what? Trussing oneself up in yards of silk and fripperies, only to spend hours in an antechamber awaiting a summons to the throne room. And when one is finally summoned? You curtsy, and if you’re lucky, the queen acknowledges you with a word or two.

  He remembered Clarissa claiming that the only worthwhile moment of the whole ordeal was seeing herself for the first time in her dress. It had been a pale shade of violet—to accent her eyes—and encrusted with some sort of crystals whose name James could not recall. And then, she’d recounted with some dismay, she’d had to walk in the formal gown, hoopskirts and all, and her enjoyment had sputtered, her four-hour respite in the antechamber before being allowed near the queen having dowsed it for good.

  He looked at Iris’s beaming face, her glow of happiness undeniable. Despite all that she’d put him through, he found he could not ruin this for her. Besides, it might just make the impact of his news less disappointing.

  “Well, Mademoiselle Bennett, this is très exciting news. And in one week’s time?”

  She faltered slightly at this, though she quickly regained her composure. “Yes, well, I’m told that normally one would be given three weeks to prepare. I’m sure that it was merely a mistake—but I can hardly point out such an oversight to the queen.”

  She said this as if the queen herself had sat down at her writing desk, thought long and hard over just the right words, then set to work. In actuality, girls such as Iris, without English blood or nobility to her name, were admitted to the drawing rooms for one reason only: blunt. Such a debut required sponsorship by a lady of the peerage. And there were plenty of noble widows in need of money.

  “And who is your patroness?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

  “Lady Druesly,” she answered, pleased that he’d inquired.

  Lady Druesly, from what James could recall, had been a saint for enduring her marriage to Lord Druesly. The man, according to ton gossip, had successfully drunk, gambled, and rutted away his family’s immense fortune, then promptly died. Apparently leaving Lady Druesly … to sponsor Canadian heiresses in order to keep herself in silks and plumage, James thought.

  James nodded appreciatively.

  Iris looked at the musician seated at the pianoforte in the corner. “A waltz, if you please.”

  The music began. The sound hardly filled the monstrous space, but then, James doubted that even a full orchestra could.

  Iris cleared her throat and looked at James expectantly. “This is the part where you ask my permission to dance.”

  He still needed to tell her that there would be no third outing. He could attempt to put a stop to the dance, or he could save himself the time and simply tell her while twirling her about the room.

  “Mademoiselle Bennett, would you be so kind as to do me the great honor of dancing with me?”

  “Well done, Rougier,” she praised, then curtsied and held out her hand.

  James placed her hand in his, gently rested his other at the small of her back, and swung her smoothly into the waltz.

  “There is very little time to prepare,” Iris chattered, clearly still focused on the invitation while following each step with ease. “But I feel confident I’ll represent the Bennett family in a most satisfactory manner.”

  James allowed her to complete a turn then reeled her back in. “Actually, what I need to discuss with you will be affected by this as well.”

  “Really? How so?” she asked, cocking her head slightly.

  They executed a perfect turn past the dance master, who smiled approvingly. “Lovely, Miss Bennett. Absolutely lovely,” he called after them. “Though, if I might, do remember your elbows.”

  Iris dropped the offending points ever so slightly. “I have a tendency to hold them too high—like poultry,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Now, you were saying?”

  “St. Michelle and I have discussed the matter. We feel it’s best to cancel our third outing.”

  Iris slowed and her elbows rose. “But why?”

  “Elbows, Miss Bennett,” the man admonished.

  She abruptly lowered them once again and smiled brightly at the dance master. “We have an agreement.”

  “Last night was exciting enough to count for two, oui?” James replied grimly. “You could have been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “Elbows,” the dance master called again.

  She was beginning to lose her temper. Iris adjusted her elbows with a jerk, then looked again to James. “Everything was fine before—”

  “Before you attacked that man,” James interrupted, wanting to be done with the conversation.

  “And if I promise not to attack another?”

  James couldn’t help but admire the girl’s tenacity. Still, it made very little difference. “I believe that would be, in general, a good rule to follow, Mademoiselle Bennett. But St. Michelle and I will not budge. There will not be a third adventure.”

  “Miss Bennett—”

  “Yes, Mr. Mills, I know—elbows!” she shrilled, then defiantly raised them even higher.

  Miss Bennett glanced dejectedly at the gentleman’s clothing laid out upon her bed. “Daphne, I’ve no need for the suit anymore. Please see that it’s given to one of the male servants.”

  Daphne continued to pull the pins from her lady’s hair, the weight of Pettibone’s coin in her pocket urging her to speak despite the fear she felt. “My lady, whatever do you mean?”

  “There will be no outing this evening. My adventures are at an end.”

  The maid knew better than to encourage a young woman to venture out on her own. It was dangerous, never mind highly inappropriate. And dressed as a man? Daphne had grown up one of ten children in Shropshire, her house little more than a hovel and her parents forced to work themselves to the bone just to scrape by. She may have been poor with no place in polite society, but she’d been raised with morals and manners. Every coin in her pocket would be sent straightaway to her family, where all the rest of Pettibone’s blunt had gone.

  She hesitated, carefully pulling the final pin from Miss Bennett’s golden hair and placing the lot of them on the dressing table. Either she took advantage of this moment to do as Pettibone had instructed or she did not and the money would be lost. How would her parents feed her brothers and sisters? How would Daphne live with her decision?

  “Really, my lady, it’s not like you to give up so easily.” Daphne took a deep breath, the worst part over. She picked up the tortoiseshell-handled brush and began to pull it through her mistress’s hair.

  “Daphne, I have no choice in the matter,” Miss Bennett replied, her shoulders slumping. “Rougie
r offered very little information on the outing. All I do know is that we were to patronize a gaming hell of some sort—and that’s very little in the way of particulars. I’ve no idea of the establishment’s name nor any way of finding it.”

  Daphne willed her hand to continue drawing the brush through the smooth fall of blond hair. “I know someone who might.”

  Miss Bennett caught Daphne’s hand and pulled her around to face her. “Really? Are you certain?”

  “I’ve heard one of the footmen speak of the Eagle’s Nest—the very place St. Michelle’s man inquired about. Before coming to Kenwood, this footman worked for a gentleman who frequented the establishment.” It was more difficult to get the words out while Miss Bennett was looking right at her, but Daphne pressed on. “It’s not for the faint of heart, mind you. According to this man, the Eagle’s Nest attracts a desperate crowd.”

  Miss Bennett’s eyes blazed with sudden excitement, and Daphne’s heart fell. She didn’t want any harm to come to her lady, truly she didn’t. But Pettibone frightened Daphne. And the thought of her family starving or freezing to death frightened her even more. She turned back to her duty and began again to pull the brush through Miss Bennett’s hair.

  “Daphne, what on earth are you doing?” Miss Bennett rose abruptly from her beechwood chair. “You must go at once and speak with this footman. We don’t have time to waste. It’s nearly night!”

  “This moment, my lady?” Daphne asked hesitantly.

  Miss Bennett rolled her eyes. “Well, of course. I’ll be far too engaged the rest of the week preparing for my presentation at court. If I do not go to the Eagle’s Nest tonight, I will not have the opportunity to go at all.”

  Daphne had hoped to put off Miss Bennett’s trip to the gaming hell for at least one night, in the hopes that the passage of time would give her lady pause. Daphne’s conscience would have felt less guilty if Miss Bennett had thrown caution to the wind after having time to think things through. Then her own reckless nature would have been to blame, rather than Daphne’s conniving.