“But we’ve no time to arrange for an escort, or carriage,” Daphne began, stepping closer to Miss Bennett to begin brushing her hair yet again.
“Please, Daphne,” Miss Bennett replied with exasperation, ducking to avoid the maid. She hurried to a rosewood chest of drawers and rifled through countless chemises and stockings, finally pulling a silk embroidered purse from the drawer. “There is always enough time when one is wealthy. This man, the footman who knows of the Eagle’s Nest, bring him this.” She untied the corded drawstring and reached into the purse, the coins within tinkling against one another. She withdrew five guineas and held them out. “Bring him this and tell him there will be more if he cooperates.”
Daphne looked at the coins in her palm and sighed. Of course the footman—whom she knew through Pettibone—would say yes. No one would say no to such a fortune, especially when he’d wanted the silly chit to go all along.
“Go now! And return at once. I’ll need help with my clothing and hair,” Miss Bennett ordered, peeling off her fine silk dressing gown then shooing at Daphne with both hands. “Really, Daphne, you’re as slow as treacle.”
Daphne bobbed a polite curtsy and turned slowly, opening the door and stepping out into the dark hallway with nothing more than a single candlestick to light her way. Rather handy that, Daphne thought to herself as she headed for the stairs. The darker the hall, the slower the going, which would suit her conscience just fine.
Carrying his boots, James strolled slowly across the lush grounds of Kenwood House, his clothing soaked from his midnight swim in the lake. He’d taken to swimming nearly every night when possible, the endless starry sky easing his frayed nerves, as though somewhere, beneath a separate part of the sky, he could be different. He supposed that it was hope he craved. But for what, he couldn’t be certain.
Or he knew and he simply did not want to admit it.
His boots suddenly became too heavy. He pitched one and then the other toward the looming dark bulk of Kenwood House, the release of anger he experienced somewhat satisfying.
But not nearly enough. “You had to go and think, didn’t you, James?” he asked himself, annoyed that he’d ruined the calming effects of the water.
It had taken every last ounce of his control to keep from flying across the room and attacking Pettibone that afternoon. He’d neither trusted nor liked the man. But now he hated him—and with good cause. Pettibone was playing a deeper game with an unknown agenda, and James didn’t like it one bit. He sensed it was more than merely that the man loathed him. No, it was clearly far more nefarious than that.
But that wasn’t what had sent him off to the lake. James reached the spot where the first boot had landed. He picked it up and hurled it yet again. Clarissa’s reaction to the news that he was a turncoat had torn him in two.
“Goddammit,” he shouted, coming across the second boot and hurling it toward the house. “Of course she thinks you’re a bloody traitor. But you can’t tell her, you lout.”
James didn’t want to care. He’d found it so easy not to in the years since Clarissa. Letting go of emotion for the sake of his sanity had come so naturally. He’d even found himself wondering, shortly after their parting, how she’d managed to live so open to the storms and showers of her highly emotional life.
No, James didn’t want to care. But he did. He’d built the fortress around his heart so carefully, only to have Clarissa begin the slow, torturous process of tumbling it down one stone after another, until he was left talking to himself. In the dark. On a lawn at Kenwood House.
It was lunacy. James smiled reluctantly. “Naturally, it’s Clarissa. Could it be any other way?”
Something in his gut shifted. Then the pressure rose, moving through his lungs, past his heart, settling momentarily in his throat, then seemingly escaping through his skull.
He looked up at the night sky as though he might see the thing flying off in the darkness. But all his eyes found were the stars. Countless stars, shifting and shimmering with hope.
He smiled again, thinking on how Clarissa would have interpreted the moment. Surely a number of large, flowery adjectives would have been put to use and a few long descriptions of the precise nature of the pressure and its journey.
With a sudden flash of insight, James realized what he was feeling—it was relief. In that moment, he’d finally let go of the burden he’d so stupidly held onto for so long. He no longer cared whose fault it was. It did not matter. At least not to him—and he prayed that it didn’t matter to Clarissa. He wanted her. She gave him hope. She gave him life. And he needed her more than he’d ever needed anyone or anything in his life.
“You stupid, stupid man,” he said aloud, tripping over a boot. He picked it up and held on to it as he searched for the other.
How could he have stayed away once he’d tasted her again? The feel of her lips on his had shaken him to the core. That he’d been able to leave her five years ago was beyond comprehension. And now? James could not think of a suitable excuse.
He located the second boot and jogged toward the house, intent on wasting no more time.
A candle flame bobbing in the dark caught his eye as he approached, Iris’s maid quickly coming into focus.
“Daphne?” he asked, slowing to a walk and stopping in front of her.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rougier, it’s Miss Bennett, sir,” she began in a nervous tone.
The last thing James wanted to discuss was Miss Bennett. “S’il vous plaît, tell your lady I’ll be happy to speak with her in the morning.” He nodded politely and moved to take his leave.
But Daphne clutched his arm and held tight. “You misunderstand, sir. She’s gone.”
“Where?” James asked, a sudden sense of dread threatening to settle on his shoulders.
Daphne released his arm and looked mournfully at the ground. “I oughtn’t have done it, I know that now. But Mr. Pettibone, he pays so well. And my family, Mr. Rougier, sir. My family needs the money.”
“Where has she gone?” he said pointedly, yanking one boot on with difficulty.
“The Eagle’s Nest, sir.”
James bit off a curse. There would be no use shouting at Daphne. Pettibone would be persuasive—and his purse, James imagined, would be even more so. No, there was no point in upsetting the maid. But he certainly could use her.
“Did she go alone?” he asked, pulling the second boot on.
The girl looked as though she were about to cry.
“Daphne,” James repeated softly, sensing he needed to proceed carefully. “I can see you regret your part in all of this. So please, help me. Did Mademoiselle Bennett travel alone?”
“No,” she whispered, choking back a sob. “One of the grooms accompanied her. I don’t know his name, but he seemed familiar enough with Pettibone.”
James swore under his breath. What was Pettibone up to? Endangering Iris would only threaten his plan. But perhaps it wasn’t Iris he was after at all. Perhaps it was James—or worse, Clarissa. None of it made any sense at the moment, but James felt certain that securing Iris’s safety must come first.
“Daphne, I need your help. Go to my chamber and retrieve a change of clothing. There’s a small wooden chest just inside the doorway of the dressing room. Collect that as well. I’ll send Thomkins to the kitchens in a quarter of an hour to fetch these things. Comprenezvous?”
The maid nodded quickly, then stopped, her brow furrowing. “Don’t you want me to fetch Monsieur St. Michelle as well?”
“Absolutely not,” James answered more firmly than he’d intended. He composed himself and began again. “Do not speak with anyone—not St. Michelle and especially not Pettibone.”
Her eyes widened and she stood stock-still. “You’re frightening me, sir,” Daphne said quietly, her voice quivering.
James thought for a moment, suddenly realizing he’d forgotten something. “Daphne, I apologize, but there’s not enough time for me to reassure you. Go to my chamber, continue to the dressing
room, and retrieve my clothing and chest, as I asked—and one more item. You’ll find a pair of boots. Within one of the pair is a small leather pouch. The contents of the pouch—enough, I would wager, to keep your family comfortable for many years—is yours. My only requirement is that you leave Kenwood House this very night and never return.”
Daphne stared at James as though she couldn’t understand what he had just said. “There’s no time to waste, mademoiselle.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I knew what I was doing was wrong. I don’t deserve anything—least of all your money.”
James tried to understand that the girl was terrified, but his patience was wearing thin. “If you don’t do as I ask, I fear that you’ll have Pettibone to answer to. Do you want that, Daphne?”
She turned ghostly white as his words sank in. “No, sir. No, I don’t. I’ll fetch your things, as you asked.”
“Good. I’ll have Thomkins ready a cart and ask that he drive you directly to the Fireside Inn. In the morning you can catch the first coach for home.”
“Thomkins, sir?” she asked hesitantly. “It’s just that Pettibone seems to have a fair number of friends in the household.”
James was all too aware of this fact. Still, his gut told him that the groom was trustworthy. He only hoped he was right. “I trust him. That should be enough for you. Now go. And hurry.”
Daphne swallowed hard. Her expression became more resolute as she nodded in agreement. “I will. I’ll go fetch your things then make haste for the barn. I’ll not stop for no one, sir. I promise.”
James watched as the girl disappeared back into Kenwood House, then turned for the barn. He prayed her word was good.
* * *
The excitement of her resolution had somewhat cooled, Clarissa admitted to herself as she lay in the darkness of James’s chamber, her head propped against one of the feather pillows.
Following her conversation with Pettibone and James, she’d gone for a ride on Winston. James had been right in his assumption that she would enjoy riding astride much more than sidesaddle. She’d let Winston carry her across the open fields of the heath and back again, so immersed in her thoughts that every picturesque hollow, bit of fall foliage, and breathtaking vista barely caught her eye. Pettibone’s revelation of James’s involvement with a second spy organization was damning. It confirmed her suspicions that the man wished to use her in some way against James.
Clarissa would rather never paint again than allow someone as deceitful and dangerous as Pettibone to use her in any way.
Especially against James.
It had been the cantering that had brought Clarissa to the most important conclusion of all: She still loved James. Even now, after convincing herself that she needed to tamp down her emotions and embrace the order and safety to be found in acting according to one’s mind without thought for one’s heart, she realized that it didn’t make one whit of difference. No matter which organ she employed, she loved the man. Despite what had happened before—and since.
She stared up at the ceiling and sighed. He took far too much pleasure in being right. And he’d been cool to the point of cruel during their time at Kenwood. Yet Clarissa realized with a pang that, essentially, the same could be said of her.
She couldn’t fathom how he’d found himself in the employ of Les Moines, but she felt sure that together they’d figure something out. They had to. The only remaining question was whether he’d accept her belated apology.
She’d watched him burn with emotion when he’d realized she still blamed him for what had happened five years before. Could she convince him to let go of the pain and suspicions that had kept them apart for far too long?
A sliver of light cut its way across the ceiling and Clarissa froze. It was all well and good to plan a grand gesture: an overdue apology and lovers’ reunion. But to follow through with said plan? Clarissa was suddenly stricken with shyness as she raised her head and peered through the darkness at the moving lantern.
Odd, that, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut then opening them again. James had either shrunk since that afternoon, or it was not James who was tiptoeing across the deeply piled carpet toward the dressing chamber.
Clarissa swung one leg over the edge of the bed, carefully setting her foot on the floor before lowering her other foot and standing. She waited until the form had disappeared into the dressing chamber before following on tiptoe.
She stopped just outside the partially open dressing chamber door and listened, the sound of rustling clothing reaching her ears. She took a deep breath and pushed hard against the door, sending it slamming against the inside wall. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded of the person facing away from her.
The figure squeaked and nearly dropped the lantern in her haste to turn around.
“Daphne?” Clarissa asked, surprised to see it was Iris’s maid.
The frightened woman burst into muffled sobs. Clarissa nearly took the poor girl in her arms to comfort her, but she was still in St. Michelle’s clothing. The last thing Daphne needed was to be embraced by a Frenchman right now.
“Beg your pardon, sir.”
“Non, please, allow me to apologize. I didn’t mean to upset you so,” Clarissa began, looking about the shadowed room for something to dry Daphne’s tears. She snatched up a discarded cravat and handed it to the maid. “But, mademoiselle, what are you doing in Rougier’s dressing chamber? If it’s money you need—”
Daphne let out a wail of protest. “I might have done some bad things this evening, sir, but stealing isn’t one of them.”
“Then help me understand why you’re here,” Clarissa replied, gesturing to the small room, “in the middle of the night.”
“I can’t.”
“You must,” Clarissa said simply, though her tone was earnest and firm.
Daphne let out a second wail and handed the lantern to Clarissa so that she could blow her nose. “He said I mustn’t tell you—not you or Pettibone. I promised. Please, don’t make me break my promise.”
Clarissa’s stomach rolled at the mention of Pettibone’s name. “Is ‘he’ Rougier? S’il vous plaît, Daphne, you can tell me at least this.”
Daphne began to frantically pull together what appeared to be a complete suit of clothing from James’s things, beginning with a shirt. “I told you. I made a promise.”
She was frightened, that much Clarissa could deduce on her own. This fact, and the inclusion of Pettibone in whatever was going on, filled Clarissa’s heart with dread. “Daphne, what if there was a way to get us both what we want—me, information, and you to keep your promise?”
Daphne paused, looking at Clarissa as if she’d suddenly sprouted a third eye. “How would we do that, then?”
“You made a promise that you wouldn’t ‘tell.’ Nodding yes or no when asked a question is not telling—not in the strictest sense, oui?”
The maid pondered Clarissa’s words, clearly wanting to unburden herself but unsure whether she should. She continued on with her search for clothing, pulling at a pair of breeches in the wardrobe.
“Daphne, Monsieur Rougier is a dear friend of mine. And I suspect you would agree that the man is deserving of our help—if he was to find himself in need of it. Help me, Daphne.”
Daphne stopped and clutched the breeches to her chest. “I want to do the right thing, sir.”
Clarissa squeezed Daphne’s shoulder reassuringly and gave her a kind smile. “Is it Monsieur Rougier who asked you not to speak with either Pettibone or myself?”
Daphne hesitated, then jerked her head up and down.
“Good girl,” Clarissa praised the young maid. “Now, has he gone somewhere?”
Daphne nodded in the affirmative, the look of relief on her face assuring Clarissa that she’d done the right thing.
“Do you know where, exactly?”
She shook her head from left to right emphatically.
Clarissa paused to consider the possibilities. Why was Daphne invo
lved? Of course! “Does this involve Mademoiselle Bennett?”
Daphne’s head moved up and down so strenuously Clarissa feared it would fall off.
“It’s the gaming hell, oui?” Clarissa asserted triumphantly.
Another enthusiastic head nod told her that she was correct.
But such knowledge would do very little good if Clarissa didn’t know the name or location of the establishment. She’d not been privy to the planning of their outings—but Pettibone surely had. “Does Pettibone know the location of the gaming hell?”
Daphne’s eyes flashed with fear at the mention of the man’s name as she nodded yes.
Clarissa frowned. She could hardly go ask the man, that much was clear.
Daphne collected a pair of boots then reached for a small wooden chest in the corner.
Clarissa stared at the chest, then the boots, and finally the clothing—and something clicked. “Daphne, did Rougier send you to fetch these things for him?”
This last question drew the most fervent nod of all.
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Clarissa ground out, belatedly remembering their agreement. “Of course. I apologize. I should have put the clues together sooner.”
Daphne gestured toward the door of the dressing chamber, her arms laden with James’s things.
“You cannot carry a lantern in addition to all of that,” Clarissa told her firmly. “Therefore, I will. And if that means it’s necessary for me to follow you wherever you may be going, then it is entirely on me—a fact that I’ll make sure Rougier understands.”
Daphne nodded and hurried toward the door, stopping short at the sound of voices in the hall.
Clarissa listened as Pettibone and a man stood just outside James’s chamber, whispering low enough that she couldn’t understand their words.
She turned to look at Daphne, who was trembling from head to toe and had turned unnaturally pale. Clarissa pointed to herself, then to the door, indicating that she would continue. She then gestured for Daphne to return to the dressing chamber until it was safe to come out.
The Sinner Who Seduced Me Page 16