The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  And then James.

  Clarissa wanted to reassure the girl with a motherly arm about her shoulders, but refrained, offering the crook of her arm instead as any man would. “I cannot imagine the pressure placed upon a girl in your situation, mademoiselle,” Clarissa continued, the outline of Kenwood House coming into view. “It would be difficult for the most agreeable of girls. But you? You have spirit, which, in my opinion, is a good thing. But it makes it harder for you—not impossible, but definitely more challenging.”

  “He could have died,” Iris whispered, the weight of her words not lost on Clarissa.

  “But he did not, nor did you. Take what you’ve learned from tonight and never forget it, Mademoiselle Bennett,” Clarissa urged, knowing that whatever they faced in the coming week, it would not be easy.

  “I will, monsieur. I promise.”

  Clarissa smiled, though she hardly felt like doing so. “I’ll keep you to it.”

  “He’s alive,” Brun said flatly, his mouth a grim set line.

  Pettibone folded his arms over his eyes as his already minuscule quarters seemed to shrink even further. Marlowe had done him the service of going after the foolish girl just as he’d hoped, then failed to die. Hate burned in Pettibone’s belly.

  He hated the feel of the cheap woolen blanket at his back upon the rough, lowly cot that served as his bed. He hated the pillow upon which he’d placed his head for the last several weeks, the stink of whomever had used it before him still lingering in the molding feathers. He hated the clothes he was forced to wear every single day, the cut inferior, the fabric coarse and badly dyed. He hated the wretched English food he was given to eat. He hated the chattering, stupid servants that he had to pretend to like. He hated the Canadian girl and her money. He hated the English woman and her painting. He hated the English man and his ability to stay alive.

  But most of all, he hated his father. For it was his father who was responsible for all that was wrong in his life. Without his father, all of it would simply have been a bad dream. He would be the leader of Les Moines, and he never would have been foolish enough to accept Napoleon’s plea for help.

  And for that, he would make the man pay.

  “Thank you, Brun. Your services are no longer needed,” Pettibone replied, sighing deeply.

  “What will you do now?”

  Pettibone stiffened with annoyance. He’d grown weary of the caliber of men that his father had supplied him with for this mission, Brun being particularly irritating. Oh, the man had readily agreed to do as he’d asked as far as Marlowe was concerned. Even agreed to cooperate for much less money than Pettibone had been willing to offer. But still, he grated on the nerves.

  “That’s hardly your concern,” Pettibone answered, not even bothering to address the man with a direct gaze. “I suggest you leave the grounds at once—while there’s still time.”

  “What do you mean, ‘still time’?”

  Pettibone would have killed the man for his insolence right there, in the tiny, ill-appointed room, but he couldn’t be bothered. “Miss Bennett will surely ask where you took yourself off to while you were supposed to be protecting her—as will Marlowe. How do you plan on explaining your absence?”

  “I’ll return to Paris, then,” Brun replied, his voice confident.

  Pettibone unfolded his arms and turned to look at the man. “Will you? And what will you tell Durand?”

  Brun looked hard at Pettibone, clearly offended. “I’ll tell him that you sent me home.”

  “No,” Pettibone said simply. “You see, that would suggest that I’d deviated from Durand’s very specific plan—and we both know what he’d think of such a move.”

  “Where would you suggest I go, then?” Brun pressed, his temper rising.

  Pettibone sat up and swung his legs over the side of the cot. “I don’t really care. You’re not my problem. But I would suggest steering clear of Les Moines.”

  “I could go directly to Durand and tell him about you, you know.”

  Pettibone sneered at Brun’s attempt to threaten him. “Please, we both know what the old man would say to such a thing. You’d be dead within an hour. At least making a run for it buys you a bit more time than that.”

  Brun could not argue, a fact that made Pettibone smile. “Now go. The rest of the household will be up and about soon enough.”

  Brun raised his fist as if to punch Pettibone, then lowered it. “You’re not worth it,” he lashed out, adding, “Durand will discover what you’ve been up to—and then you’ll pay.” He walked to the flimsy door and opened it, the wood floor creaking as he stepped across the threshold. He looked back at Pettibone and scowled, then closed the door silently.

  “Now,” Pettibone said to himself, drumming his fingers on his knee. “What am I to do?”

  This was a golden opportunity that he wasn’t willing to forgo. His father had not trusted him. Therefore, he needed to be shown that his son could—and had—proven himself worthy. His attempt to kill Marlowe had not worked. And he’d hardly be able to blackmail the man into leaving as he’d essentially just done with Brun. If he could not remove Marlowe and complete the mission himself, then perhaps foiling the plan altogether would be worthwhile.

  He stood abruptly from the rickety cot and crossed to the dilapidated trunk he’d brought with him from Paris. He lifted the hinged lid and let it rest against the wall. Mr. Bennett had made use of him some weeks before in relation to the money that would be paid to St. Michelle for the portrait. A letter had been sent to an Edinburgh bank with whom Bennett did business. Funds were to be withdrawn from his account and sent to the Banque de France in Paris. It had seemed simple enough, though Bennett had added an interesting requirement: The funds would be deposited in a safe. The combination to the safe would be locked in a strongbox. And the key to that box would be sent to Bennett.

  He’d actually thought Bennett quite clever when he’d forced open the letter and read the contents before re-sealing it and handing it off to a messenger.

  But when the envoy had arrived at Kenwood House and turned over the key, Pettibone had not been privy to the exact location of its hiding place. He’d searched the house every night since but had no luck.

  He fingered the extra clothing he’d brought along, lifting a second pair of boots then a pair of breeches before deciding there was nothing here he needed.

  Bennett would present the key to Clarissa when the portrait was finished. All Pettibone had to do was wait for the woman to complete her work, then the key could be his.

  And with the key, he’d secure not only the fortune, but his father’s long-awaited fall from power. It would be easy enough to concoct a story that proved Marlowe’s ties to the Corinthians had not been cut as he’d led everyone within Les Moines to believe—something Pettibone thought might even be true.

  The money and a turncoat captured, all by his hands. His father’s position would be his. And the first order of business would be to kill Durand for all he’d made his own son endure over the years.

  Pettibone closed the trunk and reached for his coat, which hung on the back of the only chair in the room. Then he swept some spare coins from the lone night table and pocketed them.

  He’d steal away, the hope being that Marlowe and Lady Clarissa would assume he’d given up and retreated back to Paris. If he was lucky, they’d let down their guard a bit. And when the time was right, he’d retrieve the key, then leave this godforsaken country, never to return.

  He lifted the candlestick and opened the door, turning to look back at the rat hole of a room one last time. “Bon débarras,” he said under his breath, sure that such accommodations were nearly in his past. He could feel victory in his bones—and this time he’d not allow anyone to stand in his way.

  James could not wait any longer. He’d endured Thomkins’s ministrations, no less than three knife wounds sewn back together by the skilled and thankfully incurious man. Afterward, he made his way as quickly as possible to Kenwood
House, the pain in his gut and thigh stabbing him with each step.

  And he’d waited for Clarissa. He’d moved a comfortable upholstered chair closer to his door and sat, listening for her footfalls in the hall. Then he’d taken to standing just outside her door.

  When that proved fruitless, he’d let himself into her chamber and sat on her bed, needing to rest for only a moment. The night had been, by far, one of the most exhausting of his life. It seemed so long ago that he’d marched across the lawn, soaking wet and suddenly far smarter than he’d been before diving into the lake. It was at that very moment he’d decided to say to hell with the past and his long-held grudge against God and everyone else—especially Clarissa—for love. Love. Love had sent his heart soaring, dropped it like a boulder in the deepest sea, and finally forced him to realize that there was nothing more important in life. Love was a demanding master, but every last trial was worth it if it meant Clarissa could be his.

  He’d laid his head on the pillow, the unique scent that was only Clarissa’s filling his nostrils and tightening his groin. He needed to tell her exactly how he felt, the sooner the better. The men who had attacked him behind the Eagle’s Nest had claimed to know nothing of Les Moines. He supposed that the dying man could have been lying, but after years of service within the Corinthians, James had become a good judge of such things. Besides, they’d fought like common ruffians, their base moves hardly the polished and honed fighting techniques James would have expected from seasoned French agents. He felt sure that the man had told him the truth. In which case, Pettibone had reached outside Les Moines for hired help. Why would he do such a thing? Daphne’s information only served to complicate the already tangled truths and half-truths that James faced now. Pettibone had wanted Iris to go to the gaming hell. Had he assumed James would discover the girl gone? And if so, was James Pettibone’s end target?

  He knew Pettibone disliked him, that fact was crystal clear. But threatening James put the entire operation in jeopardy. Perhaps Pettibone was not as devoted to Napoleon’s cause as Les Moines believed him to be.

  James closed his tired eyes and savored the feel of the smooth silk coverlet against his bruised face and torn body. He and Clarissa could not stay at Kenwood House much longer. Pettibone was becoming too menacing of a threat. And without Corinthian support, James would have a difficult time protecting Clarissa and Iris—not to mention Mr. and Mrs. Bennett and the rest of the household. Well, James was never one to back down from a challenge, that was for sure.

  But for now he allowed himself to sink farther into the soft bed, the pain in his battered body melting away as he did so. Pettibone. What was he up to? Pettibone. Pettibone …

  “James?”

  The voice, so sweet, was startlingly close to his ear. James came fully awake in a flash and instinctively grabbed the person around his upper arms and threw him down onto the bed. James rolled on top and anchored the intruder’s hands to the soft surface with his own, the muted light from a lone candle on the nightstand illuminating Clarissa’s face.

  “James!” Clarissa hissed angrily. “Why are you attacking me? And more important, what are you doing in my bed?”

  This was not at all how James had hoped to begin his apology. He released her hands and rose to his knees, turning rather inelegantly and landing where he’d begun his hasty attack. “I’m sorry, Clarissa. I didn’t know it was you.”

  “Who else would it be, James?” she asked as she sat up and frowned at him. “And you still haven’t told me what, exactly, you’re doing here.”

  James rolled on his side and grimaced, the twisting motion sending a flash of pain from the knife slash at his side.

  “Is it very painful?” she asked in a much softer tone, concern on her face.

  Well, sympathy is a start, James told himself. This had all seemed much easier in his mind. But now, with Clarissa next to him, the only thing between them a man’s dressing gown—“You’re dressed for bed.”

  “Of course I’m dressed for bed. That is typically what I do before … well, before going to bed. Did you hit your head this evening, James?”

  “I was attacked, Clarissa. By no less than four men,” James answered.

  “Four?” she cried, her leg brushing his as she shifted closer. “How on earth did you manage—”

  “My point,” James interrupted, trying to ignore the distraction of her slim, warm, soft leg pressed against his, “is that clearly you’ve been in the room long enough to discover my presence. That it came as such a surprise is hardly my fault.”

  Clarissa’s eyes widened and her mouth opened and closed twice. “Are you suggesting I’m to blame for your frightening me nearly to death?”

  Dammit, he’d gone and lost her sympathy. This was not going according to plan at all.

  “Because I’ll tell you right now, Mr. James Marlowe, under normal circumstances, no one in his right mind would find your argument in any way logical. This evening, while it may have been normal for you, was not for me. In fact, my experiences within the last twenty-four hours were as far from normal as I dare say—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Clarissa’s jaw dropped and hung there as if it would never close again. James reached up and gently prodded it back into its charming home just below her top lip.

  “Oh,” she finally uttered, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “For what, exactly? That is …” Her voice trailed off and she dropped her head. “I should not have asked. It’s just that—”

  “You’re speechless,” James said, relief flooding through his body at having finally uttered the apology he’d owed her for five long years.

  Her head snapped up and she glared at him. “What is that to mean? It’s not as if I absolutely never pause to draw breath. Does my chatter trouble you so?”

  James sat up though it pained him to do so, crossed his legs and drew them up, then turned to face her. He pulled her into a mirroring position and took her hands in his. “That’s not it at all. The point that I was so poorly attempting to make was that you were surprised at my apology—as well you should be. It’s been far too long in coming.”

  She gripped his hands tightly and leaned in. “Do you mean you’re sorry for what happened with my father?”

  “To begin with, yes. But understand me, Clarissa,” James replied, his heart achingly wide open, “it’s more than regret. I take responsibility for my actions. I made my choice, and I’ve struggled ever since with my decision.”

  “Stop,” she begged, pressing their joined hands to rest on her heart. “Please. Do not say such things. I am the one to blame. I expected far too much—more than any human being could have managed. I accused you of knowing nothing when it came to love. Yet I’m the one who betrayed our love by not accepting your choice.”

  She dipped her head and placed a loving, gentle kiss on his fingers. “And then you returned, out of nowhere. And I couldn’t let you hurt me, not a second time. So I tried to be strong and control my emotions—I did, honestly. But in the end, it was you who were hurt. If not for my foolish pride—” Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes as if she was in pain. “James, you could have been killed. And it would have been my fault.” The stark words held an agony of terror and remorse.

  James closed the small distance between them and freed his hands from hers, embracing her with the newfound strength that her words had inspired. “No, it wouldn’t. It wasn’t like that at all. I called you weak, claimed that you failed me for feeling betrayed when I sided with your father. Emotion is not a weakness, Clarissa, it’s a strength—one of the strongest you possess. You are a very strong woman. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  He loosened his hold on her and pulled back so that they were face-to-face. “I’d only just decided to ask you to marry me. But I had to side with your father—and it made me angry. So angry, in fact, that I needed someone to blame. When you accused me of never having really loved you …” He paused, the memory of her words still painful
to this day. “Well, I had someone to blame.”

  “Oh, James, a proposal?” she asked, her soft, comforting hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “But I don’t understand. Why did you have no choice?”

  “Pettibone mentioned my being employed by an English organization before I met up with Les Moines,” he began. He’d held the Corinthians’ secret for so long … much to the detriment of his own heart. If, when the mission was complete, Carmichael was to find fault with his decision to reveal his connection, even after all that Clarissa had endured on behalf of the Corinthians, then James did not want to be an agent any longer. “He was telling the truth. I work for the same group as your father. That is how we met.”

  Clarissa’s brow furrowed. “My father? A spy?”

  “Yes, one of the best, actually. The woman he’d been rumored to be having an affair with worked within the group.” James was almost sorry to have to tell Clarissa the details. But if she was to believe him, she needed to know. “Mind you, many of the agents dallied with women—the majority of Corinthians are not married, one reason being the dangers we face on a daily basis. I had too much respect for the man to ask, and he never broached the topic with me. If I had told you the reason why I supported your father—well, I couldn’t. I did my duty because that’s what I’d been trained to do. All I had, all I cared about, were the Corinthians and your family. When your father refused to address the rumors and your mother moved away, I—”

  “You lost me too,” she whispered, placing her hands on his face. “We’ve both been such fools.”

  James couldn’t help but smile at her simple, yet undeniably correct statement.

  “Oh, I must tell you,” she started, her face becoming animated. “I suspect that Pettibone is up to something beyond Les Moines’s interest in the portrait. And I fear it has to do with you.”

  James’s smile grew wider with delight in the way her face lit up when she shared information she deemed particularly important. “I know. I’ve suspected as much myself. And tonight proved my suspicions. Don’t think on it. I’ll take care of you. You have my word.”