The Sinner Who Seduced Me

by Stefanie Sloane

  “It makes no matter who I am,” James began, reaching into his waistcoat for a number of coins. “I’ve need of transport.”

  The three listened intently as James shifted the money from one hand to the other, the satisfying sound of coins clinking capturing their interest. “Is that so? And what sort of transport will you be needing?” the black-bearded man asked.

  “Something fast, with a knowledgeable captain adept at navigating around large obstacles,” James replied, purposefully dropping a two-guinea piece on the pier.

  All three watched as the coin spun then slowed to drop flat, ringing on the planking. “It’s McGary you’ll be wanting, then,” the bearded one answered. “As old as the good Lord himself, but he’ll get you where you need to go.”

  James watched as the man bent down and picked up the coin, then gestured for James to hand over the rest.

  James ignored the man’s request. “And where might I find McGary?”

  “Just past the powder hulk—McGary is the only one fool enough to moor there, but you’ll hardly be bothered.”

  James looked farther down the wharf to where he could just make out the dismantled ship. It was large enough that even if the men were telling the truth, he’d not be able to see another vessel beyond it. But he had no other choice but to believe them. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, then handed over the remaining coins.

  “You best be off now,” the bearded one grunted, looking at the placement of the disappearing sun. “Filch’ll be on duty soon enough and you don’t want nothing to do with that one. Gives right hospitable excisemen a bad name—don’t he, boys?”

  The other two smiled, revealing no more than ten blackened teeth between them.

  James returned the friendly gesture, always aware that a well-made acquaintance today could prove even more useful in the future. “Thank you again, gents. I’m much obliged.”

  He turned to the gangway and James gestured for Clarissa to follow him back up the pier. “What did I tell you? Pirates are just as polite as you and I.”

  “Let’s hope the same is true of McGary.”

  The pirates had lied. McGary was not just old—he was ancient. Clarissa would go so far as to say he was the oldest individual she’d ever met in her life, which, considering the ridiculously long life span of most of her mother’s relatives, was quite a feat.

  They’d managed to find him and a guinea boat just down from the powder hulk. He sat on the pier, his legs dangling over the side while he enjoyed a particularly foul-smelling cigar.

  He’d agreed to take them to Calais, asking twice what James had originally offered due to the alleged swiftness of his boat. Clarissa could not help rolling her eyes at his statement. The very idea of speed being used in connection to anything having to do with McGary was more than her dwindling patience could endure.

  They waited until it was completely dark then climbed aboard the guinea, traveling the short distance to where McGary kept the cutter anchored. After switching ships, James helped McGary with the lines while Clarissa did as James had instructed and hunkered down belowdeck. She wasn’t allowed a lantern, but her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she made out the contents of her room. A captain’s bed, upon which she sat, a small sailor’s trunk, and a chair. Clarissa supposed a man as old as McGary hardly needed many worldly possessions at this late point in his life. Still, the room felt cold and lonely.

  She tucked her legs under her and leaned against the rough wooden wall. She’d purposefully not asked James whether or not he believed they would catch up to Pettibone. Clarissa didn’t want to put him in the position of disappointing her—but more than that, she couldn’t bear to hear his answer.

  For herself, she feared they were too late. She couldn’t know what, precisely, Pettibone planned, but she felt sure that her mother’s life hung in the balance. This terror had set in as soon as Pettibone had escaped through the French windows in the library. The fear had grown, expanding rapidly as they’d ridden to Dover. She couldn’t think or speak for fear of breaking down along the road from London and never recovering.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” she said out loud, hugging her arms around herself. She couldn’t cry. Not now. She couldn’t let the fear win, for then the very little hope that she held in her heart would be destroyed.

  They had to be nearly there. They’d encountered no foul weather from what Clarissa could discern and it felt as though she’d been hiding below for hours. She uncrossed her legs and set her feet on the floor. She couldn’t wait any longer. She stood and opened the door, hesitating in the doorway while she listened for any troubling noises. Hearing none, she stepped over the threshold and quietly closed the door behind her, feeling along the walls to where she remembered the stairs were.

  She crawled up to the main deck and found James and McGary in the bow of the boat, their faces to the wind as the cutter glided across the relatively calm waters.

  James turned at the sound of her feet on the deck. “Go back below,” he ordered brusquely.

  “I want to help. I can no longer sit below in the dark and do nothing,” Clarissa maintained, her voice trembling.

  “Listen to the man,” McGary snarled, cigar smoke enwreathing his head.

  “You don’t seem to understand,” Clarissa pressed, suddenly unable to stop herself as she waved her arms to punctuate the seriousness of the situation. “I literally cannot sit below one moment—”

  McGary stood quickly and slapped Clarissa across the cheek. “Get ahold of yourself. I’m not meaning to die tonight, you lily-livered, hoddy-doddy bawd.”

  Clarissa could not speak. She didn’t know if it was the surprisingly powerful force of McGary’s slap or the fact that he’d hit her at all.

  “I see that he’s as useless as you claimed. Now, get ’im below then hie yourself back here—I’ll be needing you to outwit them ships,” McGary commanded James, then dropped his cigar over the side.

  Clarissa looked past the rail and caught sight of a great many hulking ships ahead, all lined up, just waiting for them.

  James grabbed Clarissa’s arm and steered her toward the stairs. “Please, we’re nearly there.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying, I truly am—”

  James silenced Clarissa with one rough finger against her mouth. “I know how hard this is for you, and I’m doing everything in my power to ensure that we reach your mother in time. But you must do as I say.”

  Clarissa nodded, the tears that she’d fought off all day welling in her eyes.

  “Go. Remain below until I come for you.”

  And he turned away to rejoin McGary near the bow as the old man barked out an order.

  Clarissa carefully picked her way down the steep stairs and returned to the cabin, where she began to pray.

  James paid McGary three times what the old man had asked for running the blockade. The sailor had done a superb job of it, especially for a man his age, and, the excitement of nearly running into the side of a warship had done James some good. He waved to the man one more time, then turned toward Clarissa. “We best make haste for Le Poisson d’Or. There’s a chance that someone might be willing to share news of Pettibone’s arrival—for the right price, of course.”

  He led her along the rickety pier where McGary had assured them they’d not be detected. Eyeing the port to his left, James set off straight ahead, cutting through alleyways until they reached the main road. “This way,” he urged Clarissa, continuing on toward the corner of rue de la Mer and rue du Havre where the tavern was situated.

  “I’m afraid to ask exactly how you came to know of such a place,” Clarissa said wearily, eyeing the inn with hesitation.

  Corinthians had used Le Poisson d’Or for years as a resource. The clientele, a mishmash of sailors, merchants, and those well acquainted with the French underworld, had often proved most useful. “It is a long story. But remember, you agreed to do as I say without question.”

  “I’m sorry for my outburst on the bo
at,” she said, holding tightly to his arm as they crossed the street.

  James looked at her, wanting very much to take her in his arms. “Never be sorry for expressing what you feel. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” she replied, then assumed a look of dull disinterest. “Shall we?”

  James swung wide the door to the tavern and held it open for her. “We shall.”

  The scent of fish, salty air, and stale, spilled cider hit James hard in the face, though he fared better than Clarissa, who squeezed her eyes shut in reaction. “You’ll get used to it,” he assured her, then pushed her farther into the tavern.

  James didn’t know how long Le Poisson d’Or had been in business, but he felt sure it had been centuries. The crude wooden tables and simple stools looked as old as McGary, as did the bar along the western wall of the low-ceilinged room. The deafening off-key song from a group of sailors near the door sent James in search of a quieter spot near the back of the establishment. Clarissa kept her head down while he maneuvered them through the boisterous crowd toward an open table.

  They were within three yards of taking their seats when James spied someone in the corner.

  “Goddammit,” he muttered under his breath. Reginald Meeks, the Viscount of Penderly, was sitting at a table by himself, watching James. James had met the man at societal events before but knew very little of him—beyond the fact that he was the French case officer for the Young Corinthians.

  He waited for Penderly to startle at the sight of him, but the man only nodded in recognition and gestured for James to join him.

  “Come,” James said into Clarissa’s ear, then pointed her toward Penderly’s location.

  Penderly pushed the two chairs opposite him out with his foot. “You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you, Marlowe.”

  “I’m at a loss here, Penderly. I was under the impression that no one knew about my assignment,” James replied, taking his seat.

  Penderly called for the barmaid and ordered two pints of cider. “Carmichael resisted telling me, but with our work concerning Les Moines continuing, it was necessary. Besides, I’ll be damned if I don’t know exactly what’s going on with all of the agents on the Continent. I hope you understand why we kept my involvement from you.”

  “Of course,” James answered. “But I’m assuming our meeting here is more than just a pleasant coincidence?”

  The barmaid plunked down the mugs in front of James and Clarissa and asked if Penderly wanted a second. Declining, he paid her then waved her off. “I don’t know about that. As I mentioned, I’m deuced glad to see you. After my man at the port told me of Pettibone’s return, I didn’t know what to think.”

  “You’ve seen him?” Clarissa asked, looking anxiously at Penderly. “How long ago? Is he still in Calais?”

  Penderly gave James a questioning look, unsure how much Clarissa knew.

  “Proceed,” James instructed.

  “He came into port nearly two hours ago. Secured a carriage and left straightaway.”

  Clarissa’s face fell. “Two hours? How will we ever catch up with him?”

  James placed his hand on her thigh beneath the table and gently squeezed.

  “Hang on. Just what is Pettibone up to?” Meeks asked.

  “I’m not entirely sure. He tried to kill me in London,” James paused, taking a swig of cider. “When that failed, he stole a key that belongs to a strongbox in Paris—the very one that holds all of Bennett’s money meant to pay for the portrait.”

  Penderly’s brows knitted together as he thought the information through. “He’s after the money, then?”

  “More than that. He seems to be after Durand. I’m guessing he plans on foiling our mission to try to steal the man’s position.”

  “No matter what Pettibone’s plans are, it will become increasingly evident to Durand that my mother is no longer needed,” Clarissa added, desperation in her voice.

  Penderly nodded. “Of course. I’ve a man following Pettibone—he’ll report in to our office as soon as they arrive in Paris. I’d put my money on the brothel, though—that’s where they’re holding your mother.”

  “The Tout et Plus?” James asked.

  “The very one,” Penderly answered.

  James rose quickly from the table, Clarissa doing the same. “I’ll need men and horses.”

  Penderly stood up to join them. “Of course. They’ll be briefed as to your true status within the Corinthians and accompany you to Paris,” he confirmed. “And Marlowe, welcome back from the dead.”

  Clarissa was sure that if she ever found herself on the back of a horse again, it would be too soon. Even with the hour’s worth of rest that James had insisted they take when they’d stopped for fresh mounts, she wouldn’t be surprised if the imprint of the saddle would permanently alter the shape of her backside.

  They waited near the edge of Montmartre while one of the five agents who’d accompanied them to Paris went on to confirm that Pettibone had indeed gone directly to the brothel. When he’d rushed back with the news that Pettibone had made straight for the Tout et Plus, a plan had been decided upon to rescue Clarissa’s mother, then capture as many of the Les Moines agents as was possible. Reinforcements had been sent for, but there was no guarantee they would arrive in time—and they couldn’t wait.

  “I cannot let you do this.”

  Clarissa adjusted the satin gown about her shoulders, pulling in a vain attempt to cover more of her breasts. When the agent had returned with the dress and slippers, many had assumed that one of the male agents would be required to play the part. It had made much more sense when he’d explained his plan, though James had threatened to part the man’s head from his body. “You have no choice. Durand knows what you look like. Besides, in all likelihood I’ll be able to secure your entry before I encounter the man.”

  James held tightly to her wrist. “And what if Pettibone finds you?”

  Clarissa had wondered the very same thing. Having failed to secure a reasonable solution, her exhausted brain had conveniently forgotten about it altogether. “James, please. We’re running out of time.”

  He’d listened, though it clearly had taken all of his strength to do so. Only after she’d repeated the plan back to him three times did he release her wrist and allow her to cross the street and approach the back entrance to the brothel.

  Clarissa smoothed the skirts of the garish-red gown and took a deep breath before rapping on the door with her fist.

  She was readying to knock a second time when the door swung wide and a woman appeared. “Oui?” she asked, scratching at the neck of her flimsy chemise.

  “I’m Camille. Cozette’s friend?” Clarissa answered, feigning irritation. “She told you about me, didn’t she? Promised she would.”

  The woman continued to scratch while she looked Clarissa up and down. “Camille, is it? Well, Camille, Cozette didn’t tell me a thing, but you’re certainly pretty—and we’re very busy. Come in, then.” She stepped aside to allow Clarissa entry, slamming the door behind her.

  “My name is Joëlle,” the woman offered as she quickly walked down a narrow hallway toward the front of the building. “I’ll show you to your room.”

  Clarissa stole a quick glance at the main floor. There was no one about except for one large man at the front door. She avoided meeting his lecherous gaze as she followed Joëlle up the stairs.

  “This one will do,” the woman said as she pushed open the door of the last room on the right. “Small, but plenty of room for you to maneuver. Freshen up, then come downstairs. The owner will have finished with his meeting by then. He prefers to see each girl before allowing her to meet the clients.”

  Clarissa nodded appreciatively and waited as Joëlle left the room. Quietly closing the door, she hurried to the window, pushing open the cheap velvet curtains. She looked anxiously across the street, barely able to see the Corinthian agents at the corner. She pried open the filthy window and gestured wildly. She squinted to make out a man’s for
m in the dark as he stealthily ran toward the brothel and stopped just below her window. Putting her arms out as he threw a rope ladder up to her, it narrowly missed her grasp. He tried a second time and her fingers caught on just before it fell.

  She tied the top to the bed frame then returned to the window, leaning out and tossing the bottom of the ladder to the waiting agent below.

  A rap on the door was followed by Joëlle’s voice. “Camille?”

  Clarissa waved off the agent, who’d already begun to climb and leaned back inside, hastily pulling the curtains closed. “Yes?” she replied, crossing the room and opening the door just wide enough to see Joëlle standing in the hall.

  “I’d forgotten that monsieur is entertaining a special visitor today. He’ll have my head if you’re found wandering alone. It would be best if you come with me,” the woman offered by way of explanation.

  Oh, God, could it be Pettibone? “Of course,” Clarissa agreed, stepping over the threshold and closing the door quickly behind her.

  Joëlle nodded pleasantly and gestured for Clarissa to follow.

  Clarissa assumed an expression of polite interest and slowly began to walk toward the stairs, her mind racing. She could run, but where? If she remained calm and continued on, there was a good chance that James and the others would make their way into the brothel undetected. It was, she realized, her only option.

  She descended each step slowly, the sight of the burly man at the entryway tightening her already taut nerves. He looked at them with suspicion.

  “She’s new—a friend of Cozette’s,” Joëlle explained, turning to take Clarissa’s arm in hers.

  “Eh bien,” he grunted, his gaze lingering on the creamy expanse of Clarissa’s skin as the flimsy strap of her gown slipped from her shoulder.

  “Don’t let him bother you,” Joëlle assured Clarissa, pulling her protectively closer. “He’s as big as a bull—and just as stupid. Stay out of his way, and he’ll stay out of yours.”

  Clarissa shook off the terror of encountering the man and allowed Joëlle to steer her down a narrow hallway just off the entryway. She saw the stairs at the end and forced a smile. “I’ll do my best.”