His Wicked Sins

by Eve Silver

  She raised her gaze to his and nodded, and he winked at her then. Not as though to make light of her, but as though they were in collusion, as though he understood.

  Because he did. She knew that. Griffin Fairfax boxed his emotions up so neat and tidy, held them back behind a solid reserve.

  But they were in collusion. He did understand.

  She knew what demons she battled, what horrors tormented her soul. Which left her wondering... What monsters ate at his? And why did she wish that she could take them as her own and ease his burden, ease his pain?

  He drew closer, his gaze dipping to her mouth.

  She stood frozen, lips parted, breath coming too fast. He would kiss her now. Press his mouth to hers.

  She ought to move away, step away. She wanted to move away. Didn’t she?

  But he was the one who shifted back, who drew her hand away from his heart, who offered his arm to escort her in a most decorous fashion.

  Hiding her disappointment, her confusion, Beth took his arm and they walked together to the refectory where he left her at the open door with a polite farewell and without a final glance as he walked away.

  o0o

  The following morning Griffin rose with the sun, met with his land steward, answered a stack of correspondence and scrutinized his books before riding to the village of Burndale on a small errand. The day was fine, the dawn chill giving way to a milder morning.

  He knocked at the Widow Gormley’s door and was greeted cordially, if slightly warily. Mrs. Gormley, like most of the villagers, regarded him with a modicum of concern and suspicion. With just cause. The circumstances of Amelia’s death were ugly and twisted as sin, and the telling and retelling of it over the years, the story whispered behind cupped palms, had made the thing uglier still.

  Patiently, he waited as Mrs. Gormley folded his shirts—she had darned the hem of one, and replaced the buttons on the other two—wrapped them in waxed paper, then bound the whole with string. As the widow tied a neat knot, Griffin looked around the shabby parlor of her small cottage, enjoying the scent of fresh baked bread that flavored the air.

  They had food, then, he thought. She and her younger son, Elliot, were not going hungry. Smooth relief settled over him.

  Though he barely knew her, the woman’s dire straits had caught his attention last fall when her husband had dropped dead for no reason at all and left her a widow with two young children. Before the man’s death, Mrs. Gormley had often been seen with her face beaten black and blue, her lip split, her eye swollen shut. Once, in Griffin’s hearing, the chandler had wondered aloud if perhaps Mrs. Gormley’s widowhood had been hastened into being by a dose of poison. For some inexplicable reason, Griffin had found himself compelled to engage in discourse with the man out back of his shop, and that rumor had died a timely death.

  He could not say what touched him about the woman’s circumstance. Kindness was a virtue to which he laid no claim. But Mrs. Gormley’s plight did touch him. He thought it might be because of her sons, because of the way she looked at them and cared for them and stood in front of them to take their father’s blows. Or perhaps it was because she reminded him of himself in a time long past, weak and small and forced to endure the beatings, determined to survive nonetheless.

  Or perhaps it was merely a whim. That explanation sat best with him.

  Accepting the package from her, he thanked her for her fine stitches. Mrs. Gormley made a small smile in that shy way she had, with her chin dipped low and her face turned a little away.

  He could not help but think of Beth Canham, her direct gaze, the way she met everything head-on. Even her fears. Except when his lust was there between them; only then did she drop her gaze, look away, bit her lip in indecision. She was a mystery, a puzzle. And she drew him as no one had in a very long time.

  Thinking of her, the way she had looked in the dim passage the previous morning, pale and fearful, her breath coming in rapid little pants, made him wonder about her all the more. He wanted to peel away her layers, peel away her secrets.

  “I thank you for bringing the work to me,” Mrs. Gormley said, and he glanced at her, drawn back to the moment.

  Her words elicited a rising discomfort. Bloody hell. He had enough money to buy the entire village if he’d been of a mind to. An easy enough matter to share a small measure with this woman.

  He had originally offered charity, arriving on Mrs. Gormley’s doorstep with a little bag of coins three days after her husband was buried. That offer was immediately and firmly rebuffed. He had been wise enough never to repeat it. So he took her eldest boy, Thomas, a lad of twelve, to Wickham Hall to work in the stables. And he found ways for Mrs. Gormley to earn a little extra, as well.

  In return, he had clothes that were always in the finest repair.

  “‘Tis I who thank you, for unless I wish to purchase a new shirt each time I lose a button, I see no way around it.”

  Her gaze flicked to his, then skittered away. “There are a dozen maids at Wickham Hall you might have set to the chore, Mr. Fairfax,” she said.

  With a nod, Griffin passed her the payment for her sewing.

  “True enough,” he replied, then lowered his voice, sharing a confidence. “But the maids at Wickham never seem to put the buttons exactly where I want them.”

  Her dark, finely arched brows rose and she shook her head, clearly unconvinced. She might have been beautiful once, before her husband’s fists left her nose twisted and her right cheek lower than her left.

  “Can they not match the buttons to the holes?” Her fleeting smile flashed again, then disappeared. “A daunting task, that.”

  He nodded gravely. “Precisely.”

  A soft huff of air escaped her.

  She was right, of course. Since he declined the use of a valet, any maid—one of an army of servants he had to see to his needs—might have darned his shirts. He was used to having servants. As a child, he had known a life of riches. But there had been a time between childhood and manhood when he had had only himself to see to his needs, when he had know far too intimately the twisting ache of an empty belly, the worry and fear over where the next meal was coming from, or if there would even be a next meal.

  Was it that kinship, that empathy that motivated his largesse?

  The possibility appalled him. He chose to tell himself otherwise, to believe that it was because Mrs. Gormley’s stitchery was unsurpassed.

  He glanced at her then, noted the thimble on her finger. The sight of it summoned a recollection of Beth sitting on the stone bench in the back garden, her head bowed, her needle flashing. She had made a sad hash of her embroidery, but with tenacious determination she had picked out the stitches and put them in again and again.

  He thought of walking with her on the road, and their meeting in Burndale’s back garden. The taste of her skin. The catch of her breath when he kissed her wrist. It was more than attraction. He enjoyed her company, her wit, her intelligence. He valued the way she cared for his daughter. He valued her. A disconcerting realization.

  “Mr. Fairfax!” Mrs. Gormley’s tone, laced with surprise, pricked the bubble of his imaginings. “Oh, I’m sorry... I never meant... it’s just that I have never seen you smile like that—” She broke off, looked away, clearly abashed by her presumption.

  He shook his head, uncomfortable at being caught out in his private musings.

  “No, I do not suppose you have.” He paused, tucked the packet of shirts beneath his arm. “I will be sending young Thomas home to do the heavy chores on Saturday,” he said, and Mrs. Gormley’s head jerked up, her expression brightening.

  “I have little in the way of heavy chores, but my heart gladdens at the thought of seeing my son.”

  Her words brought a twinge of pain. His mother’s heart had never gladdened at the sight of him. Instinctively, his fingers traced the small white scar at the corner of his mouth, and then he noted his action and dropped his hand to his side.

  Impatient with himself,
he drummed his fingers on his thigh and looked away, catching sight of the broken chair tied together with twine, and the long crack that snaked down the wall. He brought his gaze back to the widow.

  “I have been weighing the need for new aprons for the upstairs maids,” he said. “If you would be so kind as to cipher the cost and provide me with a list of requisite materials, I will have what you require delivered from Northallerton”—Mrs. Gormley shook her head, but Griffin cut off any protest—”within a fortnight.”

  In a rare and unusual action, she raised her gaze to meet his own dead-on.

  “Within a fortnight, Mrs. Gormley,” he repeated softly.

  She hesitated a moment longer. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” And with that, her gaze slid away.

  Taking his leave, Griffin stepped out the door and strode down the street.

  The main thoroughfare of Burndale boasted a tavern with three rooms above for weary travelers, and a small assortment of shops, including the draper, the baker, the chandler. Northallerton was larger by far, but Griffin liked to visit the local vendors... not from generosity, but perversity.

  They always watched him as though they expected him to sprout horns and cloven hooves and a forked tail.

  He found it mildly amusing that none dared confront him head on with their suspicions and dire imaginings. Of course, they all knew of his actions, knew he had killed his wife. He was certain that they were horrified by that, but it was the deeds they knew nothing of that were darker still.

  He crossed the road toward the chandler’s, only to draw up short as a man emerged from the tavern, the sun hitting him full in the face, leaving no doubt as to his identity.

  Richard Parsons saw him immediately—they were the only two people in the roadway—and raised a hand in greeting. In his other hand, he held what appeared to be a folded handkerchief, marred by a dark reddish-brown stain. Furtively, he shoved it in his pocket and swaggered forward.

  “Ho, Griffin!” he called.

  Griffin waited, forcing himself to maintain a relaxed posture.

  What the bloody hell was Parsons doing in the village?

  Bad enough to know he was slinking about in Northallerton, but to have him here in Burndale, virtually on Griffin’s front drive was... dangerous. The man knew too much, had stories to share that Griffin had no desire for others to hear. And Parsons knew it.

  Drawing near, Richard shot his cuffs and straightened his shoulders. His fingers strayed to the buttons of his white waistcoat, fumbling across the empty front. Empty because his watch and chain were not there.

  Griffin raised his gaze to Richard’s face, and caught his unguarded expression of concern. Where was the watch? Lost? Sold off? He could not recall ever seeing Richard Parsons without his pocket watch. Richard and Griffin had each obtained one in Stepney more than a decade past when they had joked about appearing the gentlemen they were. It had been humorous then; it was no longer.

  Though Griffin’s watch no longer told the time, he wore it still. Perversity, or habit.

  Clearing his throat, Richard dropped his hands to his sides, curled the fingers into fists, only to uncurl them an instant later. He cast a glance at the package Griffin carried.

  “A fortuitous meeting, Griff,” he said. “I’ve a tear here”—he indicated the place, a worn patch on his sleeve near the elbow—”small, but bothersome. I have need of a seamstress. Can you offer a recommendation, dear boy?”

  Griffin weighed Mrs. Gormley’s monetary need against the certainty that sending Richard Parson’s through her door would not be an act of kindness. Not for her. Not for himself.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, silently vowing that Mrs. Gormley would spend the next weeks sewing new aprons for the upstairs and downstairs maids of Wickham. That should be enough to see to her needs for months.

  Richard’s brows rose, but he made no effort to force the matter.

  “What do you here, Richard?” Griffin asked, tired of the game.

  “Ah, a bit of this and a bit of that.”

  “A bit of what?” Griffin prodded. “Here? In this tiny village?”

  Purposefully misunderstanding Griffin’s remark, Richard grimaced and blew a snort of air down his nose.

  “Yes, yes. ‘Tis a pedestrian place, to be sure,” he said, then paused as a wagon approached and the sound of hooves and rolling wheels grew loud, only to fade as it rolled on. “Little in the way of entertainment. Even less in the way of business. But I have a concern here of an entirely different nature.”

  “And what concern might that be?”

  “An affair of the heart?” Richard ventured, his tone ironic.

  “That I doubt,” Griffin mused. “Unless the heart is one you wish to rip, still beating, from a bloodied, carved breast.”

  Richard cleared his throat, a choked sound, and slapped his open palm to his chest. “You wound me, dear boy.”

  Griffin narrowed his gaze. “Then the heart you speak of must be solid gold encrusted with jewels, a heady lure for any thief. Offhand, I cannot call to mind such a treasure.” He drummed his fingers on the side of his thigh, and continued, darkly soft. “Richard, there is no one hereabouts worth robbing... save me. And I warn you against that.”

  “For shame, dear boy.” Richard reared back. “Do you think so low of me, then, that I would stoop to thieving from a friend?”

  “We have both sunk that low at times. And lower,” Griffin replied, blunt.

  “Aye, well, those were hard times that called for hard measures. We are different men now, are we not?” Richard waited a heartbeat, and then laughed, an ugly mocking sound. “Or perhaps we are exactly what we have always been, eh, dear boy? Exactly the villains we have always been.”

  “How much will you take to leave?” Griffin wanted Richard gone. Gone with his secrets and his vile knowledge of their ugly shared past.

  He wanted what paltry peace he could find in the daylight, for the nights offered no serenity, haunted as they were by guilt and ghosts.

  “Leave, dear boy? I would not think it.” Richard’s expression hardened. “There are fine, sweet pickings here. Fine, sweet pickings, indeed. But you already know that, don’t you, dear boy? You already know.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Burndale, Yorkshire, October 4, 1828

  Beth stood in the large schoolroom, reading lines of dictation and waiting as the girls wrote the words in their copybooks. The room housed three groups of students and their teachers. At the far end, Miss Doyle read aloud a rather ridiculous poem in her high, girlish voice, the sound carrying above the general din of the schoolroom.

  At the opposite end, near the door, Mademoiselle Martine drilled her class on French verbs. The ever-present cacophony seemed amplified today, loud and distorted, coming at Beth from all sides.

  Bending her head to the book she held, she read aloud in a modulated tone another line of dictation, her thoughts jumping about.

  Over the past two weeks, she had seen little of Mr. Fairfax. Once or twice, she spotted him from a distance, and her heart danced and sped. She told herself she was foolish, for there was no good place for her fascination with him to lead.

  But he was so handsome he stole her breath. He was so interesting that she found herself thinking of every word they had exchanged, over and over. His relationship with his daughter captivated her for she could see he loved Isobel, though he could not seem to find a way to breach the distance between them. He was strong and intelligent, and he had shown Beth only kindness.

  And he might well be the person who stalked her from the shadows and watched her in the night.

  Did she truly believe that? No. But she would be a fool to discount the possibility for he had appeared in moments when she had been frightened and wary, and that seemed more than coincidence could bear.

  In truth, she knew little about him save that he named himself a villain, and that he was conveniently present at Burndale Academy each time she felt she was being watched.


  Since the morning she had met him in the corridor, the morning after someone had snuck into her chamber, she had become careful and wary, taking her evening walks only within sight of the school. But she took every care to let no one see her distraction, to present only a calm and sanguine demeanor, to teach her lessons to the best of her capacity, to draw no attention to herself.

  She could not chase the memories of the words she had heard outside Miss Percy’s door from her thoughts, the implication that she would be let go for her lack of skill and her emotional behavior.

  A letter had come from her mother, and though she tried to put a cheerful turn to her words, Beth could read the truth in what she did not say. The situation at home had only grown more dire. There was little money, little food, little coal. And there was no improvement in her father’s health.

  Losing her employment at Burndale Academy was out of the question.

  Glancing up at the girls, then down at the book, Beth finished reading another sentence of the dictation and waited while they labored over their letters. She opened her mouth to resume, only to stop as rapid footsteps echoed from behind. Turning, she found the maid, Alice, approaching.

  “I am to fetch you, miss,” she said, each word running rapidly one into the next. “Miss Percy said you are to come at once.”

  Alice’s words delivered a brutal blow to Beth’s fragile control.

  Glancing about, she saw that the girls watched her with wide eyes. Not once had she seen Alice in the schoolroom prior to this day, and since coming to Burndale, Beth had witnessed no other teacher called away from her duties in such a manner. The peculiarity of the summons left her distinctly uneasy.

  The headmistress had come to watch Beth teach several times in the past fortnight, leaving after a few silent moments of observation. Twice, she had brought two men with her, one very old, and one of middle years, and their observation of her teaching methods had brought expressions of mild dismay to their faces.