His Wicked Sins

by Eve Silver

  Beth reached out and gently disengaged the strands from between the girl’s teeth and fingers, then let it drop over her thin shoulder.

  “Hair is not meant to be chewed, Jane, unless you wish to cough up a disgusting hairball, like a cat,” she murmured.

  Jane grimaced, clearly appalled by the thought of the hairball. “Yes, miss,” she said. “May we play the game now?”

  The game.

  Tell me a place that is shaped like a boot, a place that was once home to great emperors... Beth remembered how eager she had always been to give her answer to her mother’s riddles, and the proud praise she received when she made the correct response. Well done, dear heart. Show me here on the globe. Now, tell me a place that boasts a rich delta, a vast river and great pyramids. Yes! Egypt. Now show me.

  She studied the girls before her for a moment. Some looked eager, others wary. From the edge of the group, Isobel watched her with eyes bright and focused. That variance from the child’s normally dreamy and fey expression made Beth glad she had chosen to bring out the globe. She had captured Isobel’s interest, and that brought a warmth to her heart.

  “‘Tis not precisely a game, Jane,” she said with a smile. “The study of geography is serious and important work. But there is no reason we cannot enjoy it. Now”—she let her gaze roam her group of pupils—”tell me a place of emperors and silk and spice...”

  As she spoke, she beckoned Isobel closer to turn the globe, and was secretly pleased to see the child do as she was bid, interacting in the lesson though she did not speak.

  The girls laughed and grew enthralled by their task, even volunteering to take turns offering the clues. As she watched them and listened to the riddles they fashioned, Beth wondered if her mother was employing this very method to teach her brother right now.

  A stab of homesickness, potent and sharp, caught her unawares.

  Lost in thought, she slowly became aware of a change in the large schoolroom, a subtle tension. There was a dampening of volume, a quieting of all sounds. She glanced up, toward the door, and her whimsies and fancies and wishes for home scattered like dust.

  Griffin Fairfax. Here. In the schoolroom.

  The sight of him assaulted her. There was no better description, for she felt as though she had been dealt a sharp slap that left her skin prickling and tingling in the aftermath, and her breath coming shorter and faster than it ought.

  Only... a slap was a most unpleasant thing, while the sight of Griffin Fairfax was pleasant in the extreme.

  She had not seen him since the previous morning when she had encountered him in the foyer. Now he was standing across the room from her and she ached to look her fill, to drink in the hard angles of his face, the dark mystery and beauty of him.

  Finding his gaze locked upon her, she tensed and her heart twitched like a hooked fish.

  Memories buffeted her. The scent of his skin, spicy and masculine, so lovely. The feel of his mouth, tantalizing, drawing on her own until she thought she would give up all to him, anything, everything.

  She did not want to feel this sudden thrill at the sight of him, this vitalization of her skin and nerves and heart. She did not want to feel as though he brought the light of a thousand candles to the room.

  A flush of exhilaration warmed her and a strange play of emotion—discomfiture, awkwardness, elation—swirled up like eddies of mist to curl through her.

  Attraction.

  Inappropriate, at best.

  Dangerous, at worst.

  Flustered, she dropped her gaze to the globe, only to feel an undeniable lure. She raised her eyes once more and, for the first time, realized that others accompanied him. Miss Percy and two other gentlemen. She knew them by sight, had seen them before.

  Mr. Creavy was ancient, short and painfully thin, with a few white wisps of hair at the edges of his pate and heavy, white whiskers on his face. A dull, black broadcloth suit hung on his rush-thin frame.

  Beside him was Mr. Moorecroft, a youngish man, perhaps five-and-thirty, bland as oat pudding. Beth knew that as soon as she looked away, she would be hard pressed to say a single feature of Mr. Moorecroft’s that she had noticed. Or perhaps that was only because he paled next to Mr. Fairfax.

  The two trustees had visited the classroom before with Miss Percy, stood in silent judgment as they observed her teaching a class. And now they were back.

  Understanding dawned, and with it a tense wariness. Mr. Fairfax—Griffin—was here for a specific reason, as were his companions.

  He had come to evaluate her. They had all come here today to judge her, to determine her suitability for her position. Beth knew it, though they took their time coming to her side, pausing first to listen to the pupils who recited French verbs with Mademoiselle Martine, and then to watch the girls scratch their dictation into their copybooks as Miss Doyle read aloud.

  How could she not have realized? Griffin Fairfax held her fate, and that of her family, in his hands. Had Alice not said that Mr. Fairfax gave money to the school? That he was a benefactor and a trustee? Alice had named the others as well. These two men, Mr. Creavy and Mr. Moorecroft.

  Beth swallowed, dropped her gaze once more to the globe, idly noting that a bit of Germany had flaked away, leaving a bald patch. She pressed her finger to it.

  Anxiety drilled deep, a frigid ooze in her veins, in her mind, but she held her outward façade of calm and continued the lesson as though naught were amiss. And all the while, she was aware of their meandering approach through the room.

  At length, the sound of their footfalls announced their proximity. They were upon her now, her observers. Her judges.

  Her stomach rolled and her limbs quaked and she only prayed they did not know it. She felt anything but composed and secure. A part of her imagined that at any moment her deceit would be discovered and they would know her for the fraud she was. Know, too, that her temperament was horribly ill suited to her role, that she believed Miss Doyle’s tall tales of murder, that she was spooked by a shadow in a dark corridor.

  Recalling the conversation that she had overheard outside Miss Percy’s office door, she thought that they already suspected she was not what she claimed, that they already marked her for dismissal.

  Resolutely forcing herself to behave as though Miss Percy and the trustees were not there, Beth posed a riddle and nodded to Isobel, who turned the globe once more. All the while, she silently admonished herself to stop this useless self-castigation. Her performance of her duties was perfectly acceptable. She knew it was.

  But the question nagged at her, was acceptable enough, or need she be exceptional?

  She waited for the anxiety and dismay her insecurities invariably elicited, and was surprised by the emotions that came upon her. Defiance. Pride. She had engaged these children, evoked a love of learning. What matter that her methods were unorthodox?

  “Why do they not recite the countries?” the old man asked with querulous humor, his voice pitched low enough that Beth surmised he did not ask the question of her, but rather of his companions. “They should recite the countries.”

  “Let us watch and see, Mr. Creavy,” said Miss Percy, her tone placating.

  But he was not to be appeased. With a hard stamp of his wooden cane against the floor, he spoke again, louder, more shrill.

  “She is not doing it correctly. They must recite the countries.”

  “Let Miss Canham teach the lesson, if you please,” Griffin said, polite.

  “I beg your pardon,” came Mr. Creavy’s high, thready response. “I’ll have you know—”

  “Be silent,” Griffin said in a different voice, low and soft and polite still, which only made it all the more threatening.

  And Mr. Creavy was, instinctively obeying the command that cut the air like the sharpest blade. Confused by her reaction to the exchange, by the current of anger she senses beneath Griffin’s cool veneer, Beth realized that he acted the part of her protector. She was uncertain if that relieved or distressed her.


  Griffin made a small gesture toward the globe.

  “Please continue, Miss Canham. My apologies for the disruption.”

  Miss Percy and Mr. Moorecroft said not a word.

  There was a swish of sound as Isobel spun the globe, and Griffin turned his gaze upon his daughter, loving, yearning, that same bittersweet expression he wore each time he looked at her. Beth’s heart skipped, and then she felt the eyes of the others upon her. Realizing that the moment had spun out too long, she turned her attention back to her duties.

  She kept on with the lesson until it was done and the last toll of the bell echoed through the room. She dismissed the girls and watched them leave, but held herself to her place.

  Mr. Moorecroft looked thoughtful as he bit on his lower lip, his brow drawn low. Then he pulled in his cheeks, and Beth thought that there was something she noted about him. He looked like a fish, bulging-eyed, and with his mouth sucked in and opening and closing.

  Giving a loud huff that drew her gaze, Mr. Creavy stood for a moment glaring at her, then walked off, thumping his cane, muttering under his breath about upstarts and new ways.

  Beth felt as though she had lost her place in a book, as though she were flipping pages and scrambling to find the lost words. She longed to rub her damp palms on her skirt, but she held herself back, determined to show a placid and calm mien.

  “A novel approach,” Miss Percy said in a dry tone.

  Beth’s heart plummeted. Her methods had disappointed.

  For a moment she was too alarmed to do more than stand, mute and unhappy. Then she fell a surge of irritation.

  Modulating her tone, but determined to present her reasoning, she said, “I thought to stimulate the girls’ interest. Recitation by rote is...” She hesitated, unwilling to offend.

  “Boring,” Griffin supplied.

  “Less than stimulating,” Beth continued, not daring to look at him. “Just because a method of instruction has been in place for any number of years, does not necessarily mean it is the best method. One may always hope to improve.”

  The entirety of her explanation was delivered with her gaze locked on the globe, and when she was done, she took a deep breath and raised her head.

  Miss Percy was watching her with approval.

  “An emotional argument,” Miss Percy said. “But not, I suspect, without merit. Thank you, Miss Canham.”

  With that, she inclined her head and invited the remaining gentlemen—Mr. Moorecroft and Mr. Fairfax—to her office. The old man, Mr. Creavy had already made his way across the large room and waited impatiently by the door. Now Mr. Moorecroft joined Miss Percy, and the three of them departed, leaving Beth alone with Mr. Fairfax.

  She could not look at him, for she thought that her expression would surely give her away. She wanted him to touch her, to close his hands around her arms as he had that morning in the foyer, a warm and human connection. To draw her close in his embrace, chest to chest as they had been in Miss Percy’s study.

  Reaching for the tray of clay inkwells that sat on her desk, she drew it closer and lined the little pots up in three perfect rows.

  No, she could not look at him. He would surely read the emotion that clawed through her despite her best intentions to hold it at bay. The yearning to be held by him, to be buffered in the shelter of his arms. To touch him. Hold him. To press her lips to his. To soothe him, to take his secret pain, and let him take hers, a burden shared.

  Oh, what was she thinking?

  Heart hammering, she pushed one of the inkwells into perfect linear alignment, stared at it for an instant, then lifted her skirt and prepared to leave.

  “A moment, if you please, Miss Canham,” Griffin said. The sound of his voice, low and intimate, made her shiver.

  Her gaze shot to his. Dark eyes. Beautiful. Brown and gold and green. Clever eyes. He saw far too much.

  Would he kiss her again? Here? The thought made her tremble.

  She recalled every nuance of their kiss. The press of his smooth lips. The sweep of his warm tongue. Wet and deep and lush.

  He made a hushed sound, a low chuckle. Her breath caught.

  “You defended yourself,” he noted.

  “I have been known to speak out when I feel passionate,” she replied, both amazed and amused, for the truth was, she never spoke out in her own defense.

  “And do you feel passionate?” Rough, hushed, his tone stroked her like a caress.

  Oh, he knew she did. He knew.

  She huffed a short breath, looked away and then back again.

  He stepped closer. The scent of him washed over her, so tantalizing. She wanted to breathe in and in until she was filled with him, glutted with the lovely smell of his skin.

  How was it that she could be attracted so strongly and wary of him all at once?

  Brisk footsteps sounded in the hallway.

  Beth jerked away and set about tidying the lines of inkwells once more, her heart pounding, her hands shaking.

  “Meet me.” A low whisper against her ear. Tempting. Seductive. “Meet me this evening on the road.” Not a request or even an invitation. A command.

  Without waiting for her reply, he turned and strode off, leaving her with the knowledge that though common sense bid her flee to her chamber, lock her door tight and not come out until morning, she would go to the road as she did almost every evening. But tonight she would not stay in sight of the school. Tonight she would go round the sharp bend, out of sight of Burndale Academy. Because though she was afraid of many things, Griffin Fairfax was not one of them.

  o0o

  He wanted everything perfect. With an artist’s eye he studied the small clearing. It was close to the road. Not so close that any carriage or passerby would see his beautiful tableau, but close enough that Beth would feel safe if she strayed this far.

  And she would stray. He would make certain of it. He had only to decide when.

  Perhaps not tonight, not yet. But soon.

  A small niggle of regret wormed through him. He hated to part with his treasures, so lovingly and painstakingly gathered. Hated to leave them where others might find them. He enjoyed the visits, the private delight of coming again and again, touching skirts and petticoats and little cloth covered buttons. The lobe of her ear. The tip of her nose.

  Two others he had left in the open. Not this place. Another. But he dared not go there now, and besides, this clearing was well placed, close to Burndale Academy. Close to Beth.

  The treasures he had put out before had not been found for many days. He had come to visit them often, hanging in the shadows to make certain no one else was about, then creeping forward to squat by their sides. To touch them, fondle them.

  Katherine had looked lovely, laid out on the ground with the sunlight peeking through the autumn leaves, painting a dappled pattern on her body.

  Helen had been lovelier still, sleeping on a blanket of white snow. He had taken her to his special place, alive, bound and gagged, her blue eyes wide with fear and horror.

  Huge, fluffy flakes of snow had fallen from early morning to early evening that day. Lovely, lovely snow. That night, the moon had come out full bright, washing the clearing in moonglow and silver.

  He loved the snow. He could recall entire winters where there had been the barest flurry that melted as soon as it touched the ground. But last January, one perfect day had been a gift to him, layering a thick blanket of snow to act as his canvas.

  Helen. Her blood and been warm and thick and red.

  He had killed her right there, on the snow. Let his blade kiss deep. Watched her blood spurt and spread like a flower.

  She had been so beautiful.

  His. She had been his. Never to leave him. His.

  He looked down at the girl before him, at her faded blue cotton dress, dark and stiff with her blood. Sarah. Pretty Sarah. He had taken her from the treasure box in the ground and brought her here.

  Because Beth was coming. The thought sent a sharp thrill to h
is groin.

  How he wished there was snow to act as his canvas. There were only flowers, the yellow wildflowers of the fall. Yellow flowers to take the place of the yellow hair he had shorn. It was all rather poetic.

  Reaching out, he touched the small watch that was pinned to Sarah’s dress. The watch he had given her. He always gave them a gift, a watch. Since that very first time. And that first time had been the only watch he had not recovered, the kill too hasty, too public. Time slipping away before he could unpin the watch from her bodice.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Time ticking away, counting down the moments.

  Carefully, he unpinned the watch from Sarah’s dress and pinned it to the inside of his coat.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Sarah’s turn had come and gone, and now it was Beth’s time. Beth’s special time.

  Chapter Twenty

  Beth walked in the fading light of dusk, enjoying the breeze and the sky and the rustling of the leaves.

  Flanking the road were rows of trees a short ways off, and patches of grass closer in, bald in spots where the dark, damp earth showed through, long in places, thin green blades that trapped the fallen leaves like fish in a net. The wind stirred the blades and the leaves fluttered free, then settled, trapped once more.

  She thought she was like a leaf, caught by the wind and tossed to and fro, and trapped in places she had no wish to be.

  Dark places both real and imagined.

  Frightening places that never set her free.

  Except right now. Right now, on this road, she had chosen to be free.

  A heady feeling of independence suffused her. She felt a measure of pride in herself for the way she had taught the class today, and more than that, for the way she had defended herself, explained her methods and stood by them. Whatever distress had twisted her in knots, she had presented a calm and controlled mien.

  Where had such bravery come from? She had never considered herself strong or courageous, and now she did. Courage lay not in the lack of fear, but in the facing of life’s challenges despite it.

  Griffin had made her see that in the dark, tight room that was Miss Percy’s office. He had made her see not her fears and her failings, but her strengths.