Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall Book 3): A Gothic Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  “We have yet to discover who the Raven is.” Ruban thought for a moment, and then smiled. “But perhaps there is someone who already knows.”

  Chapter 10

  Once he righted himself, Greystone brushed the potting soil from his costume and strode out of the hot house. He could see Jennet already inside the reception room, but she did not linger or look back at him. She disappeared from sight a moment later.

  The fiery bliss he had experienced from taking her still hummed through his limbs, intensified by the pleasure he had given her in return. That she had remained a virgin all these years also gratified him, although he had no right to feel so smug about it.

  Greystone had wondered too often about that since leaving her. Jennet was a beautiful woman, and unafraid of passion. He knew he had awakened her needs. Although she had chosen never to marry, she might have discreetly taken a lover.

  Why had she remained chaste? Surely not to save herself for him.

  “You’ve done enough to the lass, milord,” a hard voice said from behind him. “Let her go now.”

  He turned to see Pickering’s man Foray standing at the corner of the hot house. The smug look on his homely face made Greystone’s hands fist.

  “You watched us, you bastard?” he demanded.

  “No, but I’ve ears like a cat, and orders to patrol the grounds tonight.” The valet cocked his head. “Couldn’t find a way upstairs to a proper bed, then? Poor girl. Now I see why she tried to reshape your face.”

  The fact that Foray was right didn’t soothe Greystone’s temper. “Keep talking and I’ll see to yours.”

  “Aye, I expect you would. Here.” He tossed the sacking mask at him. “Pickering said you’d be riding out with him. You’ll want a look at the nag.”

  After one last glance at the house, Greystone turned and accompanied him through the gardens and out to the stables. Although everyone believed him to be nothing more than Pickering’s manservant, Foray’s particular talents had been learned as a street brat in the Devil’s Acre. He had survived London’s most notorious slum to join the Army, which had taught him even more lethal skills, and eventually found his way into Pickering’s service. Foray had learned to dress his master as if he were Brummel himself, but he could also cripple a man with a single blow of the lead-filled sap he always carried.

  He also knew that Greystone could easily do worse, and he’d never live to limp through his remaining years.

  “I’d keep to the back roads until you reach Hackney,” the valet said as he unlatched the stable door. “You’ll be more likely to spot shadows. I’ve put two pistols in the satchel pack, but they’ll be handier tucked in your belt.”

  Greystone disliked firearms; the blade or the garrote proved far more reliable. “Leave them.”

  In the stall stood a sturdy farm gelding, with a saddle suitable to his role. Greystone checked over the mount before he adjusted the bridle to his liking. The animal was young and strong, and capable of the long ride ahead. As he stroked the mount he kept thinking of Jennet, and how her hands had felt on him. He should never have touched her. Worse, he wished nothing more than to return to the house, find her, and drag her to the nearest bed.

  “You’re not coming back to this wee corner of heaven, are you?” Foray asked idly. “Once it’s finished, I mean.”

  Greystone eyed him.

  “Just curious.” The other man smiled, making his plain face look utterly menacing. “She’s lovely–”

  “–and much too good for me, as Pickering has already said.” Despite knowing how deadly the valet was, Greystone felt tempted to test him. Then he understood his interest. “Are you questioning my loyalty? Arthur well knows that I burned down my life for this.”

  “Aye, and now you mean to take a torch to hers.” As he took a step toward him the valet held up a broad hand. “Ever I’ve had a soft spot for the ladies.”

  Every word he spoke was true, and still Greystone wanted to beat him senseless. “Not that it is any of your concern, but Jennet Reed would have been my wife.”

  “You think she’d choose you again now?” The valet made a contemptuous sound. “It’s not all swiving in the greenery, man. Women have expectations, and never more than after they’ve been duped. She’d want answers, and how would you explain why you left? Where you’ve been? What you’ve done? You can’t, so you’d lie to her. Sharp as she is, she’d know it.”

  Jennet had never been able to read his intention to leave her, Greystone realized, because until the day before the wedding he hadn’t planned to do anything but become her husband.

  “You’d be the death of her, lad, or she yours,” Foray said, almost kindly. “Be done with it.”

  He took in a deep breath and, with its release, let go of what few frustrations he could. “I will leave with your master as soon as the last of the guests depart.” His jaw tightened, but he forced out the rest. “I will not be returning to Renwick.”

  Foray took a watch from his pocket, and opened it to check the time. “I’ll put a man at her house for the next week, if it’ll ease your mind.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Greystone told him. “No one is to go anywhere near Miss Reed.”

  The valet regarded him for a long moment before he offered a mocking bow. “As you wish, milord.”

  Chapter 11

  Although he knew he should return to the ballroom to play host, Arthur Pickering first went to the second floor to make the rounds of the retiring rooms. It would not do for the vicar or his wife to walk in on any amorous young couple who had decided to make use of the available beds. He also had an uneasy feeling that refused to disperse.

  The two rooms provided for the guests’ needs happily remained empty, but a faint sound from down the hall drew Arthur to the closed door of his own bed chamber. He listened outside for a moment, and then opened the door and stepped in quickly.

  Nothing but silence and shadows greeted him.

  “Bloody old house.” He went over to light a lamp on the night stand, but as soon as he did he saw a mound of old silk atop the coverlet on his bed.

  Catherine Tindall lay on her side, watching him, as she held her loose bodice against her breasts. “You should not use such language in the presence of a lady, sir, especially one who is half-undressed.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Tindall.” Arthur glanced down at the unlaced stays beside her on the bed. “Do you require assistance?”

  “From you, sir?” She pouted her lips as she glanced at the ceiling. “Well, I can hardly go downstairs in this state.”

  He helped her off the bed, but as soon as she stood her bodice slipped down, revealing her pert breasts. He would have looked away, had she not cupped them with her dainty hands like two ripe fruits in offering.

  “Do you like them?” Catherine asked. “They’re rather large, I’m told. Larger than Jennet Reed’s, certainly.”

  Her game became clear in an instant, and Arthur turned his back on her. “That is not for me to say, Miss Tindall. I will go and find a lady to help you with your stays.”

  “I cannot breathe in them.” Her arms came around him from behind, and she rubbed his belly with one and stroked his thigh with the other. Her skillful caresses attested to her familiarity with the male body. “I would much rather you help me out of this gown.”

  He turned around and took in a sharp breath, and smelled the mulled wine on hers. “You are drunk.”

  “A little, perhaps.” Catherine plucked at his breech buttons. “Not enough to bring my father hammering on your door in the morning.”

  The Tindalls had great wealth and influence in London, Arthur knew. Catherine’s father had the ear of the Regent, and her mother commanded near-equal respect as one of the most admired ladies among the town. To trifle with her would be exceedingly foolish. His cock, which now pushed at the fastening of his breeches, didn’t care in the slightest.

  Arthur pushed her back on the bed, jerking open his breeches as he watched her
tug up her skirts. Beneath them she wore not a stitch, which laid her bare in the lamplight. She had even trimmed her nether hair in the shape of a heart, like a high-priced courtesan would.

  “How rough you are, sir.” Catherine smiled slowly as he produced the long shaft of his penis, and climbed atop her. “Well. You should show that more often when you are in society. Far more interesting than your dancing.”

  “While you enjoy playing the trollop in private.” Arthur held himself just outside her gates and watched her squirm. “Or is that your true nature, and the giggling miss yet another mask you wear?”

  “I am not laughing now,” Catherine said, lifting her hips so that her sex caressed the swollen head of his.

  Thrusting into her body made Arthur groan, for she felt as tight as a virgin. Yet the moment he possessed every inch of her warm, narrow channel she wriggled and began to squeeze him. She did so with the aplomb of a professional, so he allowed himself to take her as he pleased—hard and fast, with rude strokes that made her unable to hold him.

  She did not find her pleasure, but seemed content to watch him have his.

  Arthur jerked himself out of her before he spilled, painting her thighs with his seed. He then shifted to one side and put his fingers to her well-opened quim, stroking her deftly until she arched under his touch and squealed.

  Stretching out on his back beside her, he turned his head to study her profile. He usually took more care with where he found his pleasure, but after the weeks of enforced celibacy the temptation had been too much to resist. He had not kissed her, which ladies of her set expected, nor had she offered her mouth. The only women he knew who had such a practical approach to intimacy made their living from it.

  “Do you make a habit of such, er, spontaneity, my dear?” Arthur asked her.

  “Of course not.” Catherine reached over without looking and patted his chest as if to reassure him. “I have the benefit of a vastly experienced lover whom someday I will marry, Mr. Pickering. You may credit him with teaching me to fuck. We cannot meet often, however, or my parents would grow suspicious.”

  That sounded reasonable enough to him. “Since we have fucked, then, I believe you should call me Arthur.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would I do that?” She slid herself off the bed and shook down her skirts. “People would make assumptions inconvenient to us both.”

  Arthur watched her peer into his mirror to replace and straighten her mask, and felt the blood rush back to his groin. “I should like to have you again before you go.”

  Catherine glanced back at him and fluttered her lashes. “Sir, you are insatiable.” She came over to the bed, pushed him back flat, and opened his breeches. “Let me show you that which I most often employ to avoid other inconveniences. You will not have to spill on my legs this time.”

  His eyelids drooped as she curled her fingers around his hardening shaft, and brought the now-straining head to her lips. “Your lover taught you to suck cock? I am all astonishment.”

  “That and more,” she said just before she took him in her mouth, and slipped her fingers beneath his ballocks.

  Chapter 12

  The masquerade continued in boisterous fashion as Jennet joined those gathered in the ballroom. The music, the dancers and the laughter seemed overloud after the quiet gasps and carnal sounds she and Greystone had made in the hot house, but she did not mind. The noisier it was, the less opportunity she had to dwell on what she had done. Several gentlemen came to seek her as a partner, but she politely refused each one, claiming she had twisted her ankle. Instead she watched and listened and cursed herself silently.

  Her family’s reckless streak had finally emerged in her, it seemed, with a vengeance.

  An odd memory of her mother sitting her down the night before her wedding came back to Jennet. Margaret had been red-faced and deeply embarrassed as she tried to explain what to expect once she and Liam were married. She’d used sparse and wholly inadequate terms for the act of marital bliss, as she called it.

  Men have knowledge of such matters. You must trust in William to deal with you gently and kindly. There will be some small pain, perhaps, but only in the beginning part. If you are blessed, you will increase your family in two seasons, and give me a grandchild.

  After their passionate embrace in the meadow Jennet had already guessed much of what to expect from Liam on their wedding night. The remaining facts she had deciphered long before that from her observation of animals on the estate. She also knew well the consequences of such acts for the female of any species. Now with the slight soreness throbbing between her thighs, she understood why the recollection had returned to her.

  I could be with child.

  “There you are, Miss Reed,” a sweet voice said. “I was hoping to bid you farewell, but Mr. Branwen has gone off somewhere, and well, may I sit with you until he returns for me?”

  Jennet looked up at Deidre Branwen’s hesitant smile, and tried to return it. “Of course, please do.”

  “Thank you.” The vicar’s wife arranged her full skirts as she perched on the chair beside her, and let out a sigh of relief. “I do envy the energy of the young. I have danced but twice and feel exhausted. You are far wiser than I.”

  “I doubt that, ma’am.” This was her punishment for making love with Greystone, Jennet thought wryly: having to converse with the most good-hearted, moralistic woman in Renwick. “I hope all is well with you and the vicar.”

  “We are as tediously happy and content as ever.” Deidre looked out at the dancers whirling to a merry waltz tune. “Lucetta and Harshad, my sister-in-law and her husband, will be coming to spend Christmas with us. I am counting the days now, for we have grown as close as true sisters. They bring their twins with them, such sweet boys. Do you know that Lucetta met Harshad here, at Dredthorne Hall?”

  “No, I did not.” Jennet had heard the gossip about the couple, of course; Lucetta Branwen had scandalized everyone in Renwick when she had married a gentleman from India. “Was it at a ball, like this one?”

  “Oh, no, they both served the master here. That was a terrible time. We almost lost them to a madman, but I still cannot speak on that without weeping.” The older woman’s mouth thinned as she looked around them. “This place seems to draw tragedy to it. I would never have come, if not for my husband’s insistence. He always wishes to be a constant presence in village society.”

  Jennet thought of all the times the vicar had come to Reed Park to look in on her and Margaret, especially after her mother had one of her panics. “He is a very good man, your husband.”

  “My father wished me to marry for wealth and position equal to that of our family.” Deidre gave her a droll look. “You can imagine how he reacted when Mr. Branwen asked for my hand. Who could be more unsuitable than a near-penniless curate? Yet despite all the obstacles I was quite determined, although not by any conscious, rational resolve. He claimed my heart the moment I first saw him.”

  As Liam had hers, Jennet thought. “Love at first sight, then. How romantic.”

  “I found it terribly inconvenient, and vexing, and confusing. Yet I never wavered. Eventually Papa had to agree, for I threatened to go to Scotland with Mr. Branwen.” The older woman saw her reaction and patted her hand. “We believe we have some say regarding whom we love, but in truth I think love chooses us. We have but to decide if it is worthy of our devotion.”

  The vicar’s wife was trying in her gentle way to warn her about Greystone, Jennet suspected, so she should set her mind at ease. “By chance does your husband have a younger, unattached brother?”

  Deidre shook her head and laughed.

  “Jennet, there you are.” Catherine appeared in front of them, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “Hello, Mrs. Branwen. You are the patron saint of sheep tonight.” She frowned. “There is a saint of sheep, is there not?”

  “Oh, yes. Saint George of Lydda,” Deidre said, rising from her chair. “Excuse me, my dears. The hour is growing late, a
nd I must find my husband.” She smiled at Jennet and then made her way past the dancers.

  “This is such fun,” Catherine told her, dropping down into the chair the vicar’s wife had vacated. She patted down the ballooning flounce of her skirts before she said, “I have danced and danced and danced again. London has nothing on the country.”

  Her friend’s inelegant perch and slurred voice surprised Jennet, as did the smell of male sweat coming from her. “I thought you would stay with the cider tonight.”

  “You know how much I hate the taste of apples. The wine is far superior.” She glanced down at the empty goblet in her hand, and then peered at Jennet. “Why do you sit here like a lump? I must see you enjoy yourself. Allow me to find a partner for you.”

  Jennet caught her hand as Catherine started to rise, and then had to catch her as she reeled. “I think the time for you to go home has arrived, my dear.”

  “Truly?” Her friend made a face and pressed a hand to her brow. “Oh, dear. Perhaps I should. Presently my head wishes to waltz by itself.”

  Putting an arm around her, Jennet walked her from the ballroom out to the front entry, where she had the footman summon her carriage. When it arrived, she walked the very unsteady Catherine out and helped her inside.

  “Why do you stand out there?” her friend asked. “Get in.”

  “I must speak to Mr. Pickering before I leave.” That was a lie, but she needed more time to collect herself before she returned home. Fortunately, many of her neighbors remained in attendance; she would beg a ride to Reed Park from one of them. “I will call on you tomorrow afternoon to return the gown. Good-night.”

  “Your dear mama will be very cross with me,” Catherine predicted, and then almost fell over as the carriage started down the drive.

  Chapter 13

  Greystone heard someone approaching the stables and looked out expecting to see Foray or Pickering. Instead a short gentleman dressed as a humble shepherd came to the doors. When he stepped out the man seemed unsurprised to see him.