Her Dearest Sin

by Gayle Wilson

  Not now. Those were the same words he had breathed to Harry. And with the remembrance of them came the knowledge that in spite of what his commander had said, his friend’s death was not something he could “let go.” No matter what avenging it might cost him.

  “I shall write to the viscount’s father,” the duke went on, thankfully unaware of that realization, “although given the unusual circumstances surrounding his death, I shouldn’t imagine he will be fully satisfied by my recital of these events.”

  “I’m sure you will say all that is proper, your grace,” Sebastian managed, refolding Dare’s letter.

  “Perhaps when you return to England, you could visit them. I think Harry’s parents would find comfort in knowing that you were with him at the end.”

  “I shall, your grace,” Sebastian said, understanding from both the words and the finality of their tone that this interview was at an end. And after all, Wellington had told him only what he had expected to hear.

  “Sebastian.” The duke’s voice stopped him as he reached the door.

  “Your grace?”

  “I shouldn’t say anything to the others about what you believe happened this afternoon. Harry was well liked. Some of them might not be so wise in their reaction as you have been.”

  Sebastian didn’t turn, hiding the caustic smile the duke’s compliment produced.

  “Of course, your grace,” he said before he opened the door and stepped out into the hall. And, for the first time in three years, out of Wellington’s iron control.

  “The question is a simple one. I wish to know who sent the message that was intercepted by Viscount Wetherly.”

  The process necessary to arrange this interrogation had been tedious in the extreme. He had questioned Harry’s batman first, and, his eyes touched with the same nearly paralyzing grief Sebastian felt, this time Malford had been cooperative.

  The cook, when approached, had been reluctant to reveal the name of the peddler. Having acquired the man’s identity through a combination of intimidation and bribery, Sebastian had finally tracked him down this morning to find that the messenger was terrified to talk to him.

  “I told his lordship yesterday,” the man began, his eyes shifting nervously from Sebastian to Malford.

  “Tell me.”

  “It was the lady, my lord.”

  “I’m not a lord,” Sebastian corrected. “And I need the lady’s name.”

  The man swallowed nervously, the reaction strong enough to be visible. “Doña María del Pilar Mendoza y Aranjúez. Just as I told the other one.”

  “And you spoke to Señorita Mendoza yourself?”

  “To her maid, my lord. She gave me a message to be delivered to the scar-faced man—” He stopped, his eyes quickly examining Sebastian’s features, apparently attempting to judge if the words had offended him.

  “Go on,” Sebastian urged.

  “And then I came here.” Again his gaze shifted to the batman’s face as if hoping for affirmation.

  “Where did you meet her?” Sebastian asked.

  “My lord?”

  “The maid. Did she come to you?”

  His round face lightened in comprehension. “No, no, my lord. I call there as I call here, bringing fish for the kitchen.”

  “And Doña Pilar’s maid gave you the message while you were there?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And you know the woman? You’re sure it was Doña Pilar’s maid.”

  “I have known her for many years, even before she went to work for the lady.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  The fishmonger shook his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. “My lord?”

  “Can you take me to where Doña Pilar lives.”

  “But of course, my lord,” the man said, his face clearing as he finally understood what he was being asked to do. “Anyone in Madrid could direct you to the house of Colonel Delgado.”

  The hardest part of the past two days, Sebastian acknowledged as he watched the front of Delgado’s house, had been those moments when he had found himself thinking he wanted to tell Harry something or to seek his advice, ramshackled as that might be. Then, with a welling of renewed grief, almost as powerful as that he had felt as he’d knelt beside his dying friend, he would realize that he would never again be able to do either of those things.

  Harry was gone, and there was only one thing Sebastian could do for him now. And despite what Wellington had advised, it was not to gratefully accept his sacrifice.

  The time for the English envoy’s departure from Madrid was, however, growing ever closer. If he were going to succeed in his quest without being forced to become a deserter—something which would bring dishonor not only on his own head, but also to his family—he would have to devise a way to confront Delgado within the next few days. Something he had thus far found impossible to do.

  He leaned back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. Between maintaining some semblance of attendance to his duties, slight though they were now that it was obvious their mission had failed, and trying to discover a way to get past the formidable defenses with which Delgado had surrounded himself, he couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten more than two consecutive hours of sleep. Certainly not since the night…

  His mind flinched from the memory of Wetherly’s expression, solemn as an owl’s, as he had attempted to pour the last of that final bottle of wine they had shared into Sebastian’s cup. The viscount had missed the rim widely, which had struck him as enormously amusing. The sound of Harry’s laughter, the last time Sebastian would ever hear it, echoed still in his heart.

  A noise at the front of the colonel’s house drew his attention. Eager for something else to think about, he opened his eyes, watching as a large black coach, pulled by a perfectly matched team of four was driven up to the front entrance. As soon as it arrived, a boy carrying a torch emerged from the shadowed portico of the house.

  Following in its light, a man swept purposefully down the low steps, his cloak, as black as midnight, swirling dramatically behind him. In spite of his exhaustion, a thrill of excitement ran like a restorative through Sebastian’s veins.

  Almost without his conscious volition, his hand fastened around the butt of the pistol he had concealed under his own cloak. Although he knew a shot fired from here would not be within the narrow range of the weapon, he still had to fight not to level the gun at the Spaniard’s black heart and shoot him down like the mongrel cur he was.

  He had never planned an assassination. He wanted to give Delgado what the Spaniard hadn’t given poor Harry. He wanted to beat him in a fair fight. And before he killed him, he wanted to make sure the bastard understood exactly why he was dying.

  Sebastian stepped forward, intending to stop Delgado before he could enter the coach. Almost immediately, the courtyard began to fill with horsemen, no doubt the same ones who had been with the colonel that day by the river, obviously part of the junta Wellington had described.

  If he revealed himself now, Sebastian realized, he would never be allowed to get close enough to their leader to challenge him. And if he failed in this attempt, Delgado would escape punishment for what he had done. Working to control his disappointment, he retreated into the shadows, pressing close to the wall from where he had been watching.

  When the men were assembled, Delgado put his foot onto the first of the carriage steps. Before he climbed in, he turned once more to face the house. It became apparent to Sebastian only then that someone was standing at the top of the steps, almost hidden by the shadows from the overhang.

  “Watch her,” Delgado ordered, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the milling horses. “Your own life depends upon it.”

  The reply, if there was one, was too soft for Sebastian to hear. Turning, the Spaniard raised his hand, giving the signal for departure. As he entered the carriage, half of the troop cantered across the courtyard and out of the gates that guarded the house. The carriage fo
llowed, with the remainder of the horsemen bringing up the rear.

  Watch her. Your own life depends upon it. Obviously, the order referred to Delgado’s ward.

  Would he issue such a threat, Sebastian wondered, if he were going to be away for only a few hours? There was no way to know. Not for sure.

  He did know, however, that the time in which he had to accomplish his goal was running out. During the past two days, he had felt the passage of each separate minute as if he were watching the fall of sand in an hourglass. The slow, inevitable drop of each grain had tightened the tension. If he couldn’t manage to catch Delgado alone before Wellington’s party left Madrid…

  Then, almost as if an answer to prayer, an idea sprang into his head. It went against every precept of honor he had ever been taught, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And having seen Delgado’s jealousy, he knew without any doubt there was a way to lure the man away from his fortress and his cadre of devoted followers.

  Delgado was both arrogant and possessive enough to make it work, Sebastian thought. He would take the bait. Just as poor Harry had done.

  The plan was so perfect, Sebastian wondered why he hadn’t considered it before. Of course, he had had no idea that Delgado would leave tonight, taking his “garrison” with him. And if Sebastian didn’t find some way to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity he had just been given, he deserved to fail.

  The boy with the torch turned and began to remount the steps. The figure that had been in the shadows at the top of them had disappeared, apparently moving back into the interior.

  And the girl called Pilar? Sebastian wondered. Had she kissed her fiancé farewell before he left? Had she bid that bastard Godspeed on his journey?

  He had spent hours during the past two days wondering about her role in Harry’s death. Perhaps she hadn’t understood Delgado’s intent when he had sent her to that cemetery. Or perhaps she had been an unwilling accomplice, forced to play her part under duress. After all, it had been clear that night in the garden that she feared her guardian.

  Her guardian. Soon to be her fiancé.

  For some reason the knowledge that the girl was living with Delgado had eaten at Sebastian like acid since he’d discovered it. He had supposed Spanish society to be at least as strict in its conventions as his own. Apparently he had been wrong.

  It made no difference to him that, according to the fishmonger who had directed him here, the arrangement was sanctioned by the presence of a female relative within the household. The situation was still unsavory, especially since the girl had openly admitted they were soon to be betrothed.

  Under duress? If so, just as he had told Harry, when he killed the bastard, he would, at the same time, free the girl.

  When the courtyard was again completely deserted, he eased along in the shadows of the garden wall from where he’d been watching. He had spent part of the last forty-eight hours finding out as much as he could about the arrangement of the dwelling in case, as a last resort, he had to break into it in order to bring about the confrontation he sought.

  Since it was too dangerous to ask questions of anyone who might have that information, he had been forced to rely upon his own observations. He had learned which rooms belonged to Pilar because he had caught a glimpse of her last night.

  The floor-to-ceiling window she had been standing in led onto a small patio surrounded by a low wall. The cloud of midnight hair that had been artfully arranged in curls atop her head on the night of the ball had again been allowed to drift loosely around her shoulders. He had even been able to discern the color of the dressing gown she wore, a deep crimson, made richer by the glow of the candlelight from the room behind her.

  Moving silently through the darkness, he had now arrived outside that same patio. Tonight the shutters on the window were closed. In the light that filtered through the wooden slats, Sebastian could see that a guard had been posted outside it.

  Luckily he didn’t seem to be taking his duties seriously. His musket had been propped against the same wall he was leaning against as he smoked. The scent of his cigar wafted into the darkness.

  For a second Sebastian hesitated. Don’t do anything that might jeopardize a reunion with your brothers, Wellington had advised. In his mind’s eye, he could see their faces as clearly as he had seen Harry’s, and the temptation to turn away from the dangerous course he had chosen before it was too late was incredibly strong.

  If he did, there might never be another opportunity. With that acknowledgment, Sebastian Sinclair vaulted lightly over the wall that separated him from Delgado’s sentry and ultimately from the woman that guard was supposed to protect.

  * * *

  Despite the fact that she was even more closely watched when Julián was away, Pilar still felt an undeniable sense of escape, a subtle relaxation of the ever-present tension, when her guardian left her alone. As he had tonight.

  He hadn’t told her the import of the message that had called him away. He seldom shared that kind of information. All she knew was that it had been unexpected. And apparently urgent.

  She was sitting now before her dressing table, her unseeing eyes focused on its mirror. She held her hairbrush rather than employing it, as she thought about Julián’s behavior during the past few days.

  Something had happened. Something he hadn’t told her about. She knew because, up until tonight, his mood had been unusually buoyant.

  It was possible, of course, that whatever had caused the almost visible aura of accomplishment that had surrounded him had to do with the political situation. Once or twice, however, she had lifted her eyes to find him contemplating her with an expression that had looked very much like satisfaction.

  Then, becoming aware of her gaze, he had smiled at her. A slow, triumphant smile that seemed to denote victory.

  Whatever he thought he had achieved, therefore, had something to do with her. And the only thing she could imagine that would give him cause to think he had had some triumph over her would concern the English soldier.

  Sebastian Sinclair. Although she had tried since the reception to put his name out of her mind, she found it reverberating in her memory at the oddest moments.

  That had happened once when she had heard a strain of music floating in through the windows of her bedroom. She had opened the shutters in order to listen to the distant, haunting melody, as faint as that which had drifted into the palace gardens the night of the reception.

  The other incident had occurred at dinner last night. As she absently watched Julián’s long, white fingers toy with his wineglass, she had realized she was unconsciously contrasting them to the sunburned ones that had fastened around her wrist. It seemed she could feel their callused warmth even now.

  There was a slight noise outside her window. Her eyes lifted, looking into the mirror at the reflection of the shutters her maid had closed before she had left.

  She listened, trying to determine the origin of the sound she’d heard. Not the regular footsteps of the guard who would be stationed there tonight. This had sounded like a scuffle. Almost as if blows were being exchanged. And then…

  At the sudden silence, she laid down her brush and turned toward the window. As she watched, the shutters opened inward, revealing the figure of a man. He was standing on the patio outside, his shape outlined against the deep purple of the evening sky.

  The identification made viscerally rather than visually, she knew at once who it was. An overwhelming sense of terror, more powerful than that which she’d felt as he held her prisoner in the garden, blossomed in her chest.

  She rose instinctively, but she could think of nothing to say. There was no warning she could give him that she hadn’t already made. No other reason she could think of to convince him that being here was nothing less than suicide.

  “You have five minutes to get dressed,” Sebastian Sinclair said. “I’ve never known any woman who could accomplish that, but I warn you that if you don’t, I shall take you in
your rail.”

  “Take me?” she repeated, latching onto the salient part of that. “Take me where?”

  “With me,” he said simply.

  “No,” she whispered. “I told you—”

  “The choice isn’t yours, my lady. I have need of you. And therefore, you will come.”

  Her feelings about this man were so tangled there was some part of her that exulted in the fact that he was here. He had come for her.

  That heady sense of pleasure was short-lived. Whatever his purpose, if she were foolish enough to go with him, there could be only one outcome. She had always known that.

  “Need me for what?”

  “To lure your guardian to his death.” There was a slight emphasis on the word “guardian,” the tone mocking.

  “Julián? You’re insane.”

  “Four minutes,” he said, striding across the room to throw open her wardrobe.

  She turned to watch, too stunned to protest as he began to paw through the garments stored there, selecting one or two items from among them. He brought those over to where she was standing, tossing them down carelessly onto the stool of her dressing table.

  “Of course, if you prefer to go as you are…” His smile reminded her of Julián’s—cold and sardonic.

  “Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “Don’t you understand that he’ll kill you?”

  “That particular threat grows old, my lady. You should find a new one. Did you enjoy your excursion to mass?”

  Perhaps he had suddenly gone mad. Something about him had changed.

  What Julián had done to his face might explain what had become of the gallant cavalier who had attempted to save her that day by the river. She could imagine no reason, however, for the alteration that seemed to have occurred between the kiss they had shared in the garden three nights ago and what was now in his eyes.

  “I haven’t been to mass,” she said. There was too much she could never confess, so she refused to go and make a mockery.