Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  Delicately, his fingers touched her chin. He had found the tip of it readily and lifted it so she could look into his violet eyes. “I understand why you lied. You have nothing to fear from me if you are now telling me the truth.”

  Oh, dear heaven, she felt how tense he was. He couldn’t look into her eyes and see guilt, but she was certain he was listening for it. If you are now telling me the truth. He didn’t believe her story. He knew she’d lied once, and he must suspect she was doing so again. And she was.

  “After all that you’ve done for me,” he said softly, “I would not send you away.”

  Yes. Yes, you will, and you’ll hear of my hanging without a bit of remorse because I had to kill a woman, because I was a murderess, even though I didn’t mean to do it. But Anne managed a quaking “Thank you” and prayed that didn’t give her away.

  A flowery smell tickled her nose as they got near the door. Devon grimaced. “Scent. Ashton’s gift apparently applies it pretty thickly. Maybe she assumed it would help me find her.”

  Anne looked at him quickly, astonished to see a grim smile. It felt like a mere heartbeat later that she was standing in the middle of the drawing room, while Devon explained to Lord Ashton the story she had told him. She had seen Lord Ashton at Kat’s—he was an angelic-looking man with white-blond hair and dark-blue eyes. The courtesan, Miss Lacy, was a very voluptuous, bold brunette.

  “I am so sorry I used your name falsely, Lord Ashton. But I ran away—”

  Devon held up his hand. “Miss Lacy, my dear, you must be tired after your travel. My butler, Treadwell, will escort you to one of the bedchambers, where you can rest.”

  Miss Lacy perked up at the word bedchamber. She flashed coquettish smiles at both men, then followed Treadwell out.

  Devon waved his hand. “Continue, Cerise.”

  Anne took a deep breath. She hadn’t been able to fool Devon with her faked climaxes. Could she be convincing now? “I ran away from a brothel. You see, I had disobeyed my madam and I—I feared she would hunt me down and hurt me, or kill me, for my disobedience. I went to a friend, and she took me in. But my very presence in her house put her in grave danger. My madam employed brutish men to keep her girls in line. They would not think twice about killing an innocent woman because she was in their way or she knew too much.”

  “Who is your friend, love?” the Earl of Ashton asked, drawing her gaze from Devon.

  She couldn’t lie—Ashton would probably remember the courtesans he’d talked to. In this, she had to tell the truth. “My friend is Katherine Tate.”

  “Kat?” Ashton echoed in surprise. “Kat took you in and protected you? Kat is an exotic beauty and highly skilled in the bedroom, but I never would have guessed she would help a damsel in distress. She is also a friend of March’s, which was why I approached her.”

  “We knew each other … a long time ago,” Anne said. “Kat was very good to me. She explained to me the details of being a mistress. And she told me a great deal about His Grace. About how wonderful he was reputed to be as a protector.”

  A low, dangerous laugh rumbled from Devon. “Wonderful? When I once told her I wasn’t interested in becoming her protector, she chucked a china shepherdess at me.” He sighed. “Angel, I want the complete truth from you. What did you do to this madam of yours?”

  Her heart froze. What could she say? “I—I helped …” Oh, God, she couldn’t think of anything to say but the truth. Some of it, at least. “I helped three of her newest girls escape. The girls were innocents and Ma—my madam had hoped to auction their virginity.”

  “Very noble and brave,” Lord Ashton commended.

  Devon lifted a brow. He was listening intently, and she felt as if he could hear her very thoughts. “Indeed,” he said softly. “Not surprising. But I doubt she would kill you over that. She might beat you and force you to—” He stopped. Raked his hand through his hair. “I want you to go up to bed, Cerise. I’ll join you soon.”

  She had to leave. But what would Devon and Ashton say once she’d gone?

  Devon smelled the smoke of a cheroot. “Intriguing,” Tris remarked. “She told you I had sent her so she could have the chance to become your mistress.”

  Her story was entirely believable and highly sympathetic, so why had his gut clenched the way it would before the first cannon blast of a battle? Hell, he’d practically smelled her fear, and he knew the distinct aroma of it from the war.

  “Who is she, Dev? She spoke of living in a brothel, but she’s no dockyard tart. She speaks like a lady.”

  “She claims to be a housekeeper’s daughter, one who lived on a country estate but ended up in London’s stews. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s a lie also. I intend to find out.”

  “I find her fascinating,” Tris said.

  “She’s mine,” Devon asserted.

  Tristan’s swift, knowing laugh raked over him. “You answered that one quickly. Don’t worry. I’m a guest in your house. I would never dream of poaching on your preserve.” With the groan of a man relaxing in a chair, Tris asked, “So, is it any different to make love to a woman when you’re blind? Is it worse or is it actually better?”

  Trust his friend to speak directly of his blindness without care or caution.

  “Is it any different from having sex in the dark?”

  “It’s different,” he replied, his voice curt and abrupt.

  “How—” Tris began, but Devon glowered and his friend shut his mouth.

  Devon snapped grumpily, “Of course it isn’t the same. A man can always strike a light in the dark.”

  “Ah, there are times a man doesn’t want to.”

  “Maybe you aren’t so discriminating, but I am. I don’t even know exactly what she looks like, and I never will.”

  “She? Ah, Cerise. She is lovely, by the way. I assume you’ve thoroughly explored her with your hands and mouth?”

  “Yes. But there’s a lot about her that I can’t assess by touch, taste, or smell. There’s no one in this house I can ask to describe her. How do you ask another man to describe your mistress?”

  “I’d be happy to describe her in detail for you.”

  “I’m sure you would be,” Devon growled. “I’d likely end up punching you in the nose.”

  “Whoever she is,” Tristan said, “she’s managed to make a remarkable change in you. You were an unkempt, hairy mess the last time I came, stinking of spilled brandy and refusing to leave your gloomy study. Now you look like the man I remember from our days in London before the war and before—”

  “Before Rosalind’s death. I may look different, but I don’t think I feel any different. And now my mistress has joined in my mother’s campaign to convince me to return to Town and start courting a bride.”

  He heard the clink of glass. It had to be Tristan setting down the brandy bottle after refilling his tumbler. Devon had to clamp his hands into fists to fight the urge to reach for a glass. He yearned to take just one drink. But if he began with one, he feared he wouldn’t stop until he was unconscious on the floor.

  Cerise’s story sounded like the truth. Should it matter that she’d lied to him when she first arrived? It was obvious she wasn’t here to con him or steal from him—she would have done that already. She had done nothing but take care of him. She had been wonderful in the way she had helped his sister and taken charge after the baby’s birth.

  Why was he plagued with this damned pervasive sense of doubt? Was it simply the uneasiness he now carried with him? The constant wait for a disaster to fall, the way he would wait for the command of Charge or the first explosion of a cannon before a battle?

  But as much sense as her story made, if he attacked it from a different direction, he could pull it to pieces. If she had a friend in London, she had a safe place to stay, and Kat was a famed London incognita who had the wherewithal to introduce Cerise to the wealthiest of England’s peers. Wouldn’t it make more sense to stay with Kat and find a protector in London, rather than travel nort
h on the faint hope of seducing a blind and reluctant duke?

  “You’re lost in thought,” Tris observed.

  Devon hesitated, then told his friend his concerns. “I don’t know what to believe. If I take her tale at face value—that she was anxious to leave London and saw me as the perfect chance for escape—then I can understand why she made up the story. But …” He tried to put his doubts into words. “Her motives don’t appear strong enough to justify a mad flight up here. Under Kat’s tutelage, she would have had the opportunity to find a lover in Town. Once she was a peer’s mistress, she would have been safe from her madam’s vengeance.”

  “Your arguments are sound, Dev. But the only one who knows the truth is Cerise.”

  A faint knock came on the door. Devon lurched around, expecting Cerise to walk into the room. He expected to hear the firm tread of her steps, to smell her soft, natural scent, and hear her lush voice ask him if he required a nighttime story.

  Instead, the heavy smell of perfume hit him, almost making him gag. Miss Lacy said, in an exaggerated purr, “Your Grace, My Lord, how delicious to find you both together.”

  Devon groaned. He remembered Cerise playing the saucy courtesan, but there had been a sweet awkwardness in her performance. She hadn’t sounded jaded and hard like this woman.

  “Sorry, love, but His Grace is committed to his pretty mistress,” Tristan said.

  “How disappointing.” Miss Lacy’s skirts swished slowly. No doubt she was trying to seductively cross the room. “But the reason I came searching for you wasn’t just to suggest some naughty fun between the three of us. After I had repaired myself in the bedchamber, I came downstairs and overheard the last things your mistress said, Your Grace. I apologize, but I must warn you. She claimed she helped innocents escape her madam. There have been stories all over London about a madam who was murdered in her brothel by one of her whores. The tart—whose name was Annalise, I think—helped young girls escape and then struck her madam with a fireplace poker. Annalise ran away. Bow Street has been searching all over London for her but can’t find her.”

  Devon could hear the triumph in Miss Lacy’s sultry voice. “When did this happen?”

  “The woman was murdered about three weeks ago, Your Grace.”

  Devon suddenly couldn’t find his voice. Christ.

  “Dev, have you got newspapers in the house?”

  “Hades, I don’t know. They might have been delivered, but I can’t read them.”

  “Treadwell,” Tris called. Boots struck the floor harshly, and almost instantly Devon heard his butler’s distinctive walk. “Treadwell, have you got news sheets for the last few weeks?”

  “Aye, me lord,” his butler answered. “I kept them after the valet left. I put them in a pile in the library, so ye could have them read to ye. Sorry, Yer Grace. I forgot to tell ye.”

  Anne shrank back into the shadows of the corridor, her heart jumping madly in her chest.

  Though Devon had sent her to bed while he spoke with Lord Ashton, she’d been unable to stay in her room. Instead of undressing, she had padded back downstairs, planning to see if Devon wished to have her read to him later.

  But when she’d reached the mouth of the hallway that led to the drawing room, she glimpsed a group of retreating figures. Silently, she’d hurried forward. She’d crept close enough to see Devon and Lord Ashton striding at the front, with Treadwell and the voluptuous Miss Lacy hurrying behind. She followed them all to the library.

  Anne quickly realized someone had remembered the news sheets. She heard Lord Ashton say, “There are no stories in these about a madam’s death or a missing whore. However, there are about a half dozen issues missing.”

  “God,” Devon muttered. “No wonder she ran from London. She killed her madam.”

  “Cold-bloodedly too,” Miss Lacy added. “You must have her arrested.”

  They knew. Somehow they—Oh, dear heaven, Miss Lacy wore a self-satisfied smirk. The courtesan must have read the stories, or heard gossip in London, and guessed the truth. And told Devon at once, so she could eliminate her competition.

  Oh, God. How long did she have before Devon came for her?

  Probably only moments. It wasn’t long enough to go back to the bedroom and take anything—not any of her other clothes, not even a bonnet.

  Anne backed away. Then she turned and bolted. When she reached the drawing room, her lungs were already heaving. She raced across the room to the glass-paned doors that led outside. With shaky hands, she turned one handle, praying Treadwell had not bothered yet to lock it.

  Her prayers were answered. The door swung wide. She’d shoved so hard that she lost her balance and stumbled out onto the flagstone terrace. Hauling up her skirts, she raced across the gray stones toward the dark lawn. What was she going to do? Where could she go?

  It didn’t matter. All she could do was run.

  Chapter Sixteen

  NNE CROSSED THE lawns by staying crouched—at least, as low as she could manage in a wretched corset. Clouds shrouded the moon and the velvety dark hid her perfectly, but it made the lawn a treacherous sea of rolling blue-black waves, uneven and ridged, peppered with unexpected holes. Twice she put her foot in a void and went flying to her knees. Each time, she scrambled back up and raced desperately onward.

  Deep in her heart, she wanted to believe that if she told Devon the truth, he would forgive what she’d done because it had been an accident, because she’d struck Madame in desperation to protect a young girl, because she had never intended to kill. She wanted to imagine he would shield her, protect her, help her. But would Devon knowingly harbor a murderess? Even though she’d acted to defend those girls, she had committed a crime, and she feared that was how he would see it. Her heart clenched. It wouldn’t matter that they’d been intimate. It wouldn’t matter that she’d helped him cope with his blindness. Heavens, he’d risked his life and given his sight for king and country. He wouldn’t help her escape the law. How could he?

  She raced around a clump of lilac bushes and made a mad dash for the woods. She hazarded a glance behind her. Lights now blazed in many of the rooms on the second floor. Devon must be looking for her. Any moment he would guess—

  Bobbing lights appeared on the terrace. Lanterns, carried by the footmen. Devon had already guessed, and he’d sent his servants to find her. The lights suddenly parted, streaming in different directions.

  Letting out a whimper of fear, Anne sprinted on burning, shaky legs. When she was young, she could run as fast as a boy, but years spent trapped in the brothel had sapped her strength.

  When she’d fled from Madame’s brothel, she had bolted through the twisting streets off the London docks, dragging the three young girls with her. She gripped the wrists of Violet and Mary so tightly they were sobbing. She carried Lottie, the smallest, on her back, with the child’s arms clamped around her neck.

  But rescuing the frightened girls had given her more strength than her body could dredge up to save herself. Either she was going to throw up or her lungs would burst into flame. She sobbed with relief as she finally reached the woods. Her momentum carried her in a wild, zigzag course among the trees. She stumbled over every possible root, smacked her toes against stones, and wrenched her ankles a dozen times. Twigs snapped beneath her feet, the sounds as loud as gunshots fired in warning. Every servant chasing her must have heard them.

  She plunged forward, stumbling over the treacherous ground, falling against dark trees, then finally she had to stop. Not because she felt safe, but because her legs were shaking so hard she was certain they would break off at her knees.

  It was no good. She couldn’t push herself any more. Chest heaving, she sucked in as much air as she could. It was dark here—the canopy of dense leaves blotted out the moonlight, and if she stayed still and kept quiet, no one would spot her. Though it also meant she couldn’t see anything. The woods contained dozens of sounds—shivering leaves, the bubbling stream, branches that clacked like bones—but she
was sure she heard men shouting in the distance behind her. Anne forced her quivering muscles to move again, and she ran.

  The splashing of the stream grew louder. She had described these woods to Devon, but now she had no idea where she was. Slipping through a grove of tightly spaced trees, she emerged to find she had reached the water. A stone bridge lay ahead of her. A collapsed bridge—the center had fallen into the stream. The only way across was to pick her way over the remaining stones and jump the chasm in the middle. Could she make it? She wasn’t sure. But it was also unlikely anyone else would. It might be her best chance of escape.

  Wishing she’d worn anything other than a gown, she put her foot on one of the stones. Of course, her boot slid crazily. She clutched the remaining piece of the wooden railing and took wobbly steps over the stones, which jutted up from the water in a jumbled mass.

  Heavens, she was shaky, but panic gave her the courage to blindly throw her weight. Poised on the last stable stone on her side, Anne jumped. Her feet landed on a stone on the other side, but it was slimy, and her right foot skidded wildly. She fell, her left leg splashing into the water. But she managed to grasp the railing and pull herself out.

  Her skirts hung around her, wet and heavy. Her left knee throbbed with pain. Keep moving. Imagine the pain of hanging. She struck ahead, leaving the bridge behind her, but she was limping and moving far too slowly. Devon’s servants must be in the woods by now, and someone had probably heard the splash—

  Behind her, footsteps crunched on fallen leaves.

  Her heart plunged so fast, it sucked all her air with it. For some foolish, instinctive reason, she slowed down. The footsteps quickened, and a low, hard masculine laugh sounded a few yards behind her. The evil delight in it made her blood turn to icy slush.

  She knew that laugh. It was a sound she would never forget. But it couldn’t be real. She must have conjured it out of her fear-fogged brain.