Sweetest Little Sin

by Christine Wells

  Louisa’s senses reeled at what she saw beneath. There was blood, lots of it. The strong, coppery smell filled her head, made her stomach churn.

  Whoever had done this to Harriet liked to use a knife. Deep slashes crisscrossed the swells of her breasts.

  With a hard swallow, Louisa suppressed a whimper of sympathetic horror. She turned to open the small medical chest Saunders had set down next to her.

  Painstakingly, carefully, she cleaned Harriet’s wounds, driving herself to continue, even though her heart hurt with every cry of agony Harriet gave.

  Gently, thoroughly, she tested joints and limbs for breakage, murmuring reassurances, wishing she could fold Harriet in her embrace and rock her and tell her all would be well.

  But it was clear that Harriet could barely stand the most necessary touch. This examination was pushing her beyond endurance.

  Finally, Louisa sat back wiping her hands on a piece of gauze. She was no expert, but she didn’t think any bones were broken. It looked as though whoever had done this confined themselves to the knife. The bruise on Harriet’s face and the livid chafing around her wrists and ankles appeared to be the only exceptions.

  It was enough. Far more than enough. Harriet stared straight ahead, and there was blind terror in those eyes, as if she was trapped in her own mind, reliving her experience, as if she didn’t know she was safe.

  “Oh, my dear. Who did this to you?” Louisa murmured.

  She was very much afraid she knew the answer.

  Eighteen

  JARDINE unwrapped his fingers from Ives’s throat.

  “What the hell did you sneak up on me like that for? I could have killed you.”

  A strained wheeze was Ives’s only reply. He was bent double, panting, his bald pate glinting in the moonlight.

  Jardine experienced a faint tinge of remorse, but he suppressed it. He waited a good few minutes for the fellow to recover, wondering a little that Louisa hadn’t defied him and followed, after all. Perhaps, at last, she was learning obedience.

  His mouth twisted in a reluctant grin. Bloody unlikely, but one might always hope.

  He addressed Ives. “Well, you dirty little sneak. What do you have for me?”

  “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of any document, guv. Radleigh’s been going about his usual routine, far as I can tell. No furtive forays of any kind. He does spend a bit of time in that curiosity cabinet of his—”

  Jardine ground his teeth. Radleigh would die for that.

  Ives watched him, black eyes gleaming. “—But I dessay you know all about that, guv.”

  He hesitated. “The only other out of the ordinary is there’s someone else that lives in that house besides Radleigh and his sister.”

  “Who?”

  “Dunno, sir. Whoever it is, they has apartments in the old part of the house. That dry old stick of a housekeeper holds the key and she’s the only one in or out. No one else knows about it, or if they do, they’re being tight-lipped.”

  “An invalid, perhaps,” Jardine mused. He refused to countenance the theory that sprang eagerly to mind.

  He’d hoped beyond reason that Smith would be one of the guests at this house party. But things were never that simple, were they?

  Who was this unknown occupant?

  “Show me these apartments.”

  Their situation on the ground floor supported Jardine’s theory that an invalid occupied them, but he couldn’t be sure. He and Ives skirted the house silently. The mysterious apartments were on the opposite side of the house to the orangery.

  A heavy curtain shrouded the window. There was nothing to be seen from outside. Jardine gestured for Ives to take care of the casement. In seconds, Ives had the window open.

  Jardine eased himself inside, stood behind the curtains, listening. Nothing, not even the deep breathing of someone who slept. He peered into the room, saw that it was an antechamber of some sort, not the bedchamber itself.

  The door to the corridor lay open. The double doors opposite it were closed. Jardine crossed the room and pressed his ear to the panels.

  Angry voices rumbled within. Radleigh and . . . another man. Older. Could it be Smith?

  Heavy footsteps stomped toward him. Jardine only had time to sidestep and press against the wall before the door was flung open and Radleigh strode out.

  There was a whiff of something as he passed. The glimpse of dark patches on his coat.

  Blood?

  Fury exploded inside him, made him want to leap for Radleigh’s throat. But he couldn’t afford to let his passions rule him. That was what separated him from the common herd, the ability to stop before he acted.

  The ability to think.

  How long had he been parted from Louisa? Only a few minutes at most. Enough time to hurt her, then traverse the length of the building and engage in some sort of argument with whoever lurked in these rooms?

  He didn’t think so. It was possible, but not likely. And what reason would Radleigh have to harm Louisa?

  He padded after Radleigh through the dark house. It must have been nearing dawn by now.

  He hoped to God Louisa had returned to her room. But if she hadn’t, at least by following Radleigh, he could ensure that she was safe from him.

  Radleigh ignored the central staircase and continued along the first floor, toward the orangery. He wasn’t going back to his bedchamber, then. Nor to Louisa’s.

  Jardine kept to the shadows as Radleigh paused and shrugged out of the silk dressing gown he wore. He rolled the dressing gown into a ball and shoved it behind a solid workbench.

  He continued walking, his stride more purposeful. Strange. Radleigh was dressed for riding.

  Ducking behind the workbench, Jardine picked up the discarded robe. The moonlit darkness leached color from the garment, painting it in shadowy grays. The stains looked almost black. But that rich smell was unmistakably blood.

  Lots of it.

  He dropped the garment and went after his host.

  WHEN they finally reached the inn, a glimmer of dawn lit the horizon and the birds had begun to call.

  Louisa alighted from the cart and, with the help of Saunders, assisted Harriet down. They took care to avoid touching her injuries. The sharp cry Harriet gave told her they hadn’t entirely succeeded. Harriet’s knees gave out as Saunders released her.

  “Oh, she’s fainted,” said Louisa.

  The secretary caught Harriet and lifted her in his arms, surprising Louisa with his strength. Ignoring the lone ostler who looked on, he carried their patient into the inn.

  Louisa had no coins to give, so she nodded at the ostler and said, “Stable these, my good man. Mr. Saunders will attend to you in a minute.”

  She followed Saunders into the inn, to see that he’d laid Harriet on a couch in the vestibule and was speaking with the landlady.

  “Set upon! In these parts? Good gracious!” The mistress of the establishment rushed to Harriet’s side, her eyes wide with shock.

  “Will you send for a doctor, please,” said Louisa. “Immediately.”

  “I can, ma’am, but he’s up to his elbows delivering twin babies tonight. He won’t be here till morn.”

  “Well, ask him anyway. In the meantime, I need clean sheets cut into strips for bandages, hot water, brandy, and something to use as swabs,” said Louisa in a low voice. “We need to take her somewhere quiet. The lady’s guardian is staying here. A Mister . . .”

  She trailed off, wondering what on earth Faulkner called himself when staying here. He wouldn’t use his real name, would he? But she didn’t think Jardine had mentioned it.

  “Miller.” A voice from the stairs made her look up. The man himself.

  Her heart pounded. How had he known they were here?

  Of course. Faulkner would make it his business to be informed of any untoward occurrences. He’d probably set a spy to watch.

  The head of operations took in the situation at a glance. “Upstairs.”

  He turned, clearly
expecting her to follow, but halted when she said, “Wait.”

  Louisa licked her lips. “She cannot climb those stairs unaided. I need help.”

  She dashed a glance at the taproom. Where had Saunders disappeared to?

  Shaggy eyebrows raised, Faulkner looked down at himself. He’d assumed the guise of a much older man, doddering and decrepit. She’d been so glad to seem him, she hadn’t noticed until now. A fine spy she was.

  Faulkner nodded to the landlady. “Find someone to carry my niece up, please.”

  The landlady called for the ostler they’d seen outside. Harriet lay in a dead faint, which was not a bad thing, given her fear of men at the moment, the pain she was in, and what must have been the torture of her conscious thoughts.

  Allowing the ostler to carry her, Louisa turned and followed Faulkner upstairs.

  Louisa directed him to place the injured young woman on the bed. The landlady bustled in with such medical supplies as she’d been able to gather. Louisa thanked them both and ushered them from the room. She turned to Faulkner.

  He bent over Harriet with a knife in hand. Without mercy or delicacy, he ripped her bodice open, to further reveal the bloody mess.

  Louisa let out a cry and flew to the bedside. She’d known it was bad, but without proper lighting in the temple she hadn’t gauged the full extent of Harriet’s wounds. She’d cleaned them as best she could, but during the drive to the village they’d started bleeding again.

  A series of deep cuts over Harriet’s décolletage and the rise of her breasts had slashed her shift to tatters, but her stays seemed to have protected her from even worse mutilation.

  Faulkner’s jaw set, grim as granite. “Someone has had a grand old time. Radleigh, most likely.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Rape?”

  Softly, Louisa answered, “As far as I could tell, she hasn’t been interfered with in that way.” Ah, pray God she was right.

  She took up the flannel and the bowl of water and gently sponged the blood away. Harriet’s eyes were closed, her face showing a deathly pallor, at least on one side. On the other, her eyelid was purple and so puffy, Louisa doubted Harriet would be able to open her eye when she woke.

  “She has been missing for two days,” said Louisa. “Was she with him all that time?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t think so, or she’d be in a worse case than this. But you never know; she was a tough little bird.”

  He strode to the window and stood looking out. “One more score to settle,” he mused. “Does it ever end, do you think?”

  Louisa didn’t venture an answer, and it appeared none was expected of her. She hadn’t considered the question from this perspective before. It must be a heavy burden to bear, this continual fight against villainy on every front. Radleigh was ready to betray his own country for money and prestige. He had taken pleasure in inflicting indescribable pain on Harriet Burton.

  How had she escaped? Had Saunders saved her? She hadn’t thought to ask.

  Saunders. Where was he? Perhaps he’d returned quietly to the house, now that he’d done his duty. He wouldn’t want to be seen to interfere with his master’s affairs, gruesome as they were. She wondered why he’d remain in Radleigh’s employ after this. Was it so difficult to find other work?

  “I think you’re right, Mr. Faulkner. I think Radleigh did this,” she said quietly. “His secretary, Mr. Saunders, found her. He came to me in great distress and bade me help, for she wouldn’t let him touch her. I fear that her mind has been damaged.”

  Faulkner turned and she looked him in the eye. “Radleigh is dangerous. You knew it, yet you asked me to become close to him.”

  Slowly, he nodded. “Yes. I knew it. But you, Lady Louisa, were never in danger. A man like that will treat his aristocratic wife like a precious ornament while she is of use to him. Simultaneously, he will use whores and street-walkers with unparalleled viciousness. Men like that slot different aspects of their lives into compartments, you see. When he is with his wife, his innocent children, he is not the same man as he is when he kidnaps and brutalizes other women.”

  She shuddered at the cold, authoritative analysis. “Strangely, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

  Louisa decided then and there. Jardine had the matter of the agent list well in hand, or so he said. She would take the wiser course and withdraw from the game.

  She took up some gauze and dipped it in hot water. “I want to look after Harriet. Will you give up this room to us and move to another? When she is well enough, I will take her home with me.”

  Silence reigned while she worked and while Faulkner presumably calculated how this change in circumstances affected his plans.

  “How will you get hold of that document now?” asked Louisa, when she’d done all she could to ease Harriet’s pain. “The list of operatives?”

  Faulkner turned his head. “One always has a fallback plan.”

  He wouldn’t tell her what that was, of course, but she knew. Jardine was the only alternative. Why hadn’t Faulkner commissioned Jardine with this job in the first place? Hadn’t he been confident Jardine could secure an invitation to the house party?

  “I must go out,” said Faulkner abruptly, reaching for his hat and walking stick. “Do what you can here and I’ll get another room for myself. I’ll arrange transport to take you and Mrs. Burton to safety when you judge her well enough to travel.”

  At the door, he hesitated. “It had better be today. Regardless of her injuries, she’ll be safer away from this place.”

  “In the meantime, I would like you to give me a pistol, if you please.” She was stupid to have left the house without her own, but events had moved too quickly.

  Faulkner raised his brows in surprise. He didn’t know everything about her, then.

  She lifted her chin. “You don’t think I mean to remain here unprotected?”

  Faulkner snorted. “You wouldn’t have the gall to shoot a man. Ladies, I find, aren’t fond of loud noises.”

  Her jaw set. “Don’t be too sure of that. Rather a loud noise than . . .” Her gaze slid to Harriet, and she shut her eyes at the imagined pain of that torture.

  Faulkner tilted his head, considering her with a sharp, speculative gaze. “You surprise me, Lady Louisa. You are not such a delicate flower as I’d supposed. But there will be no shooting here. The last thing we need is to draw more attention to ourselves.” He put on his hat. “I won’t be gone long.”

  Louisa locked the door behind Faulkner and dragged one of his trunks against it for good measure. It wouldn’t hold a determined intruder at bay, but at least a break-in would create noise and attract the other guests’ attention.

  A low murmur from the bed brought her to Harriet’s side.

  The girl cracked open an eye and cried out. The pain must have been intense, indescribable.

  Louisa quickly picked up the small glass of laudanum the landlady had brought. She slid an arm beneath Harriet’s shoulders—thank heaven Radleigh hadn’t touched her back—and held the glass rim against Harriet’s cracked, swollen lips.

  “Drink, my dear,” she murmured. “It will take away some of the pain.”

  The liquid went down in tiny doses, in fits and starts, some of it running in rivulets from the sides of Harriet’s mouth.

  Carefully, Louisa wiped the spillage and stroked the hair from Harriet’s brow. Harriet’s hair had been gold and lustrous. Now, it was matted with dirt and blood, and . . . had some of it been cut off? A short, choppy lock at her temple was a noticeably different length from the others.

  The horror of it dawned on Louisa, making her stomach churn. All those locks of hair she’d found. Not lovers, as she’d assumed, as Saunders had also believed.

  Victims.

  Shock clutched her throat. Radleigh. It must have been him. Only now did she fully believe him capable of such brutality.

  Louisa shuddered. She had become engaged to a man who collected locks of hair from victims of his torture, and perhaps worse? She
had let him touch her hand, had considered allowing him further liberties for the good of King and country.

  She felt soiled, revolted that she’d come so close to pure evil. But she’d done it in the name of getting a vital document. That list of agents in the wrong hands could spell disaster, death, and torture for goodness knew how many operatives and the ruin of countless operations. Harriet had been prepared to die to retrieve it, that much was clear.

  Did she, Louisa, have the right to shirk that burden now?

  Harriet sighed, and her breathing became less frantic. The laudanum must have taken effect. Grimly, Louisa set to work again, smoothing salve on Harriet’s injuries, mourning the once-flawless skin that would now be scarred forever.

  Despite the warmth in the room, Harriet shivered, so Louisa covered her with blanket and sheet, careful to keep the weight of them off her wounds.

  Soon, long, even breathing told her Harriet slept. Louisa exhaled a relieved sigh. There was little more she could do until the doctor arrived in the morning, but she’d have to remain vigilant against infection and fever.

  For the moment, Louisa needed rest. She edged her chair closer to the bed, laid her head on her crossed arms, closed her eyes . . .

  An insistent tap on the door startled her awake. She shot to her feet, wondering how long she’d slept. Wildly, she glanced around the room for a weapon and settled for one of the candlesticks on the mantel.

  The brass was hard and cold in her grip. She raised it, ready for whoever it was to break open the door.

  “Lady Louisa? It’s me, Saunders.”

  Louisa’s shoulders sagged with relief. She put down the candlestick moved toward the door.

  “LADY Louisa?” Faulkner shook his head. “What makes you think she came here?”

  Jardine ground his teeth in frustration. He’d lost her. How could he have lost her like that?

  He’d followed Radleigh to a village in the next county, watched him knock on the door of a private house and be admitted. A private house that stood next to the church. A rectory? What could Radleigh want with a vicar?

  He swore under his breath as Radleigh emerged with an older man. After exchanging a few heated words, they left together in Radleigh’s curricle.