Sweetest Little Sin

by Christine Wells

  “Such as killing your friend, you mean.”

  Julia shushed her. They were sitting off alone in the crowded common room of the posting house, but still it couldn’t hurt to be cautious. There was no telling who might be listening in. Fitzgelder had men out and about, and they could be anywhere right now. The room was quite full of strangers, not all of them respectable-looking.

  “Anthony won’t be killed if I can help it,” Julia muttered under her breath.

  Sophie gave a dreamy sigh. “He must be very special to you.”

  Lord, she’d quickly disabuse the girl of that deranged notion. “The man is a selfish lout who doesn’t have an honest breath in his body,” she announced. “He very nearly deserves to be murdered.”

  Sophie wasn’t swayed. “Then why have we spent the last three days traveling all the way out here to warn him?”

  “I said nearly,” Julia had to admit. “No one deserves what Fitzgelder has planned for him; murdered on the highway by cutthroats and left there to rot.”

  Sophie shuddered, momentarily forgetting her soup. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just find the local magistrate and tell him? I’m not too keen on all this cutthroat business.”

  “I told you to wait back in London, didn’t I?”

  Now the girl was offended. “What? And leave you to come out here alone? I couldn’t do that, Miss Clement! You saved my life.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t save you from Fitzgelder just so his hired thugs could do you in on the road,” Julia said and stared longingly at the two shriveled potatoes in her bowl. “It’s getting dark. I think we should let the mail coach go on without us and spend the night here.”

  “Here? But surely we’re getting close to—what’s that place where your gentleman friend is staying?”

  “Hartwood; it’s likely some musty old estate. The lord of the manor had Rastmoor stand up at his wedding, and no doubt they’re all still reveling. Since we’ve not yet passed through Warwick, and as difficult as the roads have been, it’s bound to be another full day’s travel for us.”

  Sophie sighed. “Well, I suppose we ought to stay here, then. I just hope, for the sake of that selfish lout you want to rescue, we get there in time.”

  “So do I, Sophie,” Julia agreed, making another brave go at the soup. “So do I.”

  Almost as irritating as this blasted mustache was the worry that Fitzgelder’s men had already reached the destination and accomplished their goal. True, she and Anthony, Viscount Rastmoor, had not parted on the best of terms, but she’d give anything right now to see that he was alive and well. If he could just walk through that door safe and sound, she’d . . . well, she’d be very relieved.

  Then she’d knock him on his arse and ask what in the hell he’d been thinking three years ago when he’d wagered—and lost—her at the gaming table. Good God, as if she was chattel he could own and barter at will! Well, he’d owned her, all right—owned her heart and soul—right up until that night when Fitzgelder marched up to Papa, waving Anthony’s vowels and claiming that he was her fiancé now. As if such a thing could be legally binding.

  But it was the fact that Anthony had done such a thing, even as an angry jest, that had broken Julia’s heart. She knew what it meant. Anthony had found out the truth about her identity and wanted no part of such a wife. He’d cast her off like the rubbish he believed her to be and Julia had never seen him again.

  Indeed, Anthony Rastmoor simply had to remain alive. If Fitzgelder’s men got to him first, how would Julia ever get her revenge?

  “IT’S broken,” Anthony, Lord Rastmoor, said as he inspected the underside of their carriage.

  “Damn,” his companion, the Earl of Lindley, fumed. “I just bought this phaeton three weeks ago. Quite a piece, don’t you think?”

  “I think you got taken.” Rastmoor dusted the dirt off his hands and trousers. “Most of the higher-quality conveyances have axles that actually attach to the wheels.”

  “It certainly was doing that when I bought the blasted thing,” Lindley said, fairly diving onto his hands and knees to crawl under the carriage. “Are you saying there’s been shoddy workmanship here?”

  Rastmoor was perfectly content to let his elegant friend get muddy. It was, after all, Lindley’s carriage. He should have been the one down there investigating in the first place, although what Lindley would have investigated, Rastmoor couldn’t say. The stylish earl likely wouldn’t have known the difference between a broken axle and a hay rake. Still, Rastmoor was happy enough not to be the only one with dirt on his knees.

  Lindley swore, and Rastmoor had to chuckle. While most men might let out a string of colorful words over the condition of the axle, Lindley was more likely upset over what he’d just done to his clothes. He probably wouldn’t even notice it was some very shoddy workmanship, indeed, that put them in this predicament.

  In fact, it hardly looked like workmanship at all. No, if Rastmoor didn’t know better, he might even wonder if the damage to Lindley’s carriage was intentional. But that was ridiculous. Who would tamper with Lindley’s carriage? Unless, of course . . .

  But that was ridiculous, too. Surely dear cousin Fitzgelder would not stoop to something like this, would he? No, this had to be merely an accident.

  Damn, but it was rather coincidental, wasn’t it? Mother sent a message warning he’d best get himself to London for some unnamed trouble Fitzgelder was stirring up, and now something so unusual as this threatened to delay him. Could it be mere coincidence? He wanted to believe so, but somehow he just couldn’t.

  What was Fitzgelder about, this time? The terms of Grandfather’s will had been well settled these two years. Surely his cousin couldn’t think to dredge all that up again, could he? Then again, Rastmoor had learned the hard way not to put anything past Cedrick Fitzgelder.

  “What rotten luck,” Lindley said finally, uttering a few more oaths and crawling out from under his carriage. “I don’t suppose you have a spare axle or whatever you said that was?”

  “No, I don’t,” Rastmoor said. “But if you have some straps or the like, we might be able to bind the thing well enough to get it back to that posting house we just passed. We won’t be riding, though.”

  Lindley bit his lip and glanced around at the dusky trees lining the road on either side of them. “That’s slow going, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose, but with that axle broken, we’re done for the night, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, it appears that way, but I’m not sure my horses are up for pulling dead weight. Even if we bind it, that axle won’t turn very well, will it?”

  So Lindley did have some basic understanding of the mechanics of the thing. Well, he couldn’t very well blame the man for not wanting to overtax his cattle. The only thing finer than Lindley’s wardrobe was his stables, and these two goers were as good as they got. It would be a shame for such proud horseflesh to be dragging a lame carriage all the way to that posting house.

  “All right, help me loose them, then. We’ll walk the horses and send someone back to get your precious phaeton.”

  Lindley agreed, then noticed his muddied condition. “Bother. My valet will have my hide over these trousers.”

  Oh, not the valet, again. Rastmoor rolled his eyes. “I don’t see how you abide the man. From what you say, he sounds like a ruddy tyrant.”

  Lindley smiled. “That he is, but I assure you I’d never make it without him. Which reminds me.”

  He left Rastmoor with the horses and went around to the back of the carriage. He dug through a box stowed there.

  “Ahem, but we unharness the horses up at this end,” Rastmoor called.

  “Yes, but the weapons are back here.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Here, take this,” Lindley called out, tossing Rastmoor a lethal little pistol.

  “What’s this?” Rastmoor asked.

  “It’s a pistol,” Lindley informed him.

  “I know it’s a pistol. What in God’s nam
e is it for?”

  “For shooting anyone who might come out of those trees after us.” Lindley glanced at said trees and shuddered. “You never know what sort of persons are about these days, and it’s very nearly dark out.”

  “Good grief. Is it loaded?”

  “Of course. What bloody use would it be empty?”

  Rastmoor shook his head, but he accepted the pistol and slipped it into his pocket. He was a bit taken aback when Lindley casually tucked his own pistol into the front of his trousers. This image of the always elegant Lindley with a pistol wedged at his waist was more than a bit humorous.

  “What is it?” Lindley asked.

  “Aren’t you worried that will ruin the lines of your tailoring?” Rastmoor asked, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Whatever will your valet think?”

  “Should a highwayman leap out after us, I would prefer to have my weapon where I can get at it,” Lindley said, stepping up to help with the horses. “A few wrinkles can always be ironed out. Blood, my valet tells me, is a bit more dicey.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Rastmoor had to agree.

  No highwaymen did leap out, though, and they pushed and pulled until the phaeton was safely out of the roadway. Leading Lindley’s fine horses, the men headed off to the posting house. The evening was dreary and still, yet not nearly so dreary as the day two months ago when Rastmoor had traveled this same road.

  He’d been traveling with his friend Dashford, on the way to what was supposed to have been a quiet house party. Some house party, though. There were floods and fiancées and fiascos until the bloody thing ended with Dashford’s wedding. Rastmoor still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  The whole concept of matrimony hadn’t exactly worked out very well for him and, to be honest, he was still not convinced any man ought to put much stock in the institution. From what Rastmoor had seen so far, women were an untrustworthy lot. He hoped Dash wouldn’t have to learn that the hard way.

  Rastmoor sighed as they plodded along. Damn, but with Dashford trussed up and married now, Rastmoor would likely have to settle for Lindley’s persnickety company more often. Oh well. For a game here or there at the club or a visit to the races, no one could fault Lindley’s sportsmanship or his overall entertainment value. But if Rastmoor had to have one more discussion about where to find the best gloves or which bloody knot would look best in his cravat . . . Honestly, what could Dashford have been thinking to go and get leg shackled?

  “You know what I’m thinking?” Lindley said after they’d walked in silence quite a while, the horses plodding nervously along behind them.

  He hated to imagine. “No. What?”

  “There’ll likely be women at this posting house.”

  “Probably so.”

  “That suits me just fine. With luck, there’ll be a couple for both of us. Which do you prefer, the blonds or the brunettes?”

  “The ones who do their job and disappear before daylight.”

  “I reckon that’ll be all of them,” Lindley declared with a hopeful laugh. “I think I’d favor a blond tonight. Unless of course there’s only one available, and blond is your preference, then naturally I would—”

  “No, thank you. Have any woman you want. I think I’ll just sleep tonight.”

  “What? But you’ve been stuck up there at Hartwood for nearly two months, and I saw the sort of guests they had—not exactly fresh and accommodating, as they say. Surely now that you’re getting out and about again, you’d want to prime the old pump handle, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean, damn it,” Rastmoor grumbled.

  “But I’m not interested, all right? Good luck to you and your pump handle, but I’d rather sleep. Alone.”

  Lindley frowned as if that was a foreign concept. “Alone? But you’re not ill, are you?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine. You sound—blue deviled. My God, but you can’t possibly still be pining after that girl? That little French actress of yours—St. Clem, or something, wasn’t it?”

  “St. Clement,” Rastmoor corrected before he caught himself. The last thing in the world he wanted was to discuss Julia right now. “And I’m not pining. I’m just not interested in some dirty whore at a posting house, all right?”

  Lindley gave a slow whistle. “You are still pining! Dash it all, Rastmoor, that was years ago. And didn’t she end up marrying your cousin, or something?”

  “Yes.” By God, what would it take to not have this conversation?

  “That’s right, and then she died in childbed, didn’t she?” Lindley went on.

  Rastmoor gritted his teeth. “That’s what I heard.”

  Oh, he’d heard the story, all right. Then he’d gone and gotten roaring drunk. Dashford’s father had taken ill and died some short time thereafter, and the two of them were roaring drunk together. Things hadn’t gone so well for them after that, as he recalled.

  Eventually, Dashford pulled himself together, and Rastmoor had simply learned to pretend. He supposed, in a way, it had been easier for Dash. He’d been mourning a devoted father, a man who left behind fond memories and warm emotions. Rastmoor, however, had been grieving something altogether different.

  When Julia St. Clement died, all she left behind were bitter wounds and heartbreak. It was hard enough knowing she’d left him for another man, but with time he might have recovered. It cut deeper than that, though. Julia left him a scar that would never go away. The whore may have died in Fitzgelder’s bed, but the child she’d taken to the grave with her had been Rastmoor’s. She’d carried his child and still left him for another, passing the child off as Fitzgelder’s.

  How did a man ever recover from that?

  “I can’t wait to see this Lord Rastmoor’s face when he meets you again,” Sophie was saying as they finished their supper.

  Julia cringed. “Hopefully that will never happen. With luck, we’ll find he’s safely at Lord Dashford’s home, and I can simply send a warning message. He’ll find out what Fitzgelder is about, and you and I can be off to meet Papa.”

  “You don’t want to see him again?”

  “Heavens no!”

  “We’ve come all this way, and you’re not even going to see the man?”

  “Exactly.”

  Sophie was downcast. “That’s so sad. I was hoping the two of you might . . .”

  “Sorry, Sophie. That only happens in novels.”

  It was a shame to disappoint the poor girl, but better she get such foolishness out of her mind now before she started expecting grand romance for her own life. Indeed, women like them should harbor no such hopes—Julia had learned that the hard way. Perhaps the truth would come easier for Sophie.

  “We’ll be done with this before you know it,” Julia went on, hoping her light tone and warm smile would both encourage and distract her young friend. “Then we’ll find Papa, and you’ll become a part of our troupe. You’re quite a hand at sewing, but perhaps we can coax you into acting, as well.”

  “Acting? Oh, I’m sure I could never be so very good at that. All those lines I’d have to memorize!”

  “You’ve been playacting the part of a blushing bride for three days now, and so far, the audience seems quite enthralled,” Julia said, sweeping her arm wide to indicate the patrons of the posting house, a few of whom had traveled this last leg of the journey on the mail coach with them.

  Sophie looked around the dim room and frowned. “I believe our audience would be no less enthralled were I simply a chicken tucked under your arm. They’ve hardly taken note of us at all.”

  “There, you see? You’ve played your part to perfection. Who’s to say you might not make a memorable Juliet or Ophelia or—”

  “Lord Lindley!” Sophie said suddenly.

  “Lord Lindley? I don’t believe we have any scripts with Lor—”

  And then Julia glanced up to realize what Sophie meant. The doorway was filled with the elegant form of a man they had briefl
y met in London just as they were making their hasty escape. Lord Lindley—a good friend and confidante of the evil Fitzgelder.

  Sophie’s eyes were huge and terrified, and Julia wanted to slide under the table. Good heavens, if Lindley recognized them, he’d notify Fitzgelder of their whereabouts! They had to hide, to get out of here this very instant.

  But there was nowhere they could go, nowhere in the room to hide. They were trapped. Julia’s pulse pounded, and she struggled to think up some scheme to protect them. What could she do? Where could they . . . ?

  Suddenly all coherent thought ceased.

  A familiar broad-shouldered form appeared behind Lindley. Julia’s lungs contracted, the air squeezed out of them in a whimper. Around her, the world disappeared, and she was aware of only one thing: Anthony Rastmoor was still alive.

  Thank God she wasn’t too late! Fitzgelder’s men hadn’t succeeded in their plan. Anthony still lived and breathed and wore that smile of half amusement, half boredom she’d come to know so well three years ago. Three long, painful years ago.

  He was alive, and he was beautiful. And he was cold. When his gaze fell on her, she recoiled, both inwardly and out. The chill that emanated in his hazel eyes was as unfamiliar as the image that had been greeting her in the mirror since she and Sophie had taken up this masquerade. Indeed, the Anthony Rastmoor who followed Lindley into the poorly lit common room was a man much changed from the man who had taken Julia’s virtue—as well as her heart.

  His gaze didn’t last long on her, though. Quickly it moved on, as if she were of little importance to anyone. This surprised her more than even the fact that she was seeing him again. How could she be struggling for air, feeling as if the universe itself would collapse around her, and yet his gaze simply swept over her as if she’d been nothing more than furniture? It was unthinkably hurtful.

  Then his gaze did linger, but not on her. She had to physically turn her head to see what he was seeing. The air swept back into her lungs and burned like fire.

  He was gazing at Sophie.

  Her brain began functioning again. Mostly her thoughts were torn, though. Should she gouge out the man’s eyes or grab up a dull knife and castrate him here? God, but how he was staring at Sophie! The nerve of him!