The Den of Iniquity

by Anabelle Bryant

  Still it was his father’s responsibility and duty to care about the child he’d sired. Instead the man had taken a wife, a cold insecure woman who’d instigated the brutal attack on his mother. It may not have been the intention, but that mattered little. Pimms was the mastermind who decided raping a woman was more entertaining than scaring her into compliance. Pimms. The time had come for him to pay the price.

  In silence, he sidled along the wall beneath the awning, all but indecipherable in the uneasy shadows of approaching eventide. One candle burned through the window of the downstairs flat at the address Wilson supplied. Max would take great pleasure in beating Pimms to death. He flashed a glance to the turbulent waters not far from where he stood. There lay another becoming option. Let Pimms reunite with Ludlow in the cold dank waters of the Thames, a fitting grave.

  A fleeting remembrance of his walk with Vivienne along the piers weeks before threatened to distract him but he buried it before it could materialize. He had no weapon and depended solely on his anger and strength to carry out the plan. He would think of other things later.

  He eased the door to the lodging house open and entered the dingy hall. A rat skittered across his boot tips, the foul smell of rancid food or some other vagrancy assailed his senses, yet another reminder he was above this place, above this act. But he had no choice. He wouldn’t rest until he finished.

  Undeterred he continued to the furthest door and listened. His heart beat hard for the symbolism of what this act represented, his mother’s suffering, shame and humiliation, the violation of her body and the fear she’d experienced during that senseless fatal attack. What did one have left when stripped of all dignity?

  And why? Because she’d insisted her son be respected and educated by the man who fathered him? He posed no threat to his father’s legitimate family. An heir had been born. Why have his mother pay the price for wanting to better her son’s life? Why brutalize her? His lovely mother, beaten and raped, left to die.

  Resentment for his father and hatred for his new wife reignited with his fury. Too many thoughts clouded his mind and blurred his focus. He drew a deep breath and forced his exhalation through clenched teeth before grasping the door handle and twisting the knob. His free hand formed a fist.

  But the scene he discovered within led to further disappointment. Though a candle burned at the bedside, the flat stood empty. Scraps of food littered the table as well as an empty glass. Perhaps Pimms had stepped out and would return shortly. Why the fool left his door unlocked was an unanswered question, but then he likely carried a weapon and didn’t fear the few low miscreants who made the mistake of entering his room.

  A wave of depleted relief? Disappointment? Some unnamed emotion swept through him all the way to his soul. He’d left Vivienne, insulted her honour and angered her for this? For nothing. No retribution or end to his eternal vengeance. And why? Why had he reacted so quickly, scared to face the bond he’d created not through their intimacy, though the sex had proved incredible, but through their connection? Somehow she caused him to see the world as a hopeful place, rather than the obscured vision of the future he carried like a mantle across his shoulders. An oppressive sadness welled inside at the acknowledgement he’d fled, refusing to feel too deeply and invite the inevitable pain that followed.

  The realization sparked his anger, only this time the emotion was aimed at himself. How would he make amends? He couldn’t. She likely would never look at him again.

  He shoved the table across the room in an act of frustration, upsetting the dinnerware left unattended, and turned on his heel to exit the lodging house. He’d allowed himself to become consumed by his thirst for revenge and in the course of demanding retribution had lost his own life. His mother would never have wished for him to follow this path.

  He exited the building and with cautious stealth walked to the opposite side of the street, blending into the passel of men working near the docks, just another aimless soul. But after thirty minutes of walking he’d found no respite from his troubled disposition. With his head low and attention distracted, he emerged from a narrow alley onto a more frequented thoroughfare, the sudden sunlight causing him to slant his head and squint, only to collide with a gentleman who hadn’t watched his forward path. The clumsy pedestrian voiced a disgruntled complaint at their collision and waved a loaf of bread in an overblown display of outrage at the same time an elaborate carriage rolled to the kerb.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Across the way he’d caught the inadvertent attention of the Duke of Kent, who’d chosen that moment to exit the carriage bordering the alley. They locked eyes. Years had passed yet immediate recognition was there.

  ‘Sinclair.’

  Spoken as a statement not a question. Regrettably, he became obligated. What cursed luck.

  ‘Your Grace.’ He gave a slight nod in deference to a bow.

  ‘The formality is not necessary considering our past.’ Hugh Amberson, Duke of Kent and childhood comrade, grinned in return.

  ‘As you wish, though it matters little.’ Their history was best left alone, as transient as the pedestrians who rushed by, or so he told himself.

  ‘The tone of your voice suggests something else.’ Hugh always proved intuitive.

  ‘It is of no consequence.’ How to disentangle himself from the conversation proved a challenge.

  Kent approached and Sin had little choice but to fall in stride beside him on the cobbles. No one spoke for several long minutes. Sin had offered to appeal to the duke for aid in Luke’s search for his son, but the suggestion was made with the knowledge Luke would never wish to involve uppers who likely kept alliance with his brother. Walking along the London street, Sin was trapped well and good. Best he extricate himself and continue home as soon as possible.

  ‘Too much time has passed.’ A footman trailed behind Kent while before them the walkway cleared as though by the duke’s mere existence the population took heed.

  ‘You’ve a right to your opinion.’ Sin stared straight ahead, aware he’d become engaged in Kent’s convivial camaraderie if he didn’t take care and he wanted nothing more right now than to be left alone.

  ‘Come now, you don’t mean that by half.’ Kent dared a low chuckle.

  ‘The line that divides us is sharp as a dagger’s blade.’ He hadn’t intended for his tone to reflect the comment and a long pause ensued.

  After a time, the duke’s steps slowed. ‘I’ve never considered you less than a friend.’

  Damn Kent and his sincerity, during their education and now, when Sin hardly needed a reminder of the derisive clarity of their social standing. ‘Then I bid you good day, friend.’ Sin stepped to the kerb and with a sharp whistle summoned a nearby hackney, thankful when a driver responded right quick.

  ‘Wait.’

  Something in Kent’s voice forced him to stop. Perhaps it was the note of desperation, not unlike all those years ago at Eton when the young boy had his clock cleaned as habit, the bullies unrelenting until Sin decided the beatings needed to end.

  ‘I’ve had it in mind to contact you.’

  This comment earned a sceptical glance over the shoulder.

  ‘Ride with me in my carriage. I have a matter to discuss, one important and personal of nature.’ It was a command more than an invitation.

  Sin waited an extra beat, battling the immediate urge to refuse. Yet he couldn’t. ‘A few minutes, at most.’ He eyed the conveyance that seemed to materialize as if by incantation, the ducal crest gold gilt upon the door. No clearer distinction of their calibre and division could be exemplified than through that royal stamp of legitimacy and tradition.

  They settled in the elite carriage on opposite benches, the interior opulent and fit to the station of a duchy, although Sin mentally noted how similar their tastes were: elegance without the ostentatious display of wealth, fine brass, plush velvet and thick leather cushions. The coach jerked forward and out into the flow of traffic, forcing his attent
ion to his friend.

  ‘My sister troubles me.’ Kent paused as if collecting his words with care. ‘I give her more than enough and grant every wish, yet I suspect she’s involved in something beyond my knowledge, an association of which no good can arise.’

  ‘You give her everything?’ Sin’s brows rose to underscore his doubt.

  ‘Everything she needs. Fine clothes, proper company and all the advantages afforded our station.’

  No judgement coloured the words, though Sin flicked his gaze to the window, aware how differently they viewed the world. ‘All a caged bird knows is the desire for freedom.’

  Kent slanted his attention upward as if he’d never considered the idea or, worse, thought Sin insolent or crass.

  ‘Of which sister do we speak, Rosalind or Gemma?’ Sin reclined against the bolster. It would appear he was well and truly trapped for the time being.

  Kent’s voice went gruff on the single word. ‘Rosalind hasn’t spoken since Father’s death.’

  ‘Females don’t often share personal feelings with a brother who carries the weight of a title and may cast judgement—however unintentional. Be assured she’s confided in her sister or friends about the pain of your father’s unexpected passing.’ He hoped his honest opinion expressed sympathy. In truth, they shared a fair amount of troubles. Perhaps the line blurred when it divided personal matters.

  ‘No. You misunderstand. Rosalind stopped talking altogether.’ Kent released a solemn breath. ‘She hasn’t spoken a word since Father’s death two years ago.’

  ‘I see. Perhaps time and silence will resolve her distress.’ He was the last one to offer advice proven useless in his own application. Time only fuelled his desire for revenge. ‘But she is not the sister who troubles you.’

  ‘No, though I lose sleep over Rosalind’s condition.’ This time he turned his eyes towards the window. ‘Today I speak of Gemma.’

  ‘Little Gemma. I remember your complaints of her spiritedness.’ A faint spark of amusement flickered in his memory. Stories from their shared years at Eton. At the time it had all seemed irrelevant, yet Kent had always adored his sisters, Gemma especially.

  The carriage rolled swiftly through the streets and within the silence that ensued, Sin had the misplaced concern of being snared in a trap. Foolish. He couldn’t be a freer man. Kent had the unrelenting weight of the duchy on his shoulders every hour, every minute. He didn’t envy the burden. Focusing on Kent’s intense expression, he waited.

  ‘I suspect she’s fallen under the misguided influence of a charming scoundrel, the worst sort of seducer, and I fear she may commit a terrible mistake. One that will not only stain her reputation but also lead her to regrets that cannot be undone. I must find the rogue who dares mislead my sister.’ Vehemence resounded in the words.

  ‘And you automatically surmised that I, as proprietor of the Underworld and with the company I keep, would know the alleged scoundrel?’ Sin affected a dubious tone and wondered idly if the regrets that cannot be undone were more specifically being with child and producing a bastard, such as he.

  ‘Well, yes. I mean no disparagement.’ Kent managed an abbreviated chuckle. ‘You straddle the fence with skill, one foot planted in the finer realm and the other on the wholesome ground of truer London.’

  He didn’t respond and Kent continued.

  ‘And let it be known this fearless womanizer who has enticed Gemma has already altered her attitude towards me, as well as her likeable disposition. She has become too daring and, at times, disrespectful of my wishes. She challenges me on most every decision. It is unlike Gemma and I shan’t allow it to go on.’ Kent’s expression eased; perhaps the retelling had relieved some of his concern.

  ‘What do you know of him?’

  ‘Very little, although I assume him to be an affluent and polished deceiver for Gemma could never abide a lower type.’

  He scoffed at Kent’s remark though he did not interrupt.

  ‘I hesitate putting her under watch any more than I have already, but she’s a wily one, far too clever to be taken at her word. More than once she’s managed to disappear when I’ve set a footman to surveillance.’ Kent eyed him with a direct stare meant to communicate the gravity of the situation.

  The carriage rocked to a stop and Sin flipped the curtain aside. They’d waited outside the Underworld. He wasn’t surprised. Similar to the way the duke described Gemma, Kent was too clever for his own good. ‘Perhaps you will return the favour, for I have a friend whose son has been taken. He believes his stepbrother is responsible, the viscount Dursley.’

  ‘I do not know him, though I will listen, ask a few questions and keep a close watch. This city is filled with countless jackals.’

  The unspoken response to that statement—that he was one of them—hung in the silence and neither man said more.

  Vivienne steamed in a fragrant bath of chamomile and lavender in the guestroom at Daventry House, thankful for her friend’s company. The last of the retelling had already been aired as she soaked away tears and regrets. She was left with an aching emptiness where only a short time before she’d cherished the opposite.

  She’d always wanted a loving family, yearned for a content marriage with a respectful husband and child. She never believed she overreached nor minded her upbringing. Her mother was a generous woman who provided a lovely nurturing home without fail.

  Somehow Vivienne had lost her way, falling in love with the worst sort of man. Oh, his rugged good looks paired with the wicked gleam in his eyes were hardly a match for her feminine sensibilities…but his kisses, his touch, they destroyed her. With that she’d begun to believe there was more to him than the bald facts he’d stated without aplomb. She’d created a version of him he’d proved untrue and she, left in disconsolate despair, needed to scrub that image from her brain as quickly as possible. What existed between them could not be explained. Attempting to decipher the complex and dangerous man had left her hopeless.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Vivienne. All this talk of gaming hells and reformation has led you to misery.’ Sophie placed another towel on the footstool and turned to retrieve a fresh gown from the wardrobe.

  How convenient Sophie and she were nearly the same size; otherwise Vivienne would be forced to return to Nettlecombe wearing the reminder of her mistake.

  Mistake.

  The ugly word stuck in her throat, crowded with regret and dissidence.

  At least her stepfather would not be there to criticize and judge, although the staff would talk. She eyed the rose-coloured day gown with embroidered tambour detail at the sleeves and neckline. It was too fine a dress for her to borrow. One glance at Sophie’s resolute face showed that her friend anticipated Vivienne’s anxious objection, nullifying the words with a firm shake of the head.

  ‘Yes, you will wear this gown and feel as beautiful as you are, inside and out.’

  Vivienne mentally disagreed. Her body was tired and sore, a result she might have rejoiced in were circumstances different and she could believe Max cared for her as she did for him. Instead her muscle aches served to remind her of how carelessly she’d behaved with her virtue and how irresponsibly she’d handled her first intimate encounter.

  She dressed in quietude as Sophie went to the front hall and arranged for the carriage. Despite Sophie’s insistence she spend the night, Vivienne wished to be home. She missed her mother’s portrait, as inane as that thought was, and longed for her bed, the surroundings the only familiarity she possessed at the moment.

  The two ladies climbed into the Daventry coach on a path to Nettlecombe with discussion sparse. Vivienne loved her friend more dearly for showing no sign of pity or disapproval. Thankfully, Crispin had kept his word and not interfered, though she wondered at his simple compliance. If he truly worried on her behalf, what did he plan and how would it impact her life?

  Crispin wasn’t in the habit of visiting London’s seedier entertainments. He’d never set a foot
in Seven Dials and only ventured to this sketchy part of the city because his mission held such importance. As a man, he enjoyed the finer more polished distractions found at his father’s club or in the ballroom of a societal function, but one look into Vivienne’s desolate green eyes and he knew no other path. He needed to act.

  The circumstance of his decision landed him on Bond Street, in the side alley at the narrow wooden door leading to the Underworld. One could feel the pulsing energy from the inside out, as if the ground breathed, inviting one in, the allure too powerful for the weak to resist. He was cut from finer cloth.

  What he did once inside remained undecided. Perhaps he’d try his hand at a game or two before confronting Maxwell Sinclair, the man no doubt responsible for Vivienne’s disarray, to what extent he almost did not wish to know. Almost. He would repair the damage and evoke Vivienne’s smile once again and, if possible, use this experience as an example why he’d warned her away from the disreputable proprietor since the first controversial word was uttered within the drawing room.

  He waited no longer and slipped inside, down the long narrow stairs to the gaming hell, as if buried in the pit of the earth. It was all an illusion. Not unlike the murals and mirrors on the walls, the painted faces of the available women, the concept that one entered another world and could actually leave with winnings instead of empty pockets.

  Once inside, the room near overflowed and he recognized more than a few faces, but disinterested in conversation he stepped towards the centre where a group of men, vocal by way of having imbibed, encouraged each other to continue their foolish wagers. He stood aside and watched the dealer distribute the cards. With one long swoop the man collected the chips, then doled out the winnings, and the cycle repeated.

  ‘Daventry, are you going to stand about like a statue or get in on the game?’ Surprised to be recognized so readily, he turned to see a gentleman he knew from university a good ten years prior, though his appearance had changed over time. His hair hung well past his collar and a thin white scar lanced one cheek from his eye socket to chin. Had Crispin not known him already, he might have stepped back, wary of the unpleasant stranger.