A Woman Made For Sin

by Michele Sinclair

  Clive pointed to the empty chair Devlin normally sat in. “He was here, but he’s already left.”

  The man held out a hand-sized portrait, but carefully kept his thumb over the name at the bottom. “Have you seen this lady?”

  The question was more of a challenge than an inquiry. Again, Clive felt strong emotion from the man and gazed at the picture as if he were seeing the person for the first time. In a way, he was. The woman in the portrait was definitely Ellie, but she was dressed in finery and jewels and appeared more like a heavenly angel than a woman. No wonder Ellie thought her fancy working gown was plain and unexceptional.

  Shifting his gaze back to the tall man’s golden stare, Clive said without any waver in his voice, “I’ve never seen a lass who looks like that in my life. Why would ye think a fancy woman like that would be here?”

  Clive saw the man’s jaw tighten upon hearing his response. “Knowing her,” the man answered through gritted teeth, “she believes she has good reasons, but I promise you they are not.”

  Arguing, Clive knew, would only give away the fact that he knew Ellie. So he just looked at the dark nobleman and shrugged his shoulders, pushing back the niggling feeling that he would be protecting Ellie better by letting the man know where she was. But he had made a promise, and a man was worth nothing if he could not keep his word. “If ye say so. But in my experience, that is the way with most women. Don’t know why fancy ones like her would be an exception.”

  The man looked at the door to his storage area and then back at Clive. “Mind if I take a look in there?”

  “I do, but I don’t think that is going to stop ye.”

  The man gave him another pointed look and then went into the back room. A couple of seconds later he came back out. This time he addressed all those in the tavern. “I’ve been told a woman works here. She is about this high and has eyes the color of wood violets. If any of you can tell me where she is staying, I will give you a hundred pounds.”

  Clive smiled inwardly as the men, one by one, went back to their drinks. The upper class thought the poor cared only for coin and naught for pride and respect. And while two to three years’ salary was a lot of blunt, it was not a permanent way out of their poverty. Eventually it would return when the money ran out. Squealers would not have a life to return to.

  “I think, gentry, ye got yer answer,” Clive said calmly. “I have a woman working here and she is short, but the lass has never looked anything like that.”

  The man’s gold eyes shifted to the figure standing near the door. Clive guessed he was a runner. Never had many dealings with them, but very few were unaware of their existence. The runner crossed his arms. “Can’t say for sure if the barkeep knows her or not. All I know is MacLeery is a regular here. I never got a look at the other girl. Just know she has dark brown hair and is shorter than her,” he said, pointing at Bessie.

  Without another word, the man walked out of Six Belles, leaving the runner to follow. He never looked back.

  And not once did he ever mention a green and white pinnace.

  Edward crouched low into the shadows and watched Chase enter the tavern. Tagging along was the Bow Street runner he had hired.

  Edward had not expected locating the maps to be difficult. In truth, he had thought to find them all in one place at the office. His initial plan had been to take them, use them, and return to Society, not as the broken man he was, but transformed into a man with unmeasured power. And yet, despite all his efforts, he still had only four of the nine maps. He needed the others and had resolved that it would take time to locate and procure them. But a week ago, fate had offered him another solution.

  The first time Chaselton had hired Randall Greery, it had been to find him—the elusive thief. Evading the runner had been more difficult due to his current physical condition, but not impossible. When Greery was hired for a second time, Edward surmised he was again the target, but could not comprehend why the runners were focusing their efforts on the London Docks.

  A puzzle Edward was determined to solve, he decided to conduct his own inquiries. Greery was honest and loyal to Chaselton, but one of the younger men the runner had hired to help was not as scrupulous. When cornered, he had revealed everything he knew for a single quid.

  Edward had nearly laughed out loud upon learning who the runners were after. Not him—the mysterious thief—and not pathetic Aimee, but the very woman who had turned his life into a living hell. The runners were unfamiliar with the woman they sought, but Edward was intimately familiar with the woman in the portrait.

  He savored the idea of Lady Chaselton running away. Shunned by her perfect husband, she had disappeared to one of the most dangerous places in London to look for her simpering, foolish friend.

  Pulling back farther into the shadows, Edward waited to see if his one-time protégé had found his beloved wife. Several minutes later, Edward had his answer. Chaselton had left unaccompanied. Edward sighed in relief. He still had time.

  Chaselton had no doubt bribed the people and the owner for information. The working poor were often misunderstood and the titled too often thought that all things in life could be purchased with enough coin. Most failed to realize respect was something that had no price and therefore could belong to any man. The small, beautiful hellion must have earned the loyalty of those inside. Chaselton failed to understand that he was not buying information, but their self-respect—something that was not for sale.

  Edward would not make the same mistake.

  He would wait no longer. If chance refused to offer him the opportunity for retribution, he would just have to create one. A face-to-face meeting with Lady Chaselton was long overdue.

  Meanwhile, it was enjoyable seeing Chaselton in a near state of panic. To those who passed by, the marquess looked cold and distant, but Edward had trained the man to be a spy. He had honed the marquess’s skills and taught him how to mask his emotions. Edward knew by the length of Chaselton’s gait, the clip of his heels, and the hardness of his jaw, just what deep emotions truly ran through the marquess.

  Fear.

  And Edward could hardly wait to use the overwhelming love behind that fear to his advantage.

  Chapter 29

  November 12, 1816

  Aimee stopped midstride, pivoted, and came back to the man who had just spoken. “Can you please repeat what you just said?” she asked, trying hard to appear only casually interested, though her heart was pounding.

  For the past six days, she had thought herself either ready for Bedlam or close to it. Whenever she was alone, she had heard the whisper of Reece’s name. Even at night, as she tried to sleep, it was as if her pillow came alive, reminding her of who she had left behind. To make matters worse, the whispers had been in his husky voice.

  One morning she had woken up with a quill in her hand and his name scribbled multiple times on a piece of paper next to her bed. That had shaken her to her core, so much that she had finally agreed to let Mrs. Shay introduce her to the Sea Rebel’s chief mate, Mr. Haskin. Up close the man was even better-looking than from afar, which was not something Aimee could say about most men. He had midnight-black hair, strong cheekbones, and his eyes were an unusual color of blue, reminding her of the lighter hues of a shallow sea.

  At first, the evening had been surprisingly enjoyable. The four of them had sat down to dinner and the first course was served. The soup was very good, though it lacked JP’s scrumptious flavor. Then, just before the second course, Mrs. Shay professed a headache and requested her husband’s assistance, leaving Aimee alone with Mr. Haskin. The idea of eating with an unmarried man was unheard of in London, and Aimee had almost risen to her feet to follow the captain. But the memory of the voices and note caused her to remain seated. She had requested a distraction and Mrs. Shay had provided one. Besides, Aimee thought, after all she had done, what was the harm in breaking one more rule of propriety?

  Thankfully, Mr. Haskin had agreed to stay as well, and soon they were engaged in
pleasant conversation. Unfortunately, the man must have consumed something that disagreed with him, for the room had begun to reek of rotten eggs. Aimee remembered looking at him, trying in vain to think of something to say to put him at his ease. His expression said that he was trying to do the same, but was equally unsuccessful. As with all human smells, the odor had eventually dissipated and they tried to resume their previous discussion. Then, the smell returned. The third time, Mr. Haskin politely excused himself, to Aimee’s relief.

  When he approached her on deck the next afternoon, she had been glad, for one bad night could happen to anyone. His hair was wet and slicked back and he smelled of soap, hinting that he had just bathed. Aimee thought the gesture extremely flattering, as she knew sailors washed themselves only when it became necessary. It was nice to know a man considered she warranted such an effort.

  Again, their conversation was interrupted prematurely when Mr. Haskin began to twitch. It had started with his shoulders moving as if he had an itch in the middle of his back. Soon after, he was rubbing his legs. He kept shifting his weight in such a way that if he were a little boy, Aimee would have asked him if he needed to be excused to the privy. Instead, she suggested they sit on a nearby bench, and Mr. Haskin hastily agreed. But being seated offered no more relief. If anything, it was even more uncomfortable to watch him rock back and forth with his hands fiercely gripping his legs. Then, without warning, he had stood up, quickly bowed, and began to scratch himself all over as he disappeared below the main deck, shouting for someone to get him some water.

  She had not seen Mr. Haskin since, and the incidents that had incited her original request for distraction had only grown from annoying to worrisome. The worst was just moments ago.

  She had been standing out of the way at the back of the ship on the poop deck, watching the crew work, when an eerily familiar blue scarf caught her eye. The man was near the forecastle, securing the ship’s bell on the belfry. Being so far away, it was hard to see just who it was, but before she could even get halfway across the main deck to call out for him to wait, the seaman had disappeared below. Disheartened, she turned back to resume her earlier, unobtrusive position.

  That was when she heard a nearby seaman say something to a fellow sailor that made sense of every incident, every whisper, every single odd thing that had happened to her.

  “Miss?” the lanky sailor asked when she approached them. His brows were up and his hazel eyes stared at her with concern.

  Normally, Aimee would have assured him there was nothing to be distressed about, but her mind was focused on only one thing. “Please repeat what you just told this gentleman as I was passing by.”

  The second sailor froze, and his eyes twitched, wondering just what they had said to upset her. After a moment of hesitation, he licked his lips and said, “Goodfellow, here, um, well, he just mentioned that Friers really likes the blue scarf the new guy gave him.”

  Aimee stared hard at both men. “Please describe this scarf for me.”

  “That wasn’t you?” Haskin asked, his tone one of disbelief.

  Aimee looked horrified for a second at the thought of ever being able to produce such a foul odor. Then she broke into laughter. “No! I assure you that, well . . . I thought it was you!”

  “Bloody hell,” Haskin said under his breath. “What you must have thought. I tried, Miss Wentworth, I did try to be a gentleman and stay. I kept waiting and, well, hoping, that you would excuse yourself, but finally I could stand the smell no more and had to leave.”

  Aimee rubbed the back of her neck. “I am so glad that you did. Not until you left did our prankster stop and leave me to finish my meal in peace.”

  Haskin wiggled the note in his hand and asked, “I understand why you would want to tell me in private, but why did your missive include instructions on how you wanted me to get here? There are easier ways to get to the cuddy than via my bosun’s cabin and the council chamber.”

  “The cuddy was the only place on the ship I was sure we would not be overheard.”

  Haskin crinkled his dark brows, still not understanding. “The captain’s stateroom is below us, and from here we can see who comes and goes on the deck above. I can assure you we are alone.”

  “And that is why it is safe for us to speak. No one will be introducing foul smells through the floors below us.”

  Haskin cocked his head and his turquoise-blue gaze increased in intensity. “So you honestly think it was intentional?”

  Aimee gave him an exasperated look. She needed Mr. Haskin’s help, and it was important that he be just as committed to her plan as she was. “Do you normally fidget and squirm around women as you did yesterday?”

  Haskin scowled and Aimee knew he was finally starting to believe her. The man before her was healthy, well trained, and possessed the power of self-control from years of practice. It had to have been humiliating to act as he did, and she suspected few men could have endured the discomfort for as long as he had.

  “My clothes,” Haskin growled. “Something about them made me itch. I could not tell what, and just assumed I had foolishly laid them on some powder or . . . are you telling me that was intentional?”

  Aimee repressed her desire to flash him a large smile and nodded. Mr. Haskin was hers. “I am fairly certain I know who the culprit is and was hoping to elicit your help in teaching him a lesson.”

  Haskin’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me who he is and I will find him and then will be just as creative when I discipline him, Miss Wentworth. I assure you nothing more will happen to you on this ship.”

  Aimee bit her inner cheek. She did not think Mr. Haskin would cause any permanent harm or make Reece disappear, but the chief mate did believe it had been a low-ranked crew member who had humiliated him. On a ship, such things could not be permitted. And yet, Mr. Haskin had no idea she was referring to Reece—someone who may not be his immediate employer, but his employer nonetheless. She knew very little of Sea Rebel’s chief mate, but she suspected that Mr. Haskin’s level of pride could rival Reece’s. The man also had to be incredibly intelligent to have so quickly gained the respect and admiration of Captain Shay. This did not bode well. Moreover, having Mr. Haskin confront Reece was not what she wanted. Aimee fully intended on being the one to teach Captain Reece Hamilton a lesson he more than deserved to learn.

  “Mr. Haskin, I think that might not be the best way to resolve the situation. I was hoping for a little bit of retaliation. Let him learn a lesson about what it is like to be on the receiving end of one of these little pranks. I mean . . . you could always do your disciplining later, could you not? It would mean a great deal to me to have your support.”

  Haskin crossed his arms and thought about it. “Normally I am not one who would encourage any vengeful activity. It rarely leads to anything positive. But I do believe that this is one of those rare times.”

  The grin Aimee had been suppressing came to life. “I say we find out where he sleeps and begin there.”

  Haskin inhaled, finding himself once more ensnared by Aimee’s charms, and shook his head. “Miss Wentworth, you look like an angel, but you have the cunning of an imp. I cannot decide if I am appalled or if I rather like it.”

  Aimee rocked onto her tippy toes and came back down, something she rarely did because it accentuated her height. But she could not help it. Millie was always the one people thought of as the imp. It was finally her turn to be the mischievous one.

  Chapter 30

  November 14, 1816

  Clive knew from the start that he should never have let Ellie convince him to hire her. His world had been predictable a month ago. It had been comfortable, and not once did he lie awake worrying about those he cared about. But that was before Ellie Alwick. That was when he could look danger in the eye, assess the size, skill, and weapons of the man, and attack him straight on. But now that he knew the danger hunting Ellie was neither imaginary nor feeble, an awful feeling had begun to grow in his gut. A feeling that said whoever was a
fter her would stop at nothing and no one to achieve his goal. And never could he remember feeling so helpless.

  Part of him wished that he were the sort of man who could just cut her loose. It was not as if the lass had provided an explanation for what that nobleman wanted from her, nor ever planned to offer one. Clive knew Ellie thought she was protecting him, Bessie, and everyone at Six Belles. So, if they needed protecting, then didn’t he have every right to take one look at her when she walked in the door tonight and tell her to turn around and never return? He did, but Clive knew that he would not . . . could not do it. That left him few options, and continuing as he had been doing the past few nights was becoming less and less a viable one.

  The night the nobleman had come in looking for Ellie had changed things. When Devlin returned after seeing her home, he had divulged some disturbing information.

  Clive had known that Devlin was smitten with Ellie; half the men were. But lately his mind had been more focused on the other half who were more than a little taken with Bessie. So just as Devlin had been trailing Ellie home, Clive had begun following Bessie, intent on protecting her from any drunken men who mistakenly believed the women of Six Belles were available for some additional service. However, Clive had not known about the runner or that Devlin was no longer content with staying in the shadows—that he had been at her side until she reached her front door. Devlin did not want to tell Ellie, but somebody was following her and he did not move like a runner. After learning that, Clive made some decisions.