The Darkest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “You’ve retained one? I’m utterly amazed. Now if you could only do something about all of these drop sheets. Good Lord, it’s as though nobody lives here.”

  “I hadn’t fully realized your penchant for the domestic.”

  Archer crossed his arms over his chest. “And what would you know of it?”

  “Last time I checked, you’d been living at White’s. You’re never around long enough to visit that pile of stone in Essex, which is probably ghost-ridden by now. And my solicitor mentioned recently that you have leased out your family’s London town house for the fifth time in ten years.”

  “You know how restless I get,” Archer responded. “Don’t like to plant my feet anywhere for more than a few weeks. I’ve got enough to keep me busy in London for the next while, however.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I fully intend to.”

  “Although it will be for naught, I promise you, Archer. I do not wish to involve myself in anything that concerns Whitehall. And by the way, you haven’t poured yourself, or me for that matter, a drink. The least you can do is stop hovering on the threshold and sit down.”

  Archer acknowledged the invitation by moving farther into the room. “Never mind Whitehall,” he said casually. “What’s going on with you? It’s not like you to be so bloody mysterious. I’m your friend, remember? And you could have introduced me, by the way,” he continued. The two men had dispensed with social politesse years ago. Archer walked by the drinks table to stand beside the unlit fireplace, glancing at the ash-strewn interior with a small frown.

  “To whom?” asked Rushford.

  “To the winsome Miss Frances Warren, of course,” Archer replied, turning back from the fireplace but ignoring the proffered seat. “She seems a little young. Not your usual type.”

  Rushford considered his options, lying for one, but Archer’s knowing glance wouldn’t let him. The two of them had been through enough weather together to make obfuscation pointless. “She’s not my mistress,” he said bluntly, examining the tip of his boots across the desk.

  “Then what are you doing?” Archer’s look was skeptical. “I thought you were going to rip Galveston’s throat out. Haven’t seen you quite that riled in a long time.” Not since Kate, was what they both knew he really wanted to say. “What’s going on exactly? It’s not like you at all to enact this sort of drama. For a man who doesn’t seek attention, the business with the Duchess and then the Cruikshank murders should have been more than enough.”

  Rushford leaned back against the arch of his chair. “It is a drama of Miss Warren’s own devising.”

  “She appears far too young and innocent to devise much of anything. And she doesn’t seem the avaricious sort,” Archer said, going down the list. “What is she after—I might wonder.”

  “She’s not after anything. It’s the safety of her family that drives Miss Warren’s life at the moment. And while you’re so intent upon these intrusive questions, would you like to know what happened at Mrs. Banks’s?” Rushford asked peremptorily.

  In reply Archer took his seat, settling across from his friend, his eyes watchful. “Desperately eager, particularly since you don’t seem disposed to answer further questions regarding Miss Warren. So—what do you make of the drowning?”

  “Besides the fact that the actress’s death was deliberately brought to my attention, as you’ll recall?” Rushford looked thoughtful. “I subsequently discovered that Galveston is our murderer, no real surprise there. Mrs. Cruikshank had mentioned to me once that he had been barred from her establishment, given his unpredictable tastes.”

  Archer frowned his distaste.

  “The victim’s skirts had been weighted down with stones so the body would sink. But she didn’t drown. There were bruises around her throat. The whole business seems rather clumsy in comparison with the Cruikshank situation. Poisoning is much more subtle than strangulation.”

  “You made the connection to Galveston how?”

  “His signet ring was on the body—or at least until Mrs. Banks got to it.”

  Understanding dawned. “I was wondering why you were so keen to have the ring included in your wager the other night. Thought there must be a very good reason.”

  “Now you have it,” Rushford said. “Further still, Felicity Clarence was an actress who, I’ve since discovered, wished to enter influential circles.”

  “Entrapment you think?”

  Rushford shrugged. “Very possibly. She entertained Galveston’s perversions to gain entry or at the very least introductions to eminent personages. At least according to Ambrose. The name Sebastian came up as well.”

  Archer straightened. “Are you certain?”

  “Galveston seemed almost eager to name him.” He would discover more once he and Rowena began making the rounds of the demimondaine. The prospect was hardly appealing. She was much too young and innocent for this business. “But you and I both know that Sebastian is a runner for Montagu Faron.” Rushford felt the anger in him leaking from an old wound. “The drowning has Faron’s handiwork all over it—the man does love to send a message.”

  “You could just let this go, Rush,” Archer said softly.

  Rushford’s jaw tightened. “I lost Kate because of him and because of my own hubris, and I insist on finishing this the way it was meant to finish. It’s no longer a game.”

  “I’m not sure you’re in the proper frame of mind—” Archer stopped himself, then continued in more measured tones. “What do you hope to gain from this? Other than helping Miss Warren with her immediate concerns? Perhaps you’d be wiser to allow someone else to play the role of knight rescuing the fair maiden.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of alternatives. I endangered Kate’s life because of our liaison, and now I could well do the same with Miss Warren.”

  “Miss Warren. Isn’t that a trifle formal?”

  “I already told you she’s not really my mistress.”

  “Then why did you decide to become involved with her?”

  “She forced my hand.”

  “Oh, you don’t say?” Archer crossed his arms over his chest, watching his friend closely. “I’ve known you for twenty-five years, and I can’t recall your doing anything you don’t want to do.”

  Rushford jerked out of his chair and walked around to the front of his desk. “Your insights are astounding, Archer. Truly,” he said with a measure of sarcasm. “But there’s more to this than meets the eye, as I’m sure you’ve gleaned, being the perceptive bastard that you are.”

  Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose, hiding a smile. “She’s very beautiful. And intelligent.”

  “Don’t be preposterous.”

  “The attraction between you is rather obvious, Rush, and obvious to the roomful of onlookers at Crockford’s the other night. Even without the Galveston drama, the two of you could have set the library ablaze.”

  Rushford sat back down, denial tensing his muscles. “Sod it, Archer. Leave it be. We are talking murder here—and worse possibly, as you well know. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he asked darkly.

  Archer grunted and then reached into his coat, retrieving a packet of papers and then throwing them on the desk in front of Rushford. “See for yourself what Faron has planned,” he said. “I just came from Whitehall.”

  Rushford reached for the dossier, his eyes skimming. “Bloody fucking hell” he said softly after a moment. “The damn Rosetta Stone. Again. Why am I not in the least surprised.” He shoved the papers back across the desk to Archer. “I never did believe the rumor that he had died in the fire at Eccles House. And this proves it,” he continued. “The man’s made a very pact with the devil, I swear.”

  “It’s the only intelligence we have for the time being.” Archer leaned forward in his chair. “But I need to ask—are you ready for this reprise?”

  Rushford left his seat, unable to remain still, pacing around his desk. “Don’t even ask, Archer. I cannot let it stand, not this time
.”

  “You did what your conscience ordered you to do. You safeguarded the Stone.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Rushford fumed, his voice a low growl in contrast with Archer’s calm tones. He took a step back and let out a short breath to slake the fury that made his hands shake. “I won the battle but lost everything in the bargain. And for that alone, if I have the chance, Faron will pay.”

  Archer stood, meeting his friend’s eyes. “Whitehall wants you back.”

  “I’m not doing this for goddamned Whitehall,” he ground out. “And if that makes me a lesser man, so be it. I’d rather spend my time at the gaming tables, in the ring, or helping the Madam Cruikshanks of the world.”

  Archer held his ground. “And what about the girl? Miss Warren. How is she involved in all of this?”

  Rushford’s gray eyes darkened. “Despite my lamentable record, I shall protect her.” And use her, his conscience taunted him. “Most of all from Faron. I’ve learned from my mistakes.”

  Archer assessed his friend. “The mistakes weren’t yours to make, Rush. It was Kate’s decision to become involved with the Stone. Remember, she’d been married to a diplomat and was far too accustomed to putting her nose where it did not belong.” Bored senseless by the never-ending cavalcade of social events that marked the life of an ambassador’s consort, Kate had unwisely turned to other interests. Rushford included, thought Archer sadly. He realized that his friend believed grieving was not enough, that it was his obligation to set things right. “Everything else is superfluous. The Rosetta remains in British hands due to your efforts,” Archer concluded with finality.

  “For how much longer?” Rushford asked, his eyes glittering. “The contest begins again, but this time I’ve learned that a defensive strategy is not the answer. Last time, Faron went after us. This time, I propose that we change the nature of the game.” He gestured to the dossier lying on his desk. “And you’ve just confirmed my reasoning.”

  “You’re hardly a novice,” Archer said, acknowledging Rushford’s vast experience in a world few knew anything about. “But this young woman . . . to drag her into a maelstrom of events that she is totally unprepared for is hardly fair.”

  Rushford acknowledged the warning, and what was left unsaid, with a look. “I won’t allow another cock-up. Trust me on this one, Archer. Miss Warren and her family will remain unharmed.”

  “I don’t have to tell you that Faron has an unerring instinct for weakness.”

  And for innocence, Rushford thought, but hesitated only a moment. This time, instead of sending Miss Woolcott to safety as he’d done over a year ago, he would take her into the heart of darkness itself. But unlike Kate, he vowed, Rowena would emerge alive.

  The rolling thunder of applause shook the seats of the Garrick Theater in London’s West End. The melodramatic tale of Buckston’s The Dream at Sea had titillated its audience with its double entendres and bawdy repartee. Rowena sat stiffly with Lord Rushford in a private box, wearing the pale gray satin gown with its daringly low-cut portrait collar encrusted with mother-of-pearl delivered that afternoon by Madame Curzon’s. The lavish creation was as distinctly foreign to her experience as the drama unfolding before her eyes.

  She and Julia had read the entire works of Shakespeare, Molière, and Johnson, but nothing had prepared her for the sights and smells of a crowded theater, and an energetic plot bristling with scheming villains, lurid details, and bosomy heiresses, many of whom she guessed had been compatriots of Felicity Clarence. The box gave them a strategic view not only of the stage but also of the audience, of the women turning to survey each other’s plumage, lorgnettes and opera glasses raised with serious intent. In the dimness, Rowena scanned the neighboring boxes, looking for an as yet unidentifiable threat.

  As the lights rose after the final act, she leaned against the plush velvet seat, going through the motions of clapping, her hands cold in her gray lace evening gloves. She observed Rushford’s profile discreetly, the boldness of his nose and chin. Slowly, his steady gaze turned to meet hers.

  “Try not to look as though I’m about to devour you, Miss Warren,” he said once the applause had subsided and the audience began to move to the atrium for champagne and ices and morsels of gossip. “We’ve a whole evening ahead of us.”

  She responded with a brilliant smile, more for the benefit of onlookers than for Rushford. “You’re too arrogant by half, Rushford. It is not you whom I fear,” she lied, snapping her ivory fan for emphasis. She had not been able to keep her attention on the farce, her own personal drama intruding. For the moment at least, she wished she could ignore that sharply planed face, strong and austere, and that tall, tightly coiled body whose imprint still burned against her skin. She unclenched her jaw. It did neither of them any good to remember those moments, at the tavern and at Crockford’s or for that matter in the bedchamber at what she privately referred to as Miss Warren’s apartments. Although Rowena’s hands were cold, the air around them seemed far too warm.

  Suddenly eager to leave the privacy of the box, she made to rise. “I can’t say that this play was quite what I was expecting. Although Miss Barry’s performance was impressive,” she added, making mention of the evening’s leading lady. “Despite the material with which she had to work.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Rushford, already standing next to her. “It was hardly Hamlet.” He crooked a smile. “Yet we were so obviously impressed by Miss Barry’s prodigious talent that we wish to engage her attention in the salon downstairs.”

  Any excuse would do. “I’m certain a woman as beautiful as Miss Barry is accustomed to adulation,” Rowena said. “Although she might be surprised to learn that her prodigious talents are not what we’re interested in but rather anything she might reveal about the company the late Miss Clarence chose to keep—and why,” she finished as they moved to the back of the box. It required all her concentration to focus on Rushford’s words. His physical presence was even more potent in the confines of the private box than when he’d first arrived at her apartments to convey her to the theater. His impeccably cut evening jacket, made less severe only by the dove gray of his waistcoat, emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his legs.

  Rushford would handily attract the interest of the exotic actress, thought Rowena, unwilling to examine her flash of irritation at the prospect. “Perhaps Miss Barry may snatch you away from your current mistress,” she said aloud, surprising herself.

  “Impossible,” he replied with a smile.

  “No need for flattery, Rushford,” Rowena said crisply. “I shall play my role with appropriate insouciance and worldliness that should allow Miss Barry plenty of room to practice her wiles. And for us to glean what we require. I am certain that Miss Barry is aware of our presence, given the entrance we made earlier this evening.” She recalled the carriage with its simultaneously discreet and distinctive crest, sweeping them to the entrance of the theater, whereupon they had made their leisurely entry. To her great relief, there was not one familiar face in the melee, making it easier for Rowena to move confidently through the crowd in her role as Miss Warren. Uneasy, she touched a hand to the fair curls of a newly procured wig, courtesy of Madame Curzon, before her hand drifted to the heavy ruby necklace encircling her throat.

  She thought back to the moment at the apartments when Rushford had reached into his pocket and withdrawn something in his fist. “As I recall, a gentleman always brings a lady some token of his affection,” he had said. “Please turn around, Rowena.”

  She had presented her back to him, and he’d placed something around her neck. His fingers worked the back clasp, brushing her skin, sending flickers of heat coursing through her. When he’d finished, she went to one of the many mirrors in the room and gasped. About her neck was a magnificent necklace of rubies inlaid in intricate gold work. She had touched the stunning piece tentatively before letting her hand drop to her side.

  Now in the dimness of the theater, Rushford’s gaze
swept over her with uncharacteristic intensity. “No flattery, only the truth. You look beautiful, Rowena. Never fear. You will have everyone convinced that you have snared my undying interest.” The last words held a tinge of mockery. Rowena reluctantly looked up from the necklace to meet Rushford’s focused gaze, his eyes a smoky gray. She had to say something, to respond. “Thank you. For the loan of the necklace, that is. It’s lovely,” she said, licking her dry lips, acutely aware that a more sophisticated, experienced woman would respond differently, with rapier sharp wit or a double entendre. Her mind had seemingly stopped working whenever he was near.

  She moved ahead of him toward the door of the box. Gathering her wide skirts with a hand that also gripped the fan at her waist, she did not need to glance over her shoulder to confirm Rushford’s proximity. His gaze scorched her naked shoulders. It seemed an eternity until they reached their destination in the theater foyer. It was filled with a stream of players, most still in their costumes, a dazzling parade of furbelows and greasepaint. Several of the actresses flitted their fans to smile coquettishly at their male admirers, as aware as their audience that many liaisons were forged in such salubrious circumstances. Behind Rowena, several men craned their necks, looking about the salon for the latest seductress whose favors were in high demand.

  The murmurs in the crowd increased. Miss Barry had decided to make an entrance of her own, smiling for the small cluster of men who gathered around her, their hands clapping in enthusiasm. She had changed from the wedding dress required for her role as Anne Travinion into a sumptuous gown of bronzed brocade, with a daring bodice overlayed in black lace and paste diamonds.