The Darkest Sin

by Caroline Richards

The actress frowned, her hand automatically going up to smooth her brow.

  Sebastian smiled at her vanity. “Nevertheless, aesthetics and youth aside, indulging in the whims of important men is what you do best, madam.”

  Her smile was brittle. “And Felicity . . . What was her special talent, Sebastian?” Sometimes the price seemed too high, she thought acidly. Although she and Felicity had been more rivals than friends, Ellen Barry, known in her previous life as Gwen Shandpepper, was smart enough not to delve too deeply into her adversary’s demise. Galveston had been a beast, a self-indulgent coward who loved to inflict pain in order to shore up his fragile sense of masculinity. They had seen his ilk too many times before.

  “Do I detect a hint of empathy,” Sebastian asked with barely contained sarcasm. “This is most unlike you.”

  The actress wisely did not rise to the bait. “Felicity made several errors in judgment.”

  “Fatal ones, as a matter of fact.”

  They both let the subject drop, drinking their champagne and watching the couple across the room. “She is quite beautiful, the more I look at her,” Sebastian murmured after several moments. “But there is something familiar about her, the way she moves and a certain watchfulness. I cannot help wondering if she will last as Lord Rushford’s paramour. As you know far better than I, madam, not all women are as, how might I put it”—he paused—“ah, yes, morally flexible as you.”

  “Shall I introduce you after all?” she asked smoothly.

  “Of course,” Sebastian murmured with a calm smile. “I should be remiss as a host otherwise.”

  From the corner of her eye, Rowena watched the approach of Miss Barry and the impeccably groomed man at her side. He was of medium height and a spare build, the blinding whiteness of his cravat an impeccable contrast against the midnight blue of his evening coat. When she and Rushford had first arrived, the heat of their argument still simmering under a cool façade, she had been struck by the ornate luxury of the town house in one of London’s most fashionable streets. She had yet to swallow her shock at the sight of the grand salon on the second floor. Scantily clad women sauntered around the room, draped in wisps of corsets and petticoats with black stockings rolled to just below the knees. Their lips were moist and red, their faces painted and powdered to give the look of patent invitation. Worst of all, no one but Rowena seemed to notice. The two dozen or so men and women seated on plush chairs were clearly habituated to the scene around them. Rushford’s nonchalance, she noted, seemed entirely natural. To suppress her sparking anger, she gazed at the crystal and gold beads of the chandelier overhead, all the while wondering why she could not rein in her overblown response to Rushford.

  Rowena smiled mindlessly for what seemed to be the hundredth time, her cheekbones aching, when Ellen Barry’s fan tapped her arm. “Darlings,” the actress said, looking out from under her luxuriant lashes for Rushford’s express benefit. “May I make the introductions . . . Lord Rushford. And, of course, Miss Warren. May I present Baron Francois Sebastian.”

  The Frenchman executed a small bow, bending over Rowena’s hand. “Lovely to meet you.”

  Rowena’s anxiety froze to shock. The voice. Her heart pounded so strongly that she feared everyone in the room would hear.

  “Are you feeling quite well, Miss Warren?” the actress asked. “You appear to have blanched suddenly. You are paler than usual.”

  Rushford stepped so close to Rowena that she could see the stubble on his jaw. He swept a finger down her scalding cheek, watching her closely. “Miss Warren is merely a trifle fatigued,” he said, his voice deliberately unconcerned. “Perhaps another restorative sip of your champagne?” he asked, bringing the flute to her lips like the concerned lover that he was. They were all talking, making the requisite noises, when all Rowena could do was clench the fragile stem of the crystal, hoping it wouldn’t shatter. Despite the champagne, her lips were dry and she had difficulty forming words, her mind grasping to follow the conversation.

  Sebastian smiled, revealing small white teeth. “The pleasure is without doubt mine, Miss Warren. You are indeed as lovely as Miss Barry promised,” he said with only a trace of a French accent. “Isn’t it wonderful that the love of the theater brings us all together.” It was difficult to tell whether the irony was deliberate. “Both of you, Lord Rushford and the lovely Miss Warren, enjoy such excursions, I presume.”

  “We certainly do,” Rushford said.

  Miss Barry leaned in confidingly. “Of course, the theater is but a reflection of life. When we allow the imagination to soar, there are many adventures to be had. Am I correct, Lord Rushford?”

  “But of course,” Sebastian interrupted silkily. “Why should one seek to curtail one’s experiences?” He looked expressly at Rowena.

  “Not unlike our dear friend, Lord Galveston,” Miss Barry finished.

  Sebastian continued where she let off. “Another theater lover, Lord Galveston. He is an acquaintance we have in common,” he said, turning to the actress, “or so the lovely Miss Barry informs me.”

  “We’ve crossed paths on a number of occasions.” Rushford’s tone was ambiguous.

  Undaunted by Rowena’s stillness, Sebastian continued. “Quite the adventurer, our Ambrose, as it turns out.” Rowena’s breathing was shallow, and it seemed that the chatter around them dimmed, the dozen or so guests in the room fading into the background.

  Rushford smiled, his expression at odds with his next words. “Indeed, Galveston and I had a chance to review his recent conquests just the other evening.” The last phrase hung in the air, heavy with implication.

  “Is that so? The world is smaller than one might expect,” Sebastian said with veiled derision, the source Rowena could not quite identify. “Of course I have heard of your recent exploits, Lord Rushford, concerning the Cruikshank murders. You are quite the sleuth and champion of the everywoman, as it turns out.”

  It would not do to remain silent much longer, Rowena told herself, aware that she was required to deliver a performance. That the Baron was the voice she’d heard in her nightmares, and very possibly part of the reality of her abduction, would not stop her in her tracks. She thought briefly of Meredith and Julia, her nerves making her bold. “It is unfortunate that we were never able to make the acquaintance of Felicity Clarence,” she said finally, her voice sounding surprisingly normal despite her panic. “Lord Galveston never could stop talking about her appearances in the West End.” She forced herself to meet the Frenchman’s gaze unflinchingly.

  The diminutive actress giggled. “To which performances was Galveston referring, those onstage or off?”

  Rowena managed to smile serenely, aware of Rushford’s hard arm around her waist.

  The actress tapped a finger to her lips. “Not that Felicity pretended to have a tendresse for the man,” she continued, and then took a dainty sip of her champagne. “I do believe theirs was a liaison predicated on far more practical concerns.” She fluttered a hand in Rowena’s direction. “Do not look so shocked, my dear. If you were to survey this salon more closely, you would discover that its female occupants are mostly kept women, mistresses of wealthy men, such as yourself, my dear. And then we actresses, of course, bathing in the adoration of our audiences, onstage and otherwise.”

  “And a good thing,” Sebastian murmured. “Women crave nothing if not our adoration.”

  “I’d never heard it put quite that way before,” Rushford said, his voice having taken on an edge. “It makes one wonder whether the late Miss Clarence would agree with you, monsieur.”

  Sebastian made the appropriate noises, deliberately misunderstanding. “Yes, such a tragic end. One almost believes that a love affair might be to blame. To cast oneself into the river . . .” His remark seemed to target Lord Rushford specifically, Rowena thought.

  Miss Barry arched her thin brows. “Don’t be ludicrous, my pet. After that debacle at Eccles House, Felicity swore off such romantic nonsense. She was a practical girl at heart.”
/>   “A tragic accident, then,” Sebastian concluded.

  Rushford focused on the Frenchman lounging casually before them. “Of course, Eccles House,” he drawled, as though something had suddenly stirred his memory. “Sir Wadsworth’s country estate.”

  For a moment, Rowena felt light-headed. Beside her, one of the scantily clad women trilled with laughter. Rowena swayed on her feet, yielding to the support of Rushford’s hard body. “I’m so sorry. Did I hear you mention Sir Wadsworth?” The man who had invited Julia to his estate. Rushford discreetly tightened his arm around her waist. “Are you feeling quite yourself, my pet, or should I call for the carriage to be brought round?”

  No. She would not, could not leave even if they carried her out of the town house. They were talking about her sister. “Absolutely not,” she said, forcing a smile to her face. “I feel perfectly splendid,” she added brightly. “Now that you have me intrigued about the goings on at Eccles House.”

  Sebastian gave a half smile, removing a slender silver box from his waistcoat and turning it idly in his elegant hand. “You like gossip, then, do you, Miss Warren?”

  “Of course, what woman doesn’t?” she replied. Feeling as though she might shatter, she gave a small laugh bordering on hysteria. She focused on the silver box in Sebastian’s hand.

  The Frenchman turned to the actress at his side. “Then I shall give you full permission to regale us with the tawdry bits, my dear.” He glanced at Rushford consideringly. “We men shall try not to be bored.”

  Miss Barry put a hand to her bosom. “Oh, really, gentlemen. If you are looking for something shocking, you may wish to look elsewhere. This is quite the boring little tale. As it turns out, our dear, departed Felicity let it be known that she had set her cap for Lord Strathmore at Eccles House, only to be rejected by the man.”

  “A first for her, I’m assuming?” Rowena asked, continuing to lean into Rushford, placing a hand on his chest to keep it from trembling.

  The actress shrugged. “Who knows? I believe it was her pride that was hurt more than anything else. Strathmore actually chose a nondescript country bumpkin, a veritable blue stocking with the most bizarre interests, over the enchanting and alluring Felicity Clarence. Only imagine,” she added sarcastically.

  Rowena’s heart stood still. Julia. Her Julia with her outsized interests in botany and daguerreotypy. Sebastian observed her closely. “You seem quite intrigued, Miss Warren.”

  “Only mildly,” she said, suddenly desperate to bring the conversation to an end, afraid that it might lead in a direction where she would lose all control. She straightened away from Rushford, who nonetheless kept a hand around her waist. “Although I do hope that a thwarted love affair was not the reason for Miss Clarence’s decision to end her life.”

  Sebastian asked cynically, “Who can afford love, after all, Miss Warren? When there are reasonable facsimiles to be had. Am I correct, Lord Rushford?” Once again, subtext shimmered beneath the question.

  “As experience would attest,” Rushford said, his grip around Rowena’s waist tightening infinitesimally.

  “All the more reason I should like to invite both of you to Alcestor Court, my estate in Dorset, this coming weekend,” the Baron pronounced smoothly, “so we may pursue our common interests.” He turned to Miss Barry, smiling broadly. “And we are most grateful to Miss Barry here,” he remarked, “who had the keen foresight to forge ahead with these introductions.”

  “Too kind,” Rowena said grimly, watching in silence as the actress placed a dainty hand on Sebastian’s proffered arm. “We look forward to our visit, do we not, my lord?” Rowena turned to Rushford with an attempt at a flirtatious smile. All she could think of was Julia, questions frozen on her lips. Questions for Rushford, once she had him alone.

  Lowther waited for Sebastian in the study on the second floor of the house. The sounds of revelry were muted by the richly paneled walls, but he immediately recognized Sebastian’s silhouette in the doorway. They were in no way alike, thought Lowther with typical objectivity. The Frenchman was an elegant aristocrat in his bearing, and Lowther knew he bore the blunt features of his English dockyard parents. However disparate their physical bearing, they were both equally although differently in debt to the man they now served.

  The door clicked shut, and Lowther gestured to Sebastian to take the seat across from him. A fire burned brightly in the hearth despite the warmth of the spring evening.

  “Rushford succumbed to the temptation,” Sebastian said, sliding elegantly into the chair. “Galveston, Felicty Clarence, and, of course, the beauteous and beguiling Ellen Barry performed brilliantly. He and his lovely young mistress will be joining us at Alcestor Court this coming weekend.”

  Lowther nodded approvingly. “Well done. At least thus far, although I’m not entirely surprised by the turn of events. Did I not predict Rushford’s response? The guilt is eating him alive.”

  “Yes, you did indeed, Lowther.”

  Lowther ignored the comment, tinged with resentment, tapping his thick fingers against the polished wooden arm of his chair. “He believes he can assuage his conscience, bring the Duchess back to life by involving himself in these sordid events, bringing resolution elsewhere because he can find none in his own life. I should have expected more of him, given his rather jaundiced view of the world, but then again there is no accounting for emotions when they get in the way of reality.”

  “Works in our favor,” Sebastian said with the practicality of a Frenchman.

  “Only if we proceed carefully. Remember, Rushford has in the past offered his services to Whitehall, until the proverbial scales fell from his eyes upon the death of the Duchess. But let us not forget that he single-handedly prevented a virtual praetorian guard from stealing the Rosetta Stone on Faron’s behalf.”

  “Is that how you choose to describe our efforts, a praetorian guard?” Sebastian mused. “It is amazing that a man as clever as Rushford still has no idea . . .”

  Lowther smiled. “Love is blind.”

  The trite statement drew a chuckle from Sebastian. “Hard to believe.” He shook his head in wonder. “And yet that love was not enough to remove Rushford from the mission. I despair, truly,” he sighed.

  Lowther peered moodily into the fire. “We believed the Duchess would be Rushford’s weakness, and the Earl’s, but we were wrong. Let’s not err twice. Faron would not be pleased if we were to fail again.”

  “No possibility of that,” Sebastian corrected calmly, crossing one leg over the other, examining the high gleam of his evening shoes. “Particularly since we intend that Rushford shall steal the Stone on our behalf. What could be simpler?”

  The bald statement drew Lowther’s gaze from the fire. “Let’s hope not too simple, particularly after having our first attempt thwarted. Although I suppose Rushford paid the higher price. Sacrificing the Duchess cost him dearly, I’m sure.” He paused. “Although I hear that he’s taken a mistress. You don’t find that peculiar?”

  It was a ridiculous question to ask a Frenchman. Sebastian smoothly retrieved the silver case from his waistcoat pocket, extracting a slender cigar. “In what way is it unusual for a man of Lord Rushford’s station to take a mistress? A man has needs, after all, and what better way to assuage those needs than by engaging the affections of a young and beautiful woman. I don’t begin to understand your question, Lowther.”

  “Who is she—and don’t tell me that you haven’t the slightest idea.”

  For a moment, Sebastian thought to lie but then thought better of it. “Miss Frances Warren is who she is, young, beautiful, and entirely too intelligent for her own good. You know how I detest intellect in a woman. It takes from their natural femininity,” he elaborated. “There’s an intensity about her that I find disturbing.”

  “How so?”

  “Difficult to explain.”

  “She is quite different from the Duchess, I take it.”

  “The Duchess was complexity and subterfuge, sophisti
cation and elegance. A fine wine, in other words. In contrast, Miss Warren is as transparent and refreshing as a glass of water.”

  “You do not seem overly impressed. Although based on your analysis of her character, I have the notion you have met her before. Not entirely surprising given the circles in which you roam,” Lowther said with a hint of sarcasm. “What—is she an actress, or did Rushford find her amongst Mrs. Cruikshank’s fillies? Does it matter, in the end? Perhaps Miss Warren is entirely beside the point.”

  “I wish that were so,” Sebastian said cryptically, leaning toward the fire to light his cigar. It flared to life in a small burst of orange. “Of course, I recognized her immediately, despite the frightful wig.”

  “So she is not really Miss Warren,” Lowther said impatiently. “Her name is Sally Grimshaw or some such, and she hails from the dockyards or worse parts of London. It would not be the first time a young girl has taken another name so as to burnish her appeal. What of it, Sebastian?”

  Sebastian drew on his cigar unhurriedly, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. “The situation does rather complicate matters and adds a wrinkle to our plans. Faron will not be pleased to hear of it.” He rather liked stringing Lowther along. He knew the man preferred to be in control and to believe that Faron’s wishes were his alone to execute. It was tiresome, really, for a guttersnipe like Lowther to have risen so far in the ranks of Faron’s legion, Sebastian thought. But then again, a man of foresight, Faron collected acolytes from far and wide, looking only for extraordinary intelligence and loyalty, in equal measure, among his recruits. There was a story told that when he was a brilliant student at the Sorbonne, Faron had saved Lowther from the gallows. Whether the tale was true or not, Sebastian hadn’t a clue. Sebastian now contemplated that same man twenty years later, impatience in every line of his bulky body, as he sat across from him.

  “Out with it,” Lowther growled, half rising from his chair. “Who is she and why ever would it matter to Faron?”

  Sebastian tapped the tip of his cigar against the fireplace grill, the ashes falling onto the grate. “I am as perturbed as you will be, Lowther,” he said, slowly releasing rings of smoke into the air. “Do sit back down.”