“I wish you to return to London.”
“I refuse.” The silence elongated, grew heavy; then Rushford turned, shrugging on his riding breeches and shirt, and left the bedchamber, closing the door decisively behind him.
It was late and the dinner party in full play when Rowena finally presented herself, without Rushford on her arm, in the dining room. She did not know precisely what awaited her, and she dreaded it, along with the blaze of lights and music. Immediately, the dozen guests turned their heads to mark her entrance. Baron Sebastian’s friends were perfumed and dressed in finery that glittered like jewels, all of them seemingly talking at once.
“You look divine, Miss Warren.” Lord Braemore was the first to speak, escorting her to the table and to her seat. From the periphery of her vision, she noticed Sebastian assessing her presence without surprise. She had waited for Rushford to return to her rooms to collect her for dinner, rehearsing how she’d intended to approach him and sweep all his objections aside. She would not return to London, she decided, dressing carefully for the evening. She was armored in a delicate dress of pale crepe de chine, matched by long silk gloves, and her blond wig piled high and fixed in place with a diamond pin from one of the Rushford family store of jewels. Drained and shaken by their last encounter, she had proceeded through the movements of getting dressed with curious detachment and careful deliberation, waiting in her rooms for Rushford until the sun was setting and the maid had arrived to light the lamps. Deciding to linger no longer, she’d descended the grand staircase alone.
“You were positively magnificent today at the hunt,” exclaimed Lord Cecil Braemore, taking the chair next to hers.
Miss Barry, resplendent in a glittering gown of gold brocade, concurred from across the table. “Positively Amazonian, from what I’ve heard,” she said, her smile brittle. “Of course, I was still abed. I do so loathe the outdoors, I must confess,” she added with a delicate shrug of her bared shoulders. “Thank goodness we have Miss Warren here to join the gentlemen in their exploits.”
Rowena smiled and answered with a playfulness she didn’t remotely feel. “I certainly enjoyed the fresh air and the opportunity to ride. You keep a wonderful stable, Baron,” she said, bypassing the actress and directly addressing Sebastian down the length of the table.
As always, his attire was impeccable, the superfine fabric and exquisite tailoring of his waistcoat and dinner jacket the height of sophistication. His black hair was slicked back from his forehead, his eyes concerned. “How ever did we lose you and Lord Rushford during the run?” he asked. “As your host, I was quiet anxious, truth be told, my dear Miss Warren. I should not wish anything untoward to transpire over the course of these few days.”
Cecil nodded energetically in agreement. “Lord no! We shouldn’t want anything to befall you, my dear.”
“Lord Rushford and I had quite an adventure,” she said.
The Baron’s brows shot up. “Indeed?”
“A little mishap with the girth straps of my saddle. Nothing more,” she demurred.
The Baron’s frown deepened. “I shall have my groom look into the matter at once. This is inexcusable, and I offer you my heartfelt apologies, Miss Warren.”
Lord Braemore patted her hand with relief. “Your experience as an equestrienne no doubt held you in good stead, Miss Warren. And at least you’re back safely now in the bosom of Alcestor Court. Although such a shame that you missed the conclusion of the hunt. It was quite spirited.”
A footman placed a heavy linen napkin on Rowena’s lap. “To be entirely candid, Lord Braemore, I don’t actually like to hunt.”
The Baron’s brows rose once again. “How can that be when you ride so superbly, my dear Miss Warren?”
“I have no desire to witness a bloody slaughter.”
“That’s simply nature you are recoiling from,” the Baron answered smoothly. “I shouldn’t have thought you to be so timid.”
“Hardly timid, sir, merely empathetic to an animal’s plight.”
“A tender heart, then,” the Baron concluded.
“If you will.”
“Speaking of which,” Miss Barry interrupted with a flutter of a small hand, “where is that charming escort of yours, Miss Warren? Perhaps he has lost his appetite?” she inquired slyly.
Rowena did not reply, concentrating instead on the dish of quail placed before her. Conversation murmured around her, and she answered the occasional question directed to her mechanically and with as much false charm as she could muster. She looked about at all the rapacious faces around the table, her unease sharpening. Where was Rushford, she wondered, alarm blossoming like a bloodstain.
The Baron was explaining how he had come into possession of his country house in Dorset, his homes in France and Italy, and his peripatetic inclinations when it involved roaming the world. Soon after there were various remarks about retiring early, accompanied by sidelong glances and languidly exchanged looks. Her anxiety growing, she contemplated the last course of ices and petit fours placed in front of her. She was half listening to something that Lord Braemore was saying, her mind weighing the wisdom of forging ahead with Baron Sebastian—with or without Rushford. Planning ahead, unlike her prudent sister Julia, was clearly not her forte.
Rowena felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Cecil’s eyes burning into hers, fueled in good part by too much claret at dinner. All around them, chairs were being pulled back, and couples drifting from the hall to the salon beyond. Miss Barry had already exited, she noticed, as Braemore leaned in closer, the overwhelming scent of heavy cream sauce on his breath. “I was hoping perhaps,” he began, bringing his face closer and lowering his voice for her ears alone, “that you might be in some ways tenderly disposed toward me, Miss Warren. Might a gentleman hope for the favor of an evening stroll through the grounds?”
Rowena knew well enough that it wasn’t a stroll he had in mind. Night had already fallen, and she realized any stroll would take place upstairs in Cecil’s bedchamber rather than on the dimly lit grounds. Yet this was the expected behavior of a mistress at a country house weekend, she thought, watching as Cecil put a finger to her chin and leaned forward to kiss her. Her stillness was all the encouragement he needed. He leaped upon her like a man at a feast, taking her face in his hands and kissing her crudely, allowing his fingers to wander the cleavage that had tantalized him from the moment she had entered the room. Stiffening in shock, with one part of her mind telling her this interlude was a necessity of the role she had taken on, she pushed him away. Her distaste trumped her good sense. She shot to her feet, the fine crepe de chine of her gown straining against Braemore’s grip. “My apologies,” she murmured, ready to tear from the room.
Before she could take a step, the Baron appeared at her side. “I believe Miss Warren requires a few moments to herself, Cecil,” he said carefully as Braemore slowly released a handful of crumpled silk. “Shall we retire to the conservatory, my dear?” he asked, proffering his arm, and ignoring the other man’s frustrated expression. Rowena had no desire to be alone with either man, but the look in the Baron’s eyes, shocking as a flood of ice water, made her nod her head in assent.
When Rushford thought back on it, he should have been better prepared upon returning to his rooms. He had felt rather than seen the three men behind the door, and then very definitely registered their hands, firm and insistent, gripping his arms. Briefly, he thought of Rowena, waiting for him in the dining hall, but then he refused to think of her again.
“Do you know why you were invited to Alcestor Court?” one of the men asked. He was short but aggressive in his posture. Still, if his hands were not tied to a chair, Rushford could have taken him in the ring in under a minute. Pity he would never have the opportunity.
“Why don’t you ask the Baron?” Rushford replied. One of the other men, weighing at least two hundred and fifty pounds, drew back his arm and smashed his fist into Rushford’s sternum. Pain seared through his chest, and he felt the wa
rm wetness of blood fill his mouth.
The shorter man smiled his approval and clapped a hand on Rushford’s shoulder sympathetically.
“We have all night for this discussion, if you choose to be difficult, my lord. You will just simply miss the festivities below.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur. The big man had once studied boxing, Rushford decided; he knew the location of the body’s internal organs and how to target them with lethal force. The man who addressed Rushford introduced himself between the blows as Crompton. Crompton watched as the pugilist named Johnston performed his duties with detached interest, interspersing the volley of punches with the occasional question for Rushford.
“Are you here because of the Rosetta Stone?”
Rushford told him that he had no idea what they were talking about, that he had been invited to a country house for the weekend by the Baron for no other reason than to disport himself among his guests.
“With your mistress?” Crompton asked.
“With whomever the Baron decided to invite.”
“Your mistress is not Miss Warren but rather Miss Woolcott, is she not?” The room spinning, Rushford replied that he had no idea what they were talking about. This time, Crompton held him while the other man punched him repeatedly in the stomach. The huge four-poster bed with its crimson canopy swam before Rushford’s eyes. He was close to vomiting and on the verge of blacking out.
“It would be a shame to have Miss Woolcott share the same fate as the late Duchess of Taunton, would you not agree?” The voice was Crompton’s, although it came from a great distance away as it filtered through the haze of Rushford’s brain. He allowed the image of Rowena’s face to dance momentarily in front of his mind’s eye, his senses consumed by pain. A fist to his right ear rang in his head, accomplishing what he could not have done alone. It banished thoughts of Rowena.
“We are clearly losing our patience, my lord, with your disinclination to oblige us.”
“Then perhaps try asking me questions that I can answer,” he said, his voice still surprisingly strong. The pugilist raised his fist again, but Crompton held him back.
“What would you like to tell us about the Rosetta Stone?”
“It is where it always is—the British Museum.”
“Then why are you here at Alcestor Court?”
Rushford closed his eyes, a tide of weakness tugging him into the shallows. “I already told you.”
Crompton pursed his lips, a cupid’s bow, incongruous with his stocky frame. “Very well then. How much do you care about Miss Woolcott? It perhaps doesn’t truly signify, since you already have the blood of one innocent on your hands?”
Dimly, Rushford considered telling them what they wanted to hear. That he would allow them to steal the Stone but only if Rowena Woolcott and her family were left in peace. The insight gave him a strange confidence. The Baron would find an appealing symmetry to the idea, of having both the Woolcott dilemma and possession of the Rosetta Stone resolved with one elegant solution.
Crompton’s voice droned on. “Despite your amazing resilience,” he continued serenely, “our aim is not to dispatch you, my lord, although we easily could. Another body found floating in the Thames—You are known as a man who loves his drink and who is still lamenting the death of his former mistress, the Duchess of Taunton. No one would be overly surprised, I shouldn’t think.”
They would not kill him yet, Rushford knew. They would leave him to his own devices for the time being, he predicted, to allow the chill of threat to permeate his already aching bones.
Crompton said, “I believe that Johnston here deserves a reprieve, Lord Rushford. Take some time to ponder your opportunities. And let’s not forget how Miss Woolcott is spending her time at the moment—with the Baron. How fortunate for them both.”
Chapter 15
Rowena felt a curious mixture of despair and relief. Relief that she had the monster Faron in her sights and despair at the impossibility of escape. Despite his small, lean frame, Sebastian seemed to fill the conservatory. “You are looking disarmingly beautiful, Miss Warren, I must say.”
His air was one of formality, and she followed his lead with a slight bow of her head. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Sebastian looked about the gracious room, running his hands over the rich sheen of his waistcoat, as if wondering what to do with them. She noticed that he did not have his cigar case on his person.
“You are welcome to take your brandy and cigars, if you choose,” she said. “It does not disturb me in the least.”
“Most thoughtful of you. Shall we stroll, Miss Warren?” he asked, the timbre of his voice all too familiar. Rowena concentrated on steadying her breath.
“There are some wondrous species of orchid and lily that my gardener has taken great pains to cultivate,” he continued. “And then we may converse at our leisure.” When she didn’t immediately respond, Sebastian asked, “Come now. Surely a sedate stroll is preferable to what is going on in some of the bedchambers at the moment, Miss Warren? Your virtue is safe with me, if that’s your concern.”
“Where is Lord Rushford?” she asked abruptly.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Perhaps he has taken up with Miss Barry, who, we all noticed, seemed particularly enamored of him. Don’t look so downcast, my dear. You will hardly survive life as a courtesan if you do not inure yourself to such things. Is that not precisely why you’ve accompanied Lord Rushford this weekend? To round out your education, as it were?”
Rowena’s throat felt blocked, but she squared her shoulders and said as carelessly as she could, “I am certain Lord Rushford will disport himself as he wishes while I welcome the opportunity of getting to know you better, Baron.”
“How brave you are, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps the prospect has you nervous.”
“I have absolutely nothing to be nervous about, now have I? Lord Rushford looks after his own interests, as do I,” she claimed, responding to the Baron’s gestured invitation that they commence their walk around the periphery of the glass enclosure. The Baron began pointing out a species of lily discovered in South America, his meandering disquisition more nerve-racking than if he had pulled Faron like a rabbit out of a hat.
“You are so wise for one so very young,” Sebastian said with mock admiration, pointing out the furrowed leaves of a vibrant yellow orchid. “Life is so much more pleasant when one is accepting of one’s fate.”
Rowena stared at the orchid, its color rich against the dark green foliage. “Such as the accident arranged for me earlier today?” she asked. Her anger must have shown as she lifted her eyes, for his own flashed unexpected fire.
“Whatever do you mean, Miss Warren? I trust you are not referring to the unfortunate incident that befell you earlier today. And I do so hope that you are not accusing your host . . .” he began with a halfhearted indignation that did not match the expression in his eyes.
“Clearly, I don’t accept my fate,” she interrupted. “And not for the first time, Baron Sebastian. Otherwise I might be found on the bottom of the Irthing River.”
The Baron registered her words with an unblinking stare. “Never truer words spoken, Miss Woolcott,” he concurred, resting his hands in the pockets of his evening jacket. There was a moment’s silence, and it seemed to Rowena that even the stars shining overhead through the glass conservatory dimmed. The sweet and heavy scent of the blossoms seemed suddenly overpowering.
“You abducted me from my home,” she said finally, pausing significantly as if to let the words take on their full weight. “And left me for dead. You were there, were you not?”
The Baron’s dark brows rose in surprise. “I didn’t expect you to be quite so blunt, Miss Woolcott.”
“I have nothing to lose.”
“Except your aunt and sister,” he finished deftly. “Faron is most displeased to discover that you are among the living. So it would stand to reason that he may set his sights on your aunt.”
Rowena clenched her fists in her evening gloves. “Which I intend to forestall,” she said heatedly.
“That remains to be seen.”
She thought of her pistol, at home in Montfort, and imagined drilling a tidy hole in the Baron’s forehead. But it was not to be. There was another moment’s silence as she lowered her eyes so that he wouldn’t see her thinking, or detect her anger. “Sebastian,” she said softly, breaking the air of formality between them, “there must be some way we can reach an accommodation.” When she dared to look up, she found his eyes, dark obsidian, upon her.
“What makes you say that?” he asked in a calculating tone, his head bent toward a giant calla lily, openly admiring its dusky color. “You have little with which to bargain.” He turned to look at her, and she recognized then from the expression in his eyes what the price of accommodation would be. It sickened her, but in some way, it also hardened her resolve. Suddenly, only Meredith and Julia mattered, and she knew what she had to do, and realized that she had the strength to do it.
“Faron tried to kill me. As you did today. At his behest, I surmise.”
“What do you remember of what transpired a year ago?”
“You were there. I remember your voice,” she said. “Distinctly.”
“That may well be,” he mused. “I can’t entirely account for my presence during that period.”
Rowena flinched, suddenly cold in the thin silk of her gown. “You find the prospect of murder amusing?”
“Murder? You are standing before me today, my dear Miss Warren. Due entirely to Lord Rushford’s timely intervention, upon both occasions,” the Baron reminded, deliberately testing her. “I wonder how difficult it would be,” he continued crisply, “to work against the man who has saved your life not once but twice.”
“Are you inquiring about my loyalties, sir?”
“Of course, my dear,” the Baron answered, suave as ever. “How else can I determine whether you would truly see fit to betray Rushford’s confidence?”
The Darkest Sin Page 20
