The Darkest Sin
Page 21
“You are mad.”
“Hardly, my dear Miss Warren. I am entirely rational in believing that you would give your loyalty to your aunt and sister before you would give it to the man who has taken you as his mistress.”
Rowena quickly thought beyond the present, envisaging a future where life at Montfort would be as vibrant and full of promise as in the past. “I shall be honest,” she said. “If I could, I would kill you here and now for what you and Faron have done and still intend to do.”
The Baron smiled with satisfaction. “I shouldn’t doubt it. You are an unusual young woman, and I value your truthfulness.” He picked a wilted leaf, rolled it between his fingertips, and discarded it with the flick of a wrist. Patting his pockets, he produced his silver cigar case. “If you would permit me?” he asked again, the courteous host, extracting a thin cigar.
Rowena’s mind worked quickly. If he wanted something in exchange, she would give it to him. “Let’s dispense with civilities, Baron. I refuse to speak to you any further about my loyalties, divided or otherwise. I will resolve the situation regarding my family with Faron directly,” she said stonily. “From you, I wish only to know of Faron’s whereabouts.”
He looked vaguely amused. “What you ask is difficult.” He produced a match and lit his cigar. “You understand that Faron wishes you dead. I should not like to disappoint him—again.”
“However, I may be worth more to you both alive. For the time being at least.” Despite the humid warmth of the conservatory, she felt chilled in the thin crepe de chine gown.
His sleek brows rose. “My dear girl, what is it that you are offering? It must be of great value, please understand.”
Rowena met his eyes evenly. “Anything I might have to pay.”
The Baron smiled at her through a haze of smoke. “I have never needed to coerce a woman for her favors.” A look passed between them that Rowena couldn’t fully understand, but it had in it the raw light of truth. If he guessed her real intentions or feelings in that moment, he would let her know. He merely took another puff of his cigar and allowed his gaze to wander. “Women’s bodies are abundantly available, a fact which at your tender age, you have yet to learn. However, you are beautiful and young and belong to Lord Rushford, for the moment at least. You need not tell me whether your arrangement is predicated on need or gratitude, my dear. Neither matters in the least. Regardless, despite my baser inclinations, I would say that your offer is not nearly enough to entice me to come to an agreement.” He punctuated his statement with a keen look through a plume of smoke.
“I was not offering my person,” she said, although she would have, she admitted to herself honestly. “What else do you wish from me?”
He stopped their perambulations abruptly, took one more draw from his cigar, his eyes suddenly darker and alien. “You have become close to Rushford. I’m sure he could be persuaded to confide in you. If he has not done so already.”
“About what precisely, Baron?” she asked, her voice surprisingly hard.
“Has he spoken at all of the Rosetta Stone?”
Rowena stared blankly. “Yes, the Rosetta Stone,” continued the Baron, leaning against the wrought-iron table in the conservatory. “Surely, Lord Rushford has confided somewhat in you?”
Rowena thought quickly, aware that she should feign knowledge of Rushford’s intentions regarding the Stone despite the fact that he had been reluctant from the first to reveal anything of substance to her. It was a form of leverage, of power that she had over Sebastian and Faron. Her story would be pure fabrication, if need be, and cause no harm to Rushford’s plans, whatever they might entail. If it brought her closer to Faron, all the better. “Of course,” she said with feigned confidence. “He explained how he foiled your plans to steal the Stone some time ago.”
“Anything more?”
“Certainly,” she said. “He mentioned that there were plans afoot to steal the relic once again and secret it out of England.”
“My dear, you are playing coy, which will get you no closer to what you want.”
Her mind grappled with plausible developments. “There are details, of course, to which I am not wholly privy,” she continued, measuring out what she knew. “But I shall endeavor to bring more information to you as I uncover it.”
“And I have your word?”
“Yes.”
“Well your word means little to me,” the Baron said abruptly. “I shall be honest with you. Should you refuse to be scrupulously honest with me, there is still your aunt, at Montfort—”
Rowena placed a gloved hand at her throat. “That is not necessary. Entirely unnecessary,” she said softly. “You have my word. But if any harm at all should befall her—”
The Baron chuckled. “And what could you possibly do?”
“Ensure that you never get your hands on the Stone,” she said, her words as hard and clear as glass.
The Baron examined the tip of his cigar. “And what do you wish in return for your assistance, in addition to securing your aunt’s safety?”
“To meet with Faron,” she said clearly.
“He will no longer travel to England.”
“I will go to him in France.”
“An interesting proposition,” Sebastian said, tilting his head to one side before releasing a stream of smoke. “Perhaps arrangements can be made.”
“At the very least, tell me where he resides,” she said, trying to keep desperation from her voice.
“I don’t suppose it could do any harm. Claire de Lune outside Blois is heavily protected. You would not gain entry without Faron’s assent. And who knows, he may at this point derive some kind of twisted pleasure out of meeting you in the flesh. Although, he would still see you dead.”
Claire de Lune, outside Blois. Rowena held on to the nugget as though it were gold. She struggled to concoct something regarding the Rosetta Stone that would hold Sebastian’s interest. He observed her carefully, leaning gracefully against the glass and wrought-iron skeleton of the conservatory. “I don’t suppose he’s told you,” the Baron mused.
There was a change in tone and Rowena shivered, wishing she had brought her shawl from the dining room.
“I suppose he has never mentioned the Duchess at all.”
The image of the beautiful portrait danced before Rowena’s eyes. Now would be the worst time to examine her feelings too closely. “You are referring to Lord Rushford’s former mistress.”
“Indeed. I don’t suppose he divulged how she died. Perhaps you should be apprised of the details as it may make a difference in how you perceive your divided loyalties—to him and to me.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, endeavoring to keep the tremor from her voice.
“It may make the situation a trifle easier for you, my dear.” Sebastian stared moodily at the stars overhead. “You see, theirs was a torrid affair, a coup de foudre, as we say in French. She was willing to sacrifice everything to be with Rushford, including her marriage to the Earl and her position in society, from which she would be forever outcast should a divorce have ever taken place.” He paused as though shaking his head at the folly. “And yet, I am loathe to reveal, Rushford was more than willing to sacrifice his duchess in order to achieve his own ends.”
Rowena listened wide eyed, her mouth dry.
“The Duchess of Taunton became involved in the Rosetta affair, to her peril when Rushford was given the choice to give up the Stone or forfeit the Duchess’s life.” The Baron shook his head with affected remorse. “Alas. He did not choose well.” He held Rowena’s gaze for a long moment. “Hardly the hero of the story, I am most sorry to say.”
They had left Rushford manacled to a chair, which in turn was chained to the armoire by the window. Of course, it was all child’s play, Rushford reflected in the moments after they had left him alone. There was little he had not experienced and survived. He was a man who had been beaten in the past, not only by those with everything to lose but also in the ring by m
en twice his size. And in the navy, captured by a Spanish galleon with a particularly sadistic captain, he had once been kept in a cell slightly bigger than a coffin for a fortnight on the island of Majorca. And there had been the days after Kate’s passing when he’d wished he was dead, and he’d been left to explore his own vulnerabilities and guilt so intimately that he knew precisely what he could tolerate and when he would break. As Crompton had discovered, he had a high threshold for pain and feared physical torment far less than what they could do to his mind.
Rowena, he thought. They will try to use Rowena against me. The only time he’d been vulnerable in his life was with Kate, and now they knew he would do anything in his power to prevent the senseless death of another innocent. He gritted his teeth and strained once more at the chain connecting the cuffs securing his hands, although the effort was useless. Iron, he thought mordantly, attached to a heavy chair. He heard the door to the bedchamber open and saw the Baron, still in his evening clothes, step forward into the lamplight.
“Good evening, Lord Rushford.” His voice was low and rich. “So disappointed that you failed to attend our lovely dinner this evening.” He sauntered farther into the room.
“You were missed, of course, particularly by Miss Warren, whom you will be relieved to know, I took under my wing for a stroll throughout the conservatory. It is particularly lovely this time of year, what with all the lilies and orchids in blossom.” The Baron paused deliberately. “I should really not wish for Crompton and Johnston to have to return,” he said conversationally. “As you know, Johnston can be quite persuasive, and Crompton believes that questioning you into the night should help you reconsider your opportunities, or so he tells me.”
“He’s wrong.” Rushford forced himself to speak.
The Baron nodded contemplatively. “I thought you might say that, alas.”
Rushford’s mouth was dry. “What’s in this for you, Sebastian ? Did Faron promise you another chateau or English castle or perhaps a packet of sovereigns?”
A flicker in Sebastian’s eyes. Rushford had learned some time ago that turning the tables was part of the mastery of fighting back.
“We do not speak of Faron,” the Baron said with regal hauteur. “And to answer your question, we simply require your cooperation, and I’m here to ask for it. I hope not to resort to threats.”
“Although beatings are permissible.”
Sebastian shrugged. “Your choice. If you indicate that you are ready to be more amenable, Lord Rushford, I’d like you to pick up the pace. In the interests of civility, let us not delay. What do you intend to do about the Rosetta Stone?”
Rushford half rose from his seat, the violent movement instinctive. The two men stared at each other, and neither budged save for the faint tremor of Sebastian’s hands.
Rushford sat back down. “I intend to do nothing.”
“Nonsense,” the Baron tossed off, his eye on the chains around Rushford’s wrists and the heavy chair upon which he was seated. “Pure, unadulterated nonsense,” he added succinctly.
Rushford’s eyes flicked toward his. “I suggest that you will discover your efforts are futile.”
Sebastian shook his head. “All for nothing? Hardly. That would be most unfortunate as I should be forced to bring Miss Warren into the mix. Or should I refer to her as Miss Woolcott? Once again, your decision.”
Rushford stared at him, anger rising in his throat. “Do not fuck with me, Sebastian,” he warned.
“I have little choice,” he returned genially. “And I’m afraid the fate of Miss Woolcott just may hang in the balance should you refuse to offer your assistance in the matter of the Rosetta Stone. Such a shame, given the situation with the late Duchess . . .”
Rushford tensed his shoulders against the chair. “When I am free,” he said, “I will kill you, Sebastian. With my bare hands. Nobody uses Rowena Woolcott to get to me.”
“But Lord Rushford,” the Baron reminded him gently, “we already have. From the very beginning.” There was a pregnant silence as Rushford strained against his manacles, all the hatred and guilt of the past two years blazing in his eyes. “I have just finished speaking with Miss Woolcott, who is ready to betray you for whatever it is that she wants. Her family’s safety—I believe it is. The Duchess of Taunton, Felicity Clarence, Galveston, and now the Woolcott girl. It really is mysterious, how a man of your experience could be deluded not just once but several times.”
A thick miasma filled the room.
“You appear somewhat discomfited, Lord Rushford. I have heard it said that you have a fierce temper.”
With sudden violence, Rushford thrust himself out of his chair, the chain attached to the armoire breaking loose with a bone-crunching sound. “Deluded,” he spat out, his manacled hands clanking against the chair. Sebastian retreated a step but not soon enough. With his fingertips, Rushford lifted the edge of his seat and hurled the back of the chair, legs first, at the Baron. It struck once, and though Sebastian stepped instinctively backward, one of the legs caught his cheek, the cut instantly welling with blood.
“Johnston,” the Baron called calmly, pulling a handkerchief from his vest pocket, “it would seem that Lord Rushford requires extra inducements to convince him to oblige us.” The large man appeared almost immediately, his heft invading the room. He attempted to push Rushford back in his seat. Instead he found himself kneed in the groin, pushed to the ground with one of the chair’s legs and his pistol taken from his waistband.
Rushford’s breaths came evenly. “Now let’s review our options again,” he said calmly as he aimed the pistol with both hands steadily at Sebastian, its blunt nose pointing through the legs of the chair. “Beginning with these manacles, shall we?”
Still holding the handkerchief to his cheek, Sebastian smiled nastily. “How prescient of you, my lord. We no longer need the manacles, nor as you shall soon see, do you need use of the pistol. You will quickly understand the wisdom of assisting us in our endeavors. As a matter of fact, the decision will be all yours—when it comes to Rowena Woolcott and her dear aunt. You could have left her to die in the Irthing and gone after Faron. But you didn’t. And now you’re together again after all these months. Whether or not you believe it to be true, you care for the girl, Lord Rushford.” He dabbed the handkerchief against his cheek before calling for Crompton. “The keys, if you will. Lord Rushford is prepared to be obliging. I shall predict that he has had a change of heart.”
Rowena awoke to a dimly lit room. Her sleep had been so heavy that for minutes she couldn’t move her limbs although something told her she was not alone. Finally she was able to turn her head and open her eyes.
Rushford was sitting at the end of the bed, a glass of brandy in his hand, watching her with a granite expression. Everything rushed back to her in a dizzying flood of panic. She sat up in bed. It was then she noticed the shadows beneath his eyes, the bruise on his jaw, and the blood on his torn cravat.
“What happened? You’re hurt,” she began. She had never seen him this way. He appeared more of a stranger than the first night she had met him in his bedchamber on Belgravia Square, and as unreachable as the farthest shore.
Rushford interrupted with a wave of his hand. “That’s the last of our worries, Rowena.” His next words were soft, freighted with lethal menace. “What did you agree to tonight? And by God, don’t lie.”
There was a beat of silence. Where had he been? With the Baron as well? “You don’t understand,” she began, her thoughts disorganized. “Let me explain.”
“No explanations. I asked what you agreed to tonight. With Sebastian.” The tone of his voice was ugly.
She became immediately defensive. “I divulged nothing to Sebastian. I have nothing to divulge because you have told me nothing,” she said, panic making her ramble.
“And that was a damned good decision on my part. Because you wanted to.” He stood up in one swift, angry movement, the glass falling from his hands and breaking on the floor.
“Let me explain,” she began again, turning her profile away from the light. “I only promised to tell him what I learned in exchange for access to Faron. And protection for Meredith.”
“About the Rosetta Stone.”
“About which I know nothing,” she said, exasperation in her voice and posture. She rubbed her hands against her bare arms. “In exchange, Sebastian revealed where Faron resides, knowledge which surely is of help to you.”
Rushford laughed, the sound bleak. “I already know where to find Faron, you little fool,” he said.
“And yet you didn’t tell me?” she demanded. “Now who is betraying whom?”
“So you could go rushing off to France with some wild notion and be killed?”
“Why did you not tell me?” she continued, ice in her veins. “I believed we were working together, if for different purposes, against Faron.”
He stood over her, his face a mask of fury, his eyes deadly. The bruise on the side of his jaw was purpling, and in the candlelight, she could now see a rip in his shirt, the collar smudged with smears of blood.
“What happened to you?” she asked again, her head spinning, and she was suddenly more frightened than she had ever been in her life. Even more, if possible, than during the lost days of her abduction. “You do not look well. You don’t look like the man I know.”
“I’m far from well, Rowena,” he said with the same soft savagery. “And you don’t know me. What did you promise to do? Seduce me—in exchange for information about the Stone?”
Rowena stood up slowly as the words tumbled in desperate explanation from her lips. “Of course I would not tell the Baron anything of value. I would merely mislead him but allow him to think that he . . . And in exchange he would guarantee Meredith’s safety.”