Sinner's Heart th-3

by Zoë Archer

  “Pleasurable?” She raised a brow. “From her presence alone?”

  “Is that so difficult for her to believe?”

  She pursed her lips. “Given what she knows of your history, it is.”

  “Therein lies the wonder and truth of it.” He stepped nearer. “I hadn’t gone looking for such a bond, yet it found me. I need her guidance in this unfamiliar territory.”

  Livia did not back away, but tilted her chin up to meet his gaze without blinking. “She might be as inexperienced as you, and have no guidance to offer.”

  “Then,” he said, lowering his eyelids, “we’ll feel our way together.”

  After a long moment, she said softly, “Yes, I can see the efficacy of your strategy.”

  He was tense all over, tense in the way a predator readied itself before leaping onto its prey. In this instance, though, there were two predators, and the struggle would be all the more delicious as they each fought for dominance. How they’d claw and tear at one another. He never wanted anything more.

  From beneath this onslaught of need, a revelation emerged. The best strategies for tracking bore striking similarities to a seduction.

  “We’ve been busy checking the weapon,” he said, “but not the target. That is where we should look.”

  She blinked, returning to herself, and it flattered him no small amount that she’d been just as ensnared as he. “John’s enemies. They are the men who occupy his thoughts.”

  “He’ll want to know what they intend, make his next move based on that.”

  “Those men in the park. Surely he knows about them.”

  She wasn’t in his bed, yet he liked having her here, in this chamber. The two of them together, talking. Plotting. He had never planned strategy with women. He had thought up tactics to get them on their backs, but not this . . . this exchange of ideas and cunning that made his heart beat a little faster, his breath come a little quicker.

  “They’re the ones we need to attend to,” he said. “For whatever Maxwell and the others mean to do, John will find out, and seek to prevent it.”

  “Go to Maxwell. Ask him what he and the others plan.”

  Bram laughed, rueful. “I may not know much about politics, but I know that nothing within it is straightforward. If I ask Maxwell directly, or use my persuasive ability on him, he might suspect me of double dealing. And then you and I shall have opposition from every angle.”

  Scowling in frustration, Livia took up her pacing. It was more of a continual glide, around and around the chamber, moving through any object in her path.

  She radiated so much energy, even in this non-corporeal state. When she had been alive . . . she must have filled every room with her presence, all eyes drawn to her. God knew he couldn’t look away.

  “Servants, perhaps,” she said after a moment. “They’re the keepers of secrets, and easily bribed into silence.”

  “Servants know some secrets, but not all. They’re more interested in domestic scandal than governmental machinations.” He rubbed at his jaw as the seedling of an idea began to take root. “But there are a select few who learn all the hidden truths of a man’s heart. Who learn his darkest thoughts, and private ambitions.”

  “Priests?”

  He smiled. “Wives.”

  The mantua maker’s establishment fronted the Strand, clear evidence of its fashionable status. Prints from France, displaying the latest styles, adorned the modern bow window, alongside a ready-made gown of white and green printed Colonial cotton. Within, bolts of heavy brocade lined up beside gleaming satin, fine messaline silk. Ribbons were arranged on spools, and trays bearing embroidered kidskin gloves and velvet flowers lined up on the counter. Rosewater and talc scented the air.

  Bram gazed around the shop. He inhaled deeply, smiling. The realm of patrician women, soft, purposefully delicate and removed.

  Yet even here, in this stronghold of gentility, dwelled darkness. Ladies swayed anxiously through the room, trailed by their wary-eyed abigails. Their fingers brushed over sumptuous fabrics, and they spoke in musical murmurs about cuts of a polonaise or the silver embroidery on a stomacher. Yet their voices were distracted, talking of assemblies none planned to attend. Several of the mantua maker’s assistants kept throwing apprehensive gazes toward the watery gray light drifting in through the window, as though marking the hour, and when the last protective rays of the sun might disappear.

  Catching sight of Bram in the doorway, the mantua maker herself danced over to him. “My lord, an honor. I am Madame De Jardin.” Her French accent came direct to London by way of Ipswich. “How might I assist you this lovely day?”

  “Merely perusing your fine shop, Madame.” He affected a casual glance, his gaze never resting anywhere for too long, though he sought something, someone in particular. Ah—there she was. “When I need your assistance, I shall assuredly let you know.”

  Effectively dismissed, the mantua maker dropped into a curtsy then slipped away to help a dowager choose between black bombazine and black tabinet.

  He ambled over to shelves holding more bolts of fabric, and feigned interest in studying their colors and patterns.

  Is she here? Livia asked.

  Toward the back. She’s the one in bronze jacquard.

  I’ve no idea what jacquard is, was the tart reply. Clearly, you’ve learned much from undressing women.

  It helps to know many languages.

  Livia made a soft noise of scorn. Don’t tarry. Go to her.

  Remember what I said before? Too much eagerness won’t yield results. We take our time, and reap the benefits of our patience.

  The veteran seducer’s wisdom.

  We know it has its uses.

  He studied a bolt of pale blue sarcenet, lightly touching its lustrous surface. Despite Livia’s impatience, she hummed with feminine approval. Bram tucked his smile away. For all her forcefulness and imperious declarations, she was still a woman.

  You approve? he asked.

  The silk shines well enough, but the color is too mild.

  This, I think, is more to your tastes. He ran his finger down a length of deep gold charmeuse. Her skin would feel the same, silken and lithe.

  Oh, she breathed. That is ... Her words trailed away, and his mind suddenly filled with images of her, draped in a gold silk tunic. They were her own envisioning, yet they became his, and the vision made his mouth water. In her thoughts, she wasn’t a translucent form, but a woman of solid flesh, her skin olive-hued and burnished, the charmeuse embracing her curves like a lover.

  There was silk, too, when I lived, she said, regaining her voice. It wasn’t half as fine. The wonders of this modern era.

  They are abundant. But this modern era would be in awe of you.

  He felt the warmth of her pleasure. Yet she said crisply, Your flattery isn’t necessary. There’s nothing to be gained by it.

  A compliment needn’t serve a purpose. It can simply exist.

  Ah. A long pause. Thank you.

  Those were not words she seemed familiar with speaking, but they were sincere.

  He moved slowly through the shop, smiling politely when an assistant or client tried to catch his eye. The assistants, barely more than girls, blushed and curtsied, though their shy smiles faltered when they espied his scar.

  Does it pain you? Livia asked quietly.

  It healed long ago.

  Not the wound. But the response it engenders.

  I used to hate it. Wore my stock so high it choked me, just to cover it. Then I deliberately left my neckcloths undone—flaunting it, I suppose.

  Surely that brought you more than a few female admirers. Few things are as appealing to a woman than scars.

  One of the customers, a nobleman’s young wife he dimly remembered from a card party, angled herself in his path. She wore an expectant smile.

  He nodded, and stepped around her. The sound of her insulted huff bounced off his back.

  I was a novelty. A tame monster. They wanted to boas
t to their friends about taking me to their beds and surviving.

  Then everyone benefitted from the arrangement.

  Was it a benefit? The single-minded way he hunted pleasure—from one bed to the next, one encounter following another—stripped it down to a basic, animal need, absent of true enjoyment. Barely had he risen from the tangled sheets, discarding the used lambskin sheaths he employed to keep himself in reasonably sound health, before he planned his subsequent conquests.

  The grimness of this prospect looted any cheer from the shop. Bright silks dulled, and the curlicue voices of the women flattened into toneless drones.

  I . . . Livia sounded oddly contrite. It wasn’t my intent to lower you.

  I’ve been low, he answered. Dwelt there for years. Whether I can climb upward is yet to be determined.

  He carefully maneuvered himself near his intended target. She idly toyed with a length of lace—Spanish, judging by the pattern. But her rouged lips were pressed tight, and she seemed little interested in the scrap of expensive fabric she fingered.

  Something pressed upon Lady Maxwell’s mind.

  Though Bram was the only man in the shop, it was a measure of her distractedness that she did not notice him until he stood beside her. Only when her maid coughed politely to gain her attention did Lady Maxwell glance up. She nearly looked twice, her lips making an O of surprise. Of all the people she must have considered meeting at a fashionable dressmaker’s shop, Bram must have been low on that list.

  “Lord Rothwell.”

  “Lady Maxwell.”

  They offered each other decorous bows and curtsies.

  “This is an unexpected delight,” he said. He had, in fact, followed her from her home in St. James, careful to keep his horse out of sight from her carriage.

  “I was unaware that you patronized Madame De Jardin’s establishment.” She glanced past Bram’s shoulder. “You are here with . . .”

  He watched her mentally run through the possibilities. He had no living female relations, and certainly no wife.

  “. . . A friend?” she finished. Beneath her powder, her cheeks colored. Mistresses might well be accepted fact amongst the elite, but ladies seldom discussed them with gentlemen in mantua makers’ shops.

  “I am alone,” Bram answered.

  Except for the ghost, added Livia.

  Can’t very well say that to her.

  Lady Maxwell frowned in puzzlement. “This seems an odd place for you.”

  He shrugged. “I own that such establishments are not my usual domain. Yet of late I find myself greatly missing feminine company. Thus my presence here.”

  “Fie, Lord Rothwell.” Lady Maxwell tapped his sleeve with her fan. “You never want for female companionship.” Though she was some eight years his senior, Lady Maxwell was yet a handsome woman, well-maintained, and not above fashionable flirtation.

  “Perhaps it is particular female companionship I seek.”

  Her brows rose. “You are roguish, sir.” Yet she sounded breathless, intrigued. He knew that tone well.

  “No offense was intended, ma’am.” He bowed, noting how her gaze lingered on his calf, then rose higher up his leg. “Might I apologize more profoundly—in private?” He tipped his chin toward the back of the shop, where curtained rooms awaited women for changing and fittings.

  Lady Maxwell hesitated. She glanced at him, then at the other patrons. Her maid studiously looked blank.

  Is she so corruptible? Livia asked.

  Almost everyone is. Especially amongst our set.

  Finally, Lady Maxwell said in a theatric tone, “I believe my garter needs retying. Do excuse me.” She hurried to one of the changing rooms, stepped inside, and then, with a pointed glance at Bram, drew the curtain.

  She’s rather maladroit at this assignation business, Livia said.

  Her usual lover is away on the Continent. She’s out of practice.

  Fortunately, she has you as a tutor.

  I’m here for a purpose. Bram slipped back toward the curtained room. And it is not Lady Maxwell’s charms, seasoned though they might be.

  He stepped through the curtain, and the sounds of the shop grew muffled. The lady in question whirled around from readjusting the small velvet patch on her cheek in the mirror. She took a step toward him, then stopped and narrowed her eyes.

  “You’ve never shown an interest before, Rothwell.”

  “Always your affections had been engaged elsewhere. With Mr. Sedgwick absent, I thought I might press my advantage.” He narrowed the distance between them, and took her hand.

  She gasped, whilst Livia snickered.

  “Lady Maxwell. Mary. Expecting you to accept my sudden suit would be a gross insult. If any offense was taken, I beg forgiveness. ’Tis my hot blood, I fear, that makes me importunate.”

  With her free hand, Lady Maxwell opened her fan and began to cool her face. “I might pardon you. Perhaps.”

  “Let me come to you,” he continued, still clasping her hand. “Allow me to plead my case.”

  “Where might you do such a thing?” Her pupils were wide, her breath quick. Mr. Sedgwick was twenty years older than Bram, and Lady Maxwell’s longtime lover. His heated protestations and avowals likely ended over a decade past.

  A handsome young suitor such as you? What woman could remain indifferent?

  No need for ridicule, Madam Ghost.

  I’m not being sarcastic, was Livia’s intriguing reply.

  Bram realized Lady Maxwell waited on his answer. “At your home. When your husband is out during the night. I’ll come to you then.”

  “Lord Maxwell seldom attends evening amusements.”

  “He’s a man of no little influence in Parliament. Surely he has meetings at night.”

  A pleat of worry formed between Lady Maxwell’s brows. “He might . . . I don’t know . . .” Her gaze darted to the side, precisely the sort of movement Whit would call a tell.

  “Mary.” Bram moved to catch her gaze, and he gave her a long, slow smile. “How can I come to you if I don’t know the particulars of his schedule? I’d hate to spoil our pleasures before they had even begun.” He stroked his thumb across her wrist, back and forth. “Tell me when and where his next political gathering is to be.”

  At last, she said, “Tonight. A gathering at Camden House in Wimbledon.”

  The country estate of the king’s advisor. Surely that meant that Maxwell and the others in the cabal planned on meeting there to discuss and strategize against John. Wimbledon lay ten miles from the heart of London.

  Far away indeed for any sort of business. It had to be a secret council.

  So secret that John won’t know of it?

  He’ll know.

  Having gained the information he sought, Bram wanted nothing more than to bolt from the little curtained room, out of the mantua maker’s, and out into action. But he had a role to perform, and so adhered to the script.

  “Tonight, then.”

  “But—”

  He bowed over Lady Maxwell’s hand and pressed a kiss there. “Until then.”

  Before she could say anything further, he strode from the dressing chamber. He gave just a hint of knowing smile response to the curious looks he received.

  She might yet tell her husband that you asked about the meeting, Livia pointed out.

  Donning his hat, he stepped out into the street. Though the day was at its height, the Strand remained eerily quiet, the numbers of men and women out shopping dramatically thinned. He paced quickly to where a crossing sweep held his horse and threw the boy a coin.

  Swinging up into the saddle, he thought, She won’t. To do so would mean admitting to her husband that she was planning an assignation. He kicked his horse into motion.

  For a soldier, Livia said, you’re quite adept at subterfuge.

  There are many ways to win a war, he answered.

  Locating John was their goal—and Lady Maxwell had been gracious enough in her infidelity to provide the details of where
Bram would find her husband. Where Lord Maxwell was, John would be, as well. A gathering of his enemies made a perfect target.

  John would act against them, though the how of it was yet unknown.

  But we will be there to stop him, Bram thought, urging his horse to greater speed as he headed for Wimbledon.

  Day faded to twilight, color leeching from the world as the sun dipped below the horizon. He crossed the river at Putney Bridge, and the Thames made a dark, slick shape beneath, empty of watermen ferrying passengers in their skiffs. The land felt emptied, derelict, as he pushed further south of London. Hardly any lights burned in the windows of scattered homes. The village of Putney was deserted, its streets dark, and so it went, the further Bram rode into the night, passing few people in the gloom of night.

  Full darkness enveloped the countryside. At last, the stately form of Camden House appeared out of the shadows. It stood in the middle of a sprawling park. Crisply modern, it rose up two stories, proudly displaying rows of symmetrical windows in its brick and pale stone façade. In contrast to the darkness, lights blazed from the windows, an announcement that more than servants occupied the house.

  Not especially discrete, Livia noted.

  No one within believes they have anything to fear. Not tonight.

  Where is John?

  No bloody idea. But he’ll show.

  Weary though his horse was, the mare responded to his urging for more speed. It galloped across the wide, open parkland. Camden House drew closer. Men’s sober voices drifted in muted waves across the park. No signs of disturbance or trouble.

  He could be in hiding nearby, Livia said above the pounding hoof beats.

  Movement in the darkness snared his attention. He turned his head, every sense on alert.

  Bram, Livia cautioned.

  Shapes detached from the shadows. Large forms, nearly the size of his horse. They moved with a loping shuffle, drawing nearer. They made hoarse, guttural sounds.

  Something huge and heavy collided with Bram.

  He flew off his horse, landing hard on the ground. He lost his breath and his head collided with the earth. But he couldn’t pause to catch his wind or settle his spinning head. A beast was on top of him, its skin reeking of sulfur, and as it shrieked, hot, rotten air poured over him.