The Trouble With Sin

by Victoria Vane

  "I doubt that very much," Simon replied. "DeVere is not one for pining of any sort. He would expect you to enjoy yourself in his absence."

  "Enjoy myself? How am I supposed to do that stuck alone in this place?" She gave an indignant sniff.

  Simon turned up his hands with a sigh. "I don't know, Freddie. How were you used to entertaining yourself before?"

  "Entertainment is all we ever did when I lived amongst the Romanis. We traveled the country from north to south, performing at all the fairs, but now they have long moved on, and I am here. Alone."

  "Do you wish to rejoin them?"

  "No," she said. "I like London."

  "Then you wish to stay here?"

  "Where else am I to go?" she huffed.

  Simon raked a hand through his hair. Why were females so bloody complicated? A good meal and a tumble would suffice for any man, but obviously this situation required some finesse. He'd get nowhere near her bed, let alone into it, with her feathers in a ruffle as they were.

  "If you are bored, I'll be happy to take you out and about. Do you wish to attend the playhouse?" He supposed he could sneak her into his parents' box. They rarely attended. His mother disapproved of the illicit tone of the theatre. "Whatever your pleasure, Freddie, I place myself at your disposal." He gave her a gallant bow.

  "The playhouse? How can I go to the playhouse without any clothes?"

  "Clothes? There are clothes everywhere." He gestured to the garments that littered the floor.

  "Hardly the kind for a lady." Freddie rose from the bed with a snort. "He thought it a lark to keep me as a lad when we went about. The rest of the time, he said I had no need of 'em."

  She kicked violently at the breeches and shirts on the floor. Garbed only in DeVere's nightshirt, the act provided Simon with a gratuitous view of slim and shapely legs.

  Simon cursed DeVere in a surge of envy. Why had he been the one to discover Freddie? He was the luckiest blighter and thoroughly undeserving to boot. "Yes, I suppose DeVere would see it that way. Did he leave you any coin?"

  "Are you daft? Do you s'pose I'd be stuck here in these rooms had milord left me any coin?"

  Great. Just bloody great. DeVere had reaped all the benefits and now left Simon to deal with the upshot. But deal with it he would.

  "DeVere does not lack generosity, Freddie," he explained in his most placating tone. "No doubt, it simply didn't occur to him because he had so much on his mind before his departure."

  "Then what's to become of me?" The misty eyes returned. She blinked, and the first tears spilled from her black eyes to roll down her cheeks. It was nearly Simon's undoing.

  "Come now, Freddie! Please don't weep." He went to her and clasped her hands. "He's hardly abandoned you. He let this lodging for you after all and asked me to look after you—albeit in a somewhat vague and circuitous fashion."

  "Then you will be my protector?"

  "Protector? Hell, I don't know! I've never kept a mistress before."

  "Then you don't want me?" Freddie sniffed.

  "Bloody hell! It's not that, Freddie!" The problem wasn't a lack of desire to keep her, but the means to do so. His pockets were empty and he had no means to rectify the situation. He also wasn't certain that DeVere had meant for him to poach on his preserves. Then again, the key had seemed like a gift of sorts.

  "I don't believe you." Freddie's lips quivered. "Just like him, you are going to leave and never come back."

  "No!" Simon protested. "I promise I'll return."

  "You swear it?" She slanted a coy look through her dewy lashes.

  He crossed his heart. "Gentleman's honor."

  Her tears abruptly ceased. She snaked one arm around his neck while her other hand toyed with the buttons of his waistcoat. She was warm, soft, and smelled like woman. God, how he loved the scent of a woman, either delicately perfumed, or wearing the heady aroma of her natural essence; it didn't matter to Simon. He shifted in uncomfortable awareness of the tightening in his groin.

  "Then you'll keep me? As a real mistress?"

  She darted her pink tongue over her full lips, an action that sent another rush of blood into his throbbing manhood. Bugger! All she had to do was look at him to incite a cockstand.

  "Yes!" He groaned. "I will keep you." The words of promise escaped before he could muzzle himself. It was his bloody prick speaking, and it had taken full control, mastering at once his mind and his mouth!

  A subtle smile now supplanted her pout. "Then I will need some new clothes."

  He blinked in incomprehension, the blood that normally fed his brain having been diverted to other places. "Why do you need clothes in bed?"

  She shoved him so hard his arse hit the floor. "Do you think me a simpleton? I've see the high-flyers strutting about Covent Garden all in finery. I won't be your mistress unless you treat me like one—starting with some proper lady's clothes."

  She came to stand directly over him now, arms crossed, a position that tightened the linen over her pert breasts and clearly defined the shape of her nipples. From his vantage point on the floor, his gaze traveled up her shapely legs to the shadowy apex of her thighs. The throbbing in his balls ascended to his head, further muddling his brain. Her gaze dipped to the tented falls of his breeches.

  "I'll get you a gown," he blurted. "Anything you need, whatever you desire, I shall lay it at your feet." Why had he made her such an impossible promise?

  "Anything?" She lowered herself to her knees and then straddled his lap.

  The heat of her core was only inches away, beckoning to his straining cock, and blurring his vision. She brought his hands to her breasts. They were soft and warm and oh so delightful. His balls ached for want of her—so much he thought he would burst. He hadn't the vaguest notion what a gown would cost, but damn if he wouldn't cut off his left arm this very moment for one.

  "If you can make it a silk gown, I would be most grateful."

  "Silk, Freddie?"

  She nodded mutely. Her hands drifted southward. He sucked in a breath, and his eyes fluttered shut. He moaned as her little hand wrapped around him, firm and confident. She gave a small squeeze, and his eyes rolled back in his head. It was too much! He would explode if he didn't have her now! He thought he would even commit murder to be inside her.

  "Simon," she whispered hotly against his mouth.

  "Yes, Freddie. Anything you desire. I am your servant."

  The moment the words left his mouth she leaped off his lap with a chuckle.

  "Damn it, Freddie! What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like?" She snatched up a waistcoat and a pair of breeches and proceeded to dress.

  He shook his muddled head. "But I thought you…we…"

  She cocked a brow. Her lips curved into a seductress' smile. "Yellow, Simon."

  "Yellow?" he repeated.

  "It's my favorite color."

  ***

  Simon left her with a raging cockstand and in a near frenzy to locate a yellow silk gown! Aside from his mother, none of the females of his acquaintance had ever worn silk, although he'd never taken much notice of their clothing at all…other than the removal of it. He wondered if his mother favored yellow, but then shook off the notion. He was certain she never wore anything but drab colors.

  He then thought of Lavinia. As one of Harris' new recruits, she'd surely have acquired a new wardrobe. Perhaps she could assist him. But even with her help how would he pay for it?

  Instead of heading home, Simon made a detour for Covent Garden, determined to drown his misery in a tankard…or three. Reaching the square, he made a beeline for the Shakespear's Head, where he sidled up to the familiar bar and ordered a stout. Draining it in a few great gulps, he promptly called for another.

  "I say, sir," he addressed the imposing tapster, "might you be acquainted with a lass named Lavinia, late of St. James dairy?"

  "I be not the whoremaster here," he replied, slamming a second frothy tankard on the counter. "If ye seek a wench, see Harr
is."

  Realizing he would get nothing helpful from the barkeep, Simon drained his second tankard and then reached into his pocket…to find only a crinkled piece of foolscap.

  Damn! He'd given the last of his coins to the old crone! Now he hadn't even two bits to pay his reckoning! Simon looked sheepishly to the tapster. "Er…I don't suppose you'd accept this by way of payment?"

  "What's this?" The brute sneered. "Sommat to wipe my arse with?"

  Suddenly Simon found himself suspended by his cravat. Bloody hell! This was not good.

  Grumbling a curse, the burly barkeep signaled someone on the far side of the room. "Got a freeloader, Mr. Harris. Says he wants to pay with this!" The tapster shoved the crumpled poem across the bar to the establishment's manager.

  "I'm no freeloader," Simon choked out. "I simply forgot my purse."

  Harris' brows furrowed. "Do I know you, sir?"

  "Singleton. Simon Singleton. I'm a friend of DeVere."

  "Ah! I recall you now." Harris nodded to the barkeep, "Release him, Samson.'Tis surely a simple mistake as the gentleman says."

  Simon dropped like a stone. He sucked in a gasp of air and massaged his tender throat.

  Harris, meanwhile, had taken up the abandoned parchment. Simon noted a twitch of his mouth as he briefly scanned the script.

  "Are you perchance the author of this verse, Mister Singleton?"

  "Aye," he confessed, deciding it better to claim authorship than to be thought a plagiarist. "I dabble in poetry…among other things."

  "Do you, indeed?" Harris considered him with a sly smile. "Would you have time to join me for a brandy?"

  Simon inclined his head. "I suppose so. I've no other place to be at the moment."

  Harris took Simon by the elbow and guided him to a small office where he gestured to an overstuffed chair. He then poured two glasses of brandy, offering the first to Simon, then taking a seat behind a worn oak desk. Simon swirled the brandy and then took an appreciative sip, wondering what this was about.

  Harris sat back, crossing an ankle over his knee. "Now then, Mister Singleton, I wish to know more about this colorful verse of yours. I must say it evokes a certain image of wanton delight." His mouth curved into a leer. "Do you often pen verse about subjects of…shall we say…dubious virtue?"

  "I write whatever inspires me," Simon replied.

  "Indeed?" Harris pressed further. "What do you suppose might inspire you to pen an entire volume of such verse?"

  "I don't know," Simon replied. "What are you getting at, Harris?"

  Harris set his brandy down. He then unlocked the top desk drawer and retrieved a thin, worn black leather-bound book. "Do you know what this is?"

  "Is it your legendary list of whores? I have heard rumors of such a book."

  Harris' gaze narrowed. "So crude, Mister Singleton? I prefer to call it my Directory of Covent Garden Ladies. This book indeed contains names, addresses, and descriptions of over a hundred ladies of the town. It is a pet project begun many years ago. Since the demand has expanded well beyond my ability to supply personal service, I now intend to offer copies of this book for private subscription."

  Simon laughed. "You are an enterprising man, Mister Harris, but how does this concern me?" The question had barely passed over his lips before Simon's face split into a grin. "My verse! You wish me to wax poetic on their charms!"

  "Precisely." Harris returned his smile. "There are numerous ladies willing to advertise their services. The fees would subsidize the printing costs. I should like to hire you to write said advertisements—short, colorful pieces, evocative and titillating, for each of our listed Covent Garden ladies. Could you do this, Mister Singleton?"

  Simon slouched back with an indolent smile. "It all depends on what you are willing to pay me."

  "I am prepared to offer you twenty-five percent of the net. The initial print run will be one thousand copies which I hope to sell at five shillings each."

  Simon performed rapid calculations. The net proceeds should be over two hundred pounds, leaving Simon with somewhere around fifty— a sum equal to his former quarterly allowance. He took up the book and thumbed through the stained and dog-eared pages.

  "How soon would you need this to be completed?"

  "I had planned to send it Grub Street within the fortnight. Obviously, you will need additional time to compose your odes to our votaries of Venus. How long will you require?"

  "A month," Simon said, careful not to reveal his eagerness. He could hardly believe his good luck—a healthy source of income derived solely from the fruits of his pen. With this job he could afford to keep Freddie; and with such a magnificent muse at his command, his creative juices would surely flow like a bottomless spring.

  "Excellent!" Harris declared. "Have we an agreement then, Mister Singleton?"

  Simon pocketed the black book and stood, offering his hand. "Indeed we have, Mister Harris." Preoccupied with this unusual turn of fortune, Simon was three strides to the door before he recalled his original purpose in coming to the Shakespear's Head. He paused and then turned back to Harris who regarded him expectantly.

  "Is there something more, Mister Singleton?"

  "Well, yes," Simon said, massaging his chin. "Er…you see…there is something I wish to procure, but I am a bit short on funds at the moment."

  Harris laughed. "You've no need of my services when the book is in your very hands!"

  "It's not that kind of request. Er…I am in need of a gown."

  "A gown?" Harris' gaze narrowed. "This is not a Molly house, Mister Singleton."

  A flare of heat invades Simon's face "N-not for me, of c-course! It's for my…my…sister…a gift…for her birthday. She desires something in silk."

  "Your sister has very expensive taste, Mister Singleton. A silk gown will cost you dearly. Are you sure some other pretty trinket won't suffice? A new fan or a pair of gloves perhaps?"

  "No, Harris. It must be a gown made of Spitalfields silk."

  Harris shrugged. "'Tis no skin off my nose if you choose to be led around by yours."

  Simon bristled. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "Let me share a bit of wisdom from one with vast experience managing a stable of whores—"

  "She's not a whore."

  "Of course not. She's your sister," Harris offered a placating smile. "But the nature of all women is the same. You would do well to exercise care, lest you spoil the creature. The fair sex is universally avaricious, and notoriously fickle."

  "I'm only in need of a gown, Harris, not advice. I would also be much obliged of a small advance to assist me in the matter of procurement. I understand it is not an uncommon practice."

  "Very well." Harris shrugged. "I know someone who can assist you.” He retrieved his calling card and scrawled on the back, handing it to Simon. "Go to Mrs. Martin just across the Piazza. Give her this card and she will extend you credit in the amount of ten pounds. The amount should suffice for your needs."

  Simon accepted the card and tucked it into his breast pocket with a grin. "Thank you, Harris."

  He gave Simon a meaningful look. "I hope your sister shows you proper gratitude."

  "I am sure she will be exceedingly gratified." Simon departed with an imagination brimming with visions of Freddie's various and sundry manifestations of enduring appreciation.

  Chapter Three

  "Simon! Where on earth have you been?" demanded Lady Singleton.

  He winced, his hopes of slinking upstairs unnoticed, dashed. She approached with her nose twitching. He'd never considered it before, but his mother rather resembled a rabbit.

  "Spirits, Simon? You smell distinctly of spirits! You have been to a tavern!" Righteous fire smoldered in her accusing eyes.

  "Mother, it's not what you think—”

  "You told me you were calling upon the Reverend Dodd to borrow a book of sermons."

  The pained look in her eyes evoked a pang of guilt, if not quite contrition. He really did love his mothe
r and hated to disappoint her, but her saintly expectations were impossible for any mortal to live up to.

  "Yes, Mother," Simon scrambled to explain the brandy. It seemed to him a greater kindness, and therefore a lesser sin, to offer up a small prevarication. "Indeed, I have a volume right here in my pocket that I intend to study most diligently."

  Her face instantly softened. "Do you, Simon? Perhaps you could read it to me. If you hope to be heard from the pulpit, you must apply yourself to the art of oration."

  He smiled. "Of course, you are right, Mama, but I would first prefer to familiarize myself and commit some key passages to memory."

  "A brilliant idea!" Lady Singleton exclaimed. "What is the theme of this sermon book?"

  Damn! Damn! Bloody damn! I should have anticipated that one!

  Simon searched his memory desperate to recall a well-known sermon—or any sermon at all! "The Mount," he blurted the only one that came to mind. "The Sermon on the Mount."

  She clasped her hands with a look of rapture. "An exposition on our Lord's great beatitudes? You must tell me who the author is? Is it Dr. Dodd?"

  A reply in the affirmative might lead her to question Dodd later. "No, Mama. The discourse was penned by that…that…traveling Methodist fellow."

  "Dr. Wesley? His sermons are well renowned!" She extended her hand. "May I see it?"

  Double Damn! He closed his eyes on an inward groan. He could almost feel the individual beads of sweat popping out of his forehead. Simon reached into his pocket with a genuine prayer. "Here it is, Mama. Just a plain black sermon book. There is nothing special to see, but if you will allow me to give it my full devotion for a few hours, I'll be happy to recite what I commit to memory."

  "That would be utterly delightful, Simon." She cupped his cheek with a warm smile. "Shall we say later this evening? I shall be in sad want of company with your father at his club again. Will you join me for supper?"

  "If you don't mind, I'd prefer to tray in my room while I study," he asked.