The Trouble With Sin

by Victoria Vane

  "But of course. Your dedication is admirable. I just knew all this recent ruckus had to be the wicked influence of that rogue DeVere."

  "As you say, Mama. Until this evening." He bussed her cheek.

  Once out of sight, Simon released the air from his lungs in a long, slow gush. He thanked his guardian angel for his reprieve—and promised to repent of at least some of his sins.

  ***

  Simon retired to his room where he immersed himself in study of Harris' book. Simon had thought it would be an effortless undertaking to pen witty homage to these birds of Paradise, but after thumbing through dozens of pages, his well of inspiration remained dry. Aside from names, addresses, and physical descriptions, there were a few crude notes written in the margin detailing attributes, talents, and preferred sexual acts. To his dismay, nothing stirred his poetic passion or ignited his imagination. In actuality, the only stirring was in his prick. Yes, that part of him was highly inspired. He threw down his quill and raked a hand through his hair.

  He opened the book again, determined to focus more diligently on the work at hand, only to read a particularly colorful description of one plump and toothsome wench called Cherry Belle for her practice of rouging herself—cheeks, mouth, nipples, and even her nether lips.

  Bugger it all!

  He slammed the book down. Was this some cruel joke? Or perhaps an agonizing penance he had to pay for his willful iniquity?

  Fully aroused, Simon slumped in the chair and loosened his cravat with a resigned sigh. He then unbuttoned his falls, determined to take matters in hand. He fisted himself and shut his eyes, focusing all his frustration on visions of dear Cherry applying the rouge to her pebbled nipples. He stroked leisurely up and down his shaft as she squeezed her breasts together with a sly smile meant only for him—a dark and secretive gypsy smile—Freddie's smile.

  He stroked harder and faster as Freddie smoothed her hands slowly over her naked belly to her glorious mound of Venus. His cadence increased to a frantic pace as she parted her nether lips with rouge-tipped fingers and delved inside with a moan of pleasure that echoed his own.

  Freddie then knelt on all fours and spread her delectable arse cheeks. His bollacks tightened when she turned her head and cast a beckoning gaze over her shoulder with those fathomless dark and sultry eyes. He was nearing combustion—

  "Simon?"

  His gaze flew to the door. Immersed in his fantasy, he hadn't heard the light scratch until it was almost too late. Releasing himself with a quiet stream of expletives, he fumbled with his falls, barely managing to scrape his chair under the desk before the door flung open.

  Lady Singleton stood in the doorway. "Simon, have you forgotten you were to recite for me?"

  He blinked dumbly. "Ah, er… Is it that late already?" Sermons had been the furthest thing from his mind.

  "It is past seven o'clock. You have been buried in that book for hours." She approached with her brisk little step, wearing a look of concern. "Are you all right, Simon? You don't look well at all!" She came close enough to lay the back of her hand on his forehead. "You feel feverish. Shall I send for a posset?"

  "I've come down with a bit of a headache," he said. "It is nothing, Mama. Perhaps I'll just retire early to bed." Yes, precisely the place where I should have conducted my former activity.

  "Dear boy, you must have overtaxed yourself with all this study."

  Before could anticipate her actions, Lady Singleton picked up the book. She scanned one page and then another. Her gaze widening, her mouth gaping.

  "I don't know what kind of book this is, but it's not a volume of sermons!"

  "It's not what it appears, Mama!"

  Her voice quivered. "It appears to be a directory of harlots! What is my son doing with such a book? Who put this…this…wickedness into your hands? It was that devil DeVere, wasn't it?"

  "DeVere is in France, Mama. He's quite innocent…this time."

  "Where then, Simon?" she demanded. "Was it in the same place where you imbibed spirits? I cannot bear it!" She pressed her hand against her heart. "This work of Satan must be consigned to the purifying flames!"

  "No!" Simon almost leaped from his chair, but stopped himself in the nick of time. With his falls still unbuttoned and his prick hanging out, he could only clutch the desk in dread as his mother marched to the hearth. "Please, Mama! Don't," he begged.

  "Much better the book go to the fiery furnace than you!"

  "Just let me explain!"

  "Explain? How? How can you explain this?"

  "It's…it's my work," he blurted. My mission on behalf of the Magdalen House."

  She fixed him with an incredulous stare. "Your work?"

  "Yes. I had intended to surprise you. The book is why I went to the tavern. That volume contains the names and addresses of hundreds of poor, lost wretches in need of salvation."

  Brilliant, Sin. Utterly inspired!

  "Simon!" She gasped. "You are right! This is all the proof we need to petition Queen Charlotte for funding a larger domicile." She rushed back to clasp his head against her bosom. "You dear, dear boy! How could I ever have doubted you?"

  Moments later Simon offered a second prayer of thanks to his guardian angel for another blessed escape.

  Chapter Four

  Simon awoke early the next morning with one thought that he dispatched through manual means. It was but a temporary palliative for his fever. Freddie remained the only panacea, but thanks to Harris, he now had the means to affect his cure.

  Simon knocked on Freddie's door, impatient to see the elation alighting in her eyes when she opened to her new lover. To his dismay, the door parted only far enough to glimpse the tip of her nose and one dark eye. "You again."

  "Of course it's me! Who else were you expecting?"

  He thought he heard a mumbled expletive. The door swung into the chamber. She raked him with an insolent stare. "If you've come empty handed you might as well leave now. I meant what I said."

  "But, Freddie—"

  "No, Simon! I won't let you bed me. I'll have a real protector or none at all."

  Simon clutched his heart. "You cut me to the quick, Freddie. Did I not make you a promise?"

  "Men are known to make false promises."

  Simon puffed in affront. "You measure me with the wrong staff, Freddie. I am a gentleman of my word. I promised you Spitalfields silk, and that is what you will have."

  "Where is it then?" She asked with biting sarcasm,"Have you a gown in your pocket?"

  "It is yet to be made," he replied. "I am here to take you to the shop of Mrs. Martin of Covent Garden Square, a maker of fine ladies' attire where you will be custom fitted."

  "A custom gown?" She speared him with a disbelieving look.

  "Of whatever color and mode delights you most. You didn't suppose I would give you some ill-fitting second-handed rag, did you?"

  Her flickering eyes told him she had presumed precisely that. Bugger! A pawned gown hadn't even occurred to him! He sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound…or ten.

  ***

  Simon spent the next few hours in total tedium sipping tea in the mantua maker's tiny reception room, while Freddie had her fitting. Mrs. Martin had a number of half-finished gowns that caught Freddie's eye. She'd settled an outrageously gaudy confection in yellow and pink. Although close to her size the alterations took up the entire day. But when Freddie, or Frederica, as she now insisted upon, finally emerged, the vision fairly stole his breath.

  Her modest breasts were thrust together and upward, almost out of the gown, like choice fruit ripe for plucking. She spread her arms and spun in a circle, swirling and delighting in the novelty of her voluminous, panniered petticoats. "What do you think, Simon?" Freddie giggled.

  "I think my new muse shall be universally admired."

  Her forehead crinkled. "Muse? What's a muse?"

  "The original muses were nine goddesses who inspired the great artists and poets of antiquity. Now it refers to one who rouses
a man's soul to create."

  "You expect me to rouse your soul, Simon? My Lord DeVere only expected me to rouse his—"

  He put a finger to her lips. "Yes, Freddie, but pray let us keep DeVere out of this, shall we?"

  "You never mentioned soul-rousing, Simon. It seems to me rousing a man's soul should command a premium." She gave him a calculating look and then cast her gaze around the shop. She fingered a lace fan, picked it up, and fluttered it before her face.

  "You desire the fan as well?"

  She smiled and dropped it in his lap, only to caress a pair of kid gloves. She arched a brow and those, too, landed in Simon's lap. His inner dread increased with every object that caught Freddie's eye

  Mrs. Martin entered with a smile. "The gown suits the young lady well, does it not? Of course we had to provide the proper foundations for it. Shall I put these on your account as well, Mister Singleton?"

  "Yes, of course. As well as these." He indicated the fan and gloves.

  She added the items and then handed him the account book to sign.

  Blood hell! Nine pounds, six shillings.

  Simon signed his name with a wince and a flourish.

  "There is a fine cobbler across the square," Mrs. Martin volunteered.

  "Cobbler?" Freddie raised her hem to reveal tiny feet encased in a pair of sensible brown leather shoes.

  "Yes, surely such a fine gown requires slippers. Masters, across the square, can surely fabricate a pair to match."

  Freddie eyed Simon.

  "Silk slippers?" He swallowed hard and forced a smile while performing calculations that made his heart drop.

  He reminded himself that he was far from ruined. Harris owed him another forty pounds for his labor. Yet within a few hours, Simon found himself almost twenty pounds poorer. He'd spent a princely sum granting her every whim, including a hearty meal at the Rose Tavern complete with French wine. Nearly half of his earnings were already spent, and he'd yet to write a single verse. He consoled told himself that Freddie's show of gratitude would surely inspire the full volume of verses.

  Of course Freddie then demanded a hackney coach for fear of ruining her slippers—another shilling dropped into the Freddie bucket. When he attempted to sit beside her, she insisted he take the seat opposite to avoid crushing her new mantua.

  "Bugger the gown, Freddie! It can be pressed. Don't you see how I burn for you?"

  He flung himself from his seat to kneel at her feet. Taking her hand in his, he plied passionate kisses to each of her nail-bitten fingers. "Your lush lips make my pulse thunder. I could drown in the fathomless black pools of your eyes. Verily, you set me aflame! If I don't have you soon, I surely will perish!"

  She chortled. "Which way shall you perish, Simon? Will you drown or burn? It certainly can't be both at once."

  "Heartless jade!" he cried, ready to rent his hair in vexation. "Do you delight in tormenting me?"

  The coach jerked to a halt. When the driver flung open the door, Simon swept her up into his arms, eager to get her someplace private but the landlord barred their entrance with a glower.

  "No doxies allowed here! 'Tis a respectable house!"

  "Doxy? You are quite mistaken. The young lady resides here. I was merely keeping her shoes from ruin," Simon explained.

  "There ain't no ladies of any kind in this house. I lets only to respectable gents."

  "But my Lord DeVere has a set of rooms. This is his sister come to visit. Surely you see the resemblance?"

  The landlord crossed his arms and widened his stance. "No females allowed. Be they relatives or no."

  Bugger! What now?

  It seemed Simon's only recourse was to turn Frederica back into Freddie, but she'd cast away her male attire, refusing to wear it again. Where the devil could he get more clothes?

  "Perhaps I can just leave a note upstairs?"

  The landlord grunted assent. "The doxy stays here."

  Simon set her down with a groan and took the stairs by twos. He packed a few garments into a sack and returned to Freddie. "We'll go back to Covent Garden and I'll hire you a room for the night. Tomorrow, however, you must return here as DeVere's valet."

  "But I don't want to," she protested.

  "You must, Freddie."

  She sulked in silence until they arrived at the Shakespear's Head.

  "Ah, Mister Singleton, my poet laureate!" Harris greeted him with a smile. "How goes our mutual endeavor?" His gaze flickered over Freddie. "This must be your lovely sister."

  "Er, yes," Simon replied. "She is up from the country for some shopping and has missed her return coach. I seek lodging for her. A modest room is all we…she…requires."

  "But of course. We can accommodate you for ten shillings."

  "Could you please put it on my account," Simon asked.

  Harris' brows pulled together. "Another advance? I have yet to see even a page of your verse."

  "Very well, Harris." Simon plucked out his gold cravat pin and handed it to Harris. "You may accept this as surety until I deliver the promised work."

  "I never had the least doubt." Harris accepted the pin and then conducted them to a modest but clean chamber.

  The moment the door closed, Simon turned the key and took Freddie into his arms. "Freddie, my dearest Freddie," he murmured, plying kisses to her cheeks, her throat, and finally her lips. Rather than melting into his arms, she remained stiff and unresponsive. "What is it now?" he cried.

  "'You said you'd take me to the theatre."

  "And I shall, dearest," he appeased. "But it's been a very long day, and I desire to be alone with you now. Have I not treated you well? I bought your gown, your slippers, the dinner, the wine. I have kept my promise Freddie…and then some."

  "You also said I wouldn't have to wear breeches again."

  "But, my dear, you must understand you cannot live in the house at St. James as a woman."

  "Then maybe I need another house," she said.

  "Freddie, please be reasonable. The rooms at St. James have been paid up for six months. It makes little difference if you must pretend to be a valet for a while longer. Your life will not change from what it was. You will be comfortably housed and well fed. You had no prior complaint, did you?"

  "But that was before I came here. I like this place better with all the fine ladies and gents."

  "But it's a damned bawdy house! You can't live here!"

  She gave an indignant sniff. "Others do. And they don't have to dress like boys."

  "Enough, Freddie!" Simon groaned. "I have done all in my power to delight you, yet nothing seems to satisfy you. And I certainly am far from satisfied."

  She regarded him with wide misty eyes and quivering lips. "You are vexed."

  This time Simon was unmoved by her tearful display. "Damned right, I'm vexed! What have I received for my largesse but complaints and ingratitude?"

  "All right, Simon." She threw down her lace fan with a sigh. "I'll let you take me to bed." She turned her back to him and reached for her laces. "I need help with these."

  Simon watched her struggle with the gown, making no move to assist. He should have been elated after days of torturous anticipation, but in these last moments something had changed. "You needn't bother, Freddie."

  Her dark eyes flashed. "What do you mean?"

  "It has been a long day for both of us. I'm going to leave now."

  "But—I want you to stay," she insisted.

  "You should have thought of that before."

  She clutched at his arm with panicked look. "You are not coming back, are you?"

  He pried her fingers from his sleeve one by one. "The clothes are yours to keep or to pawn as you see fit. The lodging in St. James will remain yours if you desire it, but no, Freddie, I shall not return. Perhaps I'll suffer remorse later, but at present I have no desire for you."

  Like the calm after a storm, his passion for her had spent.

  ***

  Simon awoke the next morning without regret—at l
east not for leaving. His only remorse was that he'd allowed her to play him for a fool. Nevertheless, he recalled his promise to DeVere to look after her. Unable to break faith with his best friend, he returned to Covent Garden, resolved only to see Freddie safely returned to St. James.

  To his surprise, the room was empty when he lifted the latch and entered. All was in perfect order as if it hadn't been slept in. Had something happened to her? He rapidly descended the stairs in search of Harris. "Have you seen my sister?" he anxiously inquired.

  "Indeed I have, Mister Singleton. Last evening after you departed."

  "Last evening? But she was in her room when I left."

  "That may be, but the wen…er…lady… appeared in the late hours in the gaming rooms. She was in the company of Ensign Browning who won five hundred guineas at hazard. He kissed her and called her his good luck charm after his lucky cast. He later announced he was taking the wench to Gretna Green. Of course our good Ensign was quite disguised at that point. The stupid sod will sober up in a few days to find himself leg-shackled."

  Simon glowered. It was bad enough to have lost his head over her, but far worse to learn he was tossed aside for the very first pigeon with plumper pockets.

  "Look, lad," Harris consoled. "There's no cause to mourn the loss. You should thank the gods to be rid of the baggage."

  Harris remark was little balm to his bruised pride. He'd sought more than a lover in Freddie. Perhaps he'd expected too much. He'd been convinced that with her as his muse, he would surely ascend to hitherto unknown poetic heights. He'd dreamed of finding the woman with the key to unlock his passions and open his creative floodgates. Perhaps he'd expected too much. Maybe his longed-for muse was like the mythical chimera… and simply did not exist.

  Chapter Five

  Covent Garden, Westminster – six months later

  With a voluptuous, raven-haired beauty draped on either arm, Simon entered the crowded taproom of the Shakespear's Head. He exchanged pleasantries with several acquaintances before catching the eye of the establishment's headwaiter.

  "Ah, my darlings!" he exclaimed. "There is just the gent I promised you to find."