Tempting Sin

by Ann Lethbridge

  The sleepy eyes and slight sway Victoria had noticed during dinner had indicated Deveril’s illness came from a bottle. She’d seen her father on the way to drunken oblivion often enough to recognize the signs.

  A splash of red caught her eye. She leaned forward. “Do look, Travis. Isn't that the young man we saw in Hyde Park? He has an enormous bouquet of roses.”

  Travis grinned. “Hawkfield,” he confirmed.

  “Do you think Miss Dodds, I mean Senorita di Consuello, is in the cast?”

  “No doubt about it. Part of the chorus. I’ll wager a pony, I spot her before you do.”

  Victoria stiffened. Michael had been trapped into losing everything with such foolish bets. “I do not gamble, my lord.”

  His face went blank. “I apologize. I spoke in jest.”

  An apology from Travis? How unexpected. She forced herself to present a calm demeanor, though much of her pleasure in the evening seemed to have faded. “’Tis of no importance.” She sat back in her seat.

  “Come, Miss Yelverton, a different kind of game,” Travis murmured. “If I see Miss Dodds first, you must forfeit the rose in your hair. If you are more observant, I will take you, Lady Julia and Deveril out to Richmond for a picnic. Does that seem fair?”

  She cast him an arch look. “A rather mundane outing for a rake, so certainly a forfeit for you.”

  He shrugged and laughed. “Touché. A fitting punishment, don’t you think? Come, will you play?”

  To be disagreeable to her host on such a wonderful evening felt rude, and giving way to him in this had nothing to do with his attractive countenance and charming smile. She nodded. “Agreed.”

  He rewarded her with a grin of unabashed boyish delight as if she had bestowed upon him some treasure. Delight gleamed in his eyes as their gazes locked. Her breath caught in her throat at the beauty of his smile. Heat suffused her body in a rush.

  The curtain rose breaking intensity of the moment and she turned toward the stage, determined not to let him disturb her any further.

  The theater slowly hushed.

  A pair of star-crossed lovers. Victoria knew the words by heart, but the actors gave them life and meaning as they played their parts. Around her, the theater, the crowds, even Travis, disappeared from her awareness, leaving only the mesmerizing unfolding story of heartbreak.

  The Montague ball was almost over when she recognized Senorita di Consuello in the corps du ballet. She had almost forgotten their game. She pointed. “There she is.”

  “Who?” Travis asked, his voice a warm tickle against her ear.

  She gasped at the pleasurable sensation and glared her disapproval. “Di Consuello. You forfeit,” she whispered.

  “So I do,” he whispered back with a smile.

  Her heart fluttered and skipped and she edged away from him. He seemed much too close in the confines of the box. She refocused her attention on the play.

  What light through yonder window breaks? Travis had it all wrong. If a man truly loved her, and she him, she would welcome him at her window.

  Paris thrust, and Mercutio received his mortal wound. Victoria jerked back in her seat.

  Simon chuckled. “It’s not real.”

  “I know,” she flashed back at him. “Do hush.”

  With a sigh, he stretched out his long legs and remained silent. Victoria did her best to ignore him, but there was something about his presence that kept pulling at her awareness. He was watching her, instead of watching the play, it was most...unnerving.

  Intermission came as a relief. Several of people she met at Lady Corby’s ball came to pay their respects, Mr. Greely and Lord Pelham among them. Travis greeted everyone with frigid politeness, especially the young bachelors who flocked into their small space.

  She could not help a small smile as she caught his expression of panic when a determined, matchmaking mother and her daughter cornered him. He grimaced at her. No doubt this was another new experience for a confirmed rake determined to play at the role of worthy guardian. Just deserts in her opinion. He must have caught her smiling because he shook his head at her and she had the feeling she might pay a price for letting him see her glee.

  At the sound of the bell Maria urged several young gentlemen who seemed inclined to linger out of their box.

  “Thank God,” Travis breathed.

  Victoria laughed at his chagrinned expression as he realized he had spoken out loud.

  “Damn vultures, the lot of them,” he muttered and grinned back.

  “Then I must thank you doubly,” she said as she settled her skirts around her chair.

  “Doubly? Why so?”

  “Why, there can be nothing more tedious than being required to attend things one does not enjoy. To be forced into the company of people one would prefer not to meet is twice the sacrifice.”

  His eyes widened and his mouth kicked up in a devilish smile. “I can assure you, Miss Yelverton, I would rather be in no other company than yours.”

  His low, seductive voice resonated a chord low in her belly. Her heart skipped strangely. She took a deep steadying breath. She knew better than to be fooled by a man of his ilk, no matter how smooth his charm or appealing his wit.

  Turning her shoulder to cut him out of her line of sight, she leaned forward and allowed the poetry of the play to flow through her mind and heart. And still his nearness fought for her attention. She glanced sideways. With his chair slanted toward her, he couldn’t possibly see the stage. His predatory expression made her feel hot and cold and strangely breathless. He was taking delight in teasing her so.

  She shot him a warning glance. “You are staring.”

  His dark eyebrow lifted. “Me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Stop it.”

  “Be quiet, you two,” Maria said.

  Victoria bit her lip. She had forgotten Maria.

  The corner of Travis’s mouth quirked up. He leaned close, his breath warm on her cheek. “Anything you wish.”

  A delicious shiver hurtled down her spine. How did he do that? She frowned and he chuckled. Then it all came clear. He was bored and so he was flirting with the only female in his vicinity. It meant nothing at all.

  “I wish you to watch the play,” she said.

  He did stop staring, but she sensed an uneasy tension in him as the performance continued. His growing irritation disturbed her and she had to force herself to concentrate on what was occurring on stage. Finally, she got caught up in the action and once more everything around her receded.

  Romeo’s pain pierced her heart as he drank the poison, and she clutched at Travis’s arm. Through her tears, she heard his sharp in-drawn breath and seconds later he pressed a handkerchief into her palm.

  She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with a shaky laugh. Her heart contracted at Juliet’s discovery of Romeo’s dreadful mistake and her fateful decision.

  Travis squeezed her hand, a comforting pressure of warm, strong fingers.

  Silence echoed in the great hall for a moment, then the audience roared its approval.

  The players took their bows and Victoria, numb from the depth of emotions they had stirred, rose to her feet and joined the applause. She glanced at Travis. On his feet, he stared at the stage with a shuttered expression.

  “Thank you so much for bringing me, my lord,” she said.

  As if pulled from somewhere deep within himself, he blinked, then flashed his rakish smile. “You are more than welcome. I don’t know when I have enjoyed the theater more.”

  “You hardly watched the play at all, sir.”

  His eyes held sardonic amusement. “Exactly, Miss Yelverton.”

  Flirtatious nonsense—and yet she couldn’t prevent her answering smile.

  “Well, my dears,” Maria said. “I, for one, am exhausted. I hope you don’t mind if we don’t stay for the farce. It’s time I retired for the night. Let us go home.”

  Simon made himself comfortable against the carriage squabs as they made their way through Lon
don’s streets to his townhouse. He hated being driven. Damn Dev for leaving him in the lurch. What an idiot. Crying over what might have been never served any purpose. If anyone knew that, Simon did.

  The flash of streetlights into the carriage became less frequent. Simon peered through the window. This was not the right way to his house. Cold fingers traveled up his spine. He rapped on the overhead trap with his cane. No response. He frowned and rapped harder. Across from the nodding Maria, Victoria gazed at him curiously.

  “The driver has taken a wrong turn,” he said.

  Victoria nodded.

  Simon unlatched the window and slid it down. The fetid stench of London hit the back of his throat as he stuck his head out. “Griggs. Pull over.”

  Hunched in his coat, the coachman did not seem to hear. Simon looked around, trying to get his bearings. Where the hell were they?

  God rot it. They had passed the Seven Dials and were in one of the poorest, most unpleasant neighborhoods in London, heading away from Mayfair. The fool had lost his way. “Griggs,” he shouted. “Stop the carriage, now.”

  The horses began to slow. Relief coursed through him. Now he would find out what the hell was going on. The man must be drunk. Simon ducked back in the carriage.

  Victoria, gazing out her window, seemed to have no sense of the danger they were in and Simon had no wish to scare her, so he said nothing. The carriage halted.

  “There he is!” someone outside shouted.

  A pistol cracked. The dull thud of a bullet striking the velvet squabs beside his head sent Simon diving across the carriage. He threw Victoria to the floor and pushed Maria down next to her.

  The coach rocked and footsteps clattered on the street. The idiot coachman had run off. Bloody hell. Self-respecting highwaymen didn’t waylay carriages in the middle of London, not even in these parts. This was no random robbery any more than the attack the other night had been.

  “Simon St. John,” Maria said, outrage in every syllable. “What is going on?” She struggled to rise.

  “It’s all right, Maria,” he heard Victoria say as he snatched his pistols out from under the seat. “It seems we are being held up. You are safer on the floor.”

  Admiration at her coolness welled in his chest, but there was no time to examine his reaction. Another shot rang out. A horse whinnied. Simon lunged for the door, but the coach lurched as the team shot off at a gallop throwing him off balance. He struggled to his feet.

  Ice filled his veins. He forced himself to think, not to freeze. He stuck his head out of the window and winced as he stared forwards. Out of control, the horses were careening along the street as if the devil himself was whipping them on. Up ahead the road took a sharp turn.

  He glanced behind. Two men on horseback were following at a gallop.

  If he didn’t do something, and quickly—

  Another shot cracked. Simon pulled back inside, swearing. At this speed, the carriage would never make it round the bend in the road.

  The picture of a wrecked carriage, water rising, a baby screaming, filled his vision. He swallowed bile and shuddered.

  Her face white, Victoria stared at him from her crouched position on the floor. Trust shone from her eyes. Trust in him. He could not fail, not this time.

  Acting on instinct, he stuffed his pistol in his coat pocket and stood on the seat. Bracing himself against the carriage’s wild pitching he reached for a handhold on the ornamental carving on the roof outside. He squeezed his shoulders through the window. To his surprise Victoria gave his feet a boost and he sprawled across the roof, his legs hanging over the side.

  Battling the rocking of the carriage, he maneuvered onto the driver’s seat and looked for the reins. He cursed. They were snaking along the ground out of reach.

  Another crack.

  Burning pain tore at his arm. He clutched it and his hand came away bloody. Shot, by God. He forced the pain out of his mind. If he didn’t get the horses under control in the next minute, they’d hit the corner at full speed.

  Blood pounded in his ears. They were going to crash. His hands gripped the transom. No. He must not freeze. Forcing his fingers to open, he eased over the front of the box, placed one foot on the pole, judged the distance, and dove for the rear animal’s back. Foam flew back at him. Jagged pain ripped up his arm. He clung on to the harness. The thunder of hooves drowned everything out. He gritted his teeth. They were almost out of time.

  He pulled his feet up onto the rocking back.

  Steady. Found his balance. Go.

  He lunged forward at the broad arse ahead and scrabbled for a purchase. He slid sideways, cobbles rushing up and past him, ringing hooves slashing at his head.

  He clung in desperation. He would not allow Victoria or Maria to come to harm. He must not. With steady pressure on the bridle, he talked nonsense, quieting the horse as he would a crying woman, nothing words. All tone. Assuring, gentling, sweet nothings.

  The trembling creature slowed and its partner followed suit.

  Their problems weren’t over, yet, he realized after the first rush of relief when the horses drew to a halt. Other hooves clattered on the cobbles. Their attackers closing in.

  He took a deep breath. He’d sooner face a dozen men with pistols than a runaway carriage.

  Simon leaped down, reached for the dagger tucked into his waistband. He’d taken a leaf out of Dev’s book after the attack in the alley. He slashed the traces and cut the horses free. This carriage wasn’t going anywhere.

  Victoria stuck her head out of the window.

  “Stay inside,” he yelled.

  The blackguards were almost on them. Only two. Decent odds. Simon glanced about. Where the hell were they stranded? Wherever it was, no help from the residents was forthcoming.

  Their pursuers pulled up their horses a few yards off. Cowards. He reached into the carriage and grabbed his pistols, cocked them and set one at his feet. Aiming carefully, he fired at a shadow and heard a satisfying scream. One down.

  A rush of booted feet sounded in the deserted street.

  Hell. More, arriving on foot.

  “Hold your fire,” one of them called out. Simon narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the gloom.

  Muttered instructions and the sound of men fanning out, the sounds indicating their positions.

  Victoria stuck her head out yet again. Bloody woman. Hell. She had a pistol in her hand. She must have found the one in the coach holster. She fired and missed. The men hesitated. Good try.

  To Simon’s relief, she disappeared back inside.

  Simon picked up his other gun and waited. There were at least four men out there. His last shot had to count.

  They rushed at the carriage. He took slow and careful aim, focusing his attention on the target in his sights, his pistol an extension of his arm, a deadly part of him.

  He fired. A man fell with a cry. The three remaining men moved in, using the body of the carriage for protection. Simon put up his hands and stepped out. He couldn’t let them harm the women when it was him they wanted.

  But the villains were not looking at him. They were backing away. Simon looked back over his shoulder. Ice ran through his veins.

  A lumbering mail coach, its lantern swinging, rounded the bend. In the heat of battle, none of them had heard its approach. Shock twisted the driver’s face as he fought to avoid Simon’s coach.

  Please, God, let it pass. The sickening, splintering screech of wood and metal as the stage’s wheels ground against those of the town coach sent terror racing down his spine, shock holding him rigid. A shout of warning died on his lips as his carriage rocked, hung balanced on its right-hand wheels for an agonizing second then finally crashed onto its side. The street echoed with the tinkle of shattering glass.

  And the sound of running footsteps.

  Horror churned in Simon’s gut.

  He pried the door up and pulled himself over the edge. Darkness. He couldn’t see a thing. He heard a moan.

  “Victor
ia. Maria. For God’s sake, say something.”

  Shaking so hard, he could barely climb, he dragged himself onto the upturned side of the carriage.

  Please, God, don’t let them be dead.

  Maria, her turban crooked and her face bloody, raised her head. Thank God.

  Other people arrived, climbing up beside him, helping to pull the old woman clear. The other men staggered as they took her weight.

  “There’s another one,” Simon said reaching back inside, his hands searching, grasping. He felt an arm. Grabbed it. “Victoria. You next. Out you come.”

  Nothing. She didn’t move. Dear God. No. This could not happen. Not another death at his door.

  “Here,” a calm voice said behind him. “Why don’t I hold your legs and you pull her out?”

  With his ankles braced, Simon dropped his head and shoulders through the opening. The splintered doorframe caught on his coat as he wriggled forward. He felt around and located her shoulders. Careful not to cause her further injury, he grasped her beneath the arms. “Pull me back slowly,” he called to his helper.

  He lifted her tiny frame with ease. She hung limp in his hand, boneless, silent. The man behind him pulled them both clear and Simon cradled her still form in his arms. Despair washed over him.

  “Sir, you’re wounded. Let me take her.” A serious-faced, young man, held out his arms.

  Fear curled in his gut. “Stand back.”

  She was just too damn still. Her face white, her lips bloodless, she lay like a broken doll. He placed his cheek close to her mouth and felt a faint breath on his skin. His gut clenched. Not dead. Not yet.

  “Get a doctor,” he bit out.

  He ran his hands over her, back, arms, and legs. Nothing broken.

  “Sir, let me bind your arm. You are bleeding.”

  He brushed him off. “I’m fine. Get a bloody doctor.” The man recoiled. Simon didn’t care. It was Victoria who needed help. Her pallor might mean internal injuries or a head wound. He reeled at the awful thought she might yet die.

  “This will help,” the persistent young man said and climbed up beside Simon holding a coach light. “There’s a nasty bump on her head, see.”

  The ugly lump near her temple, swelled evilly, even as he stared at it. No blood. She had cuts on her arms and her gown was torn.