A Season to Be Sinful

by Jo Goodman

  Lily could feel some of the tension being leeched from her. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” he said. “I do not take them lightly. And I am sorry for the other, because you do not deserve to be spoken to as if you had no sense.” He lowered her hands so they rested on her thighs. “I appreciate that you are worried for me, but I admit there is some sting to my pride when you wonder if I can manage the thing I am set on doing. I am not at all certain any longer that you are afraid I will kill him but that you are afraid I cannot.”

  Sherry uncurled his fingers from around her wrists. “You should not fear for me, Lily. It is true I have never called a man out or been called out by one, but that is not the question you should have asked. You want to know whether I have ever killed a man.”

  Lily was not certain that she did. He would not offer that information if she hadn’t the courage to ask it, or courage still to hear the answer. She searched his face but could not see past his shuttered expression. Drawing a shallow breath as though bracing herself, she asked, “And have you killed a man?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve killed more than one.”

  Twelve

  “More than one?” Lily frowned, certain she could not have heard correctly or that she’d misunderstood his meaning. She made an attempt to present what was the most logical explanation. “I did not realize you once had a commission.”

  There was a time when Sherry would have seized on this interpretation, perhaps presented it as his own, but now he had to consider all that Lily had shared and decide if he was her equal in this regard. If he did not love her, he would not be considering what he might say to her, but loving her did not make it easier to say.

  “I never had a commission,” he said. “I have been in the king’s service but not in his regiments or his navy.”

  Lily slid off his lap. She remained sitting, pulling her legs up tailor fashion so her shift was spread taut between her knees. Regarding him intently, she said, “I don’t think I understand. How were you of service to His Majesty?”

  “Not only in his service, Lily, but in the service of those who advised him. I cannot share the particulars with you. It is the nature of what I did for them that speaking of it can put innocents in harm’s way. There are few people who know, and in matters such as these, it is always the fewer, the better. Aunt Georgia certainly has no knowledge. Neither has Cybelline. I have never said as much to anyone as I’ve already said to you.”

  “But you’ve told me nothing save that you’ve—” She cut herself off as she realized precisely what he’d told her. Her voice was but a whisper as she finished her thought aloud. “—that you’ve killed.”

  He nodded slowly. “That you will regard me with loathing is probably the clearest measure of your own good sense.”

  It was not loathing Lily felt, but confusion. “You do not mean to explain yourself?”

  “I can paint this canvas only in the broadest of strokes. If that does not satisfy, then . . .” He let the sentence dangle, punctuating his thought with a shrug. “I was approached when I was yet at Cambridge. As you know, my days of leading small revolutions within the dormitories were long behind me. I was a model student, a prefect myself by then, and accounted by my professors and fellow classmates to be endowed well enough in the upperworks but completely dull in the application of it.”

  “So you were brilliant, but not eccentric.”

  His smile was wry. “Succinctly put. My tastes, I suppose you would say, were prosaic. I spoke of returning to Granville, of applying what I learned to matters of working this land, increasing the crop production and raising cattle. I considered taking a turn in the House of Lords, but even then my interests were about improving the lot of tenant farmers and repealing laws that inhibited personal industry. When I imagined living in London, as I knew that I would on occasion, I saw myself as a patron of the arts, supporting those individuals who shared my interests but whose talents far exceeded my own.”

  “Music,” Lily said. The wistful smile that curved her lips also touched her eyes. “You love music. I have heard you play, you know. Sometimes late at night, when the house was very quiet and it seemed that no one was stirring, I could hear the strains of the pianoforte. If I went to the landing on the main staircase it was clearer yet, and I could sit there undisturbed for as long as you chose to play. To me, it always seemed too short. Did you know you had an audience?”

  Sherry shook his head. “Never.”

  She could see that he was moved by her admission. Lily reached out and rested her hand lightly on his knee. “Go on. You were telling me about your prosaic tastes.”

  “Only in an effort to make you understand why I was chosen. It was the perfectly unexceptional manner in which I was conducting my affairs that garnered the attention of these men. They did not want someone who drew notice for what was out of the ordinary.”

  “They?” asked Lily.

  “There is no name for them. I have lately come to think of them as a confederacy, but they—we—are not so tightly knit as that name suggests.”

  “Then you are one of them?”

  “I was. From the time I was twenty until shortly before our encounter in Covent Garden. I spent almost nine years accepting and carrying out orders from them. On occasion I was the one who gave the orders.”

  “But I thought you said it was in the king’s service?”

  “Yes, but it was not always so straightforward. Sometimes there are reasons for . . .” Sherry hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “There are invariably matters that the king or his ministers are reluctant to have placed publicly at the palace steps.”

  “Like assassination.”

  Sherry did not answer. He was aware of nothing so much as Lily’s hand on his knee. He wondered if he would be able to breathe if she removed it. She was not, however, regarding him with revulsion. What he saw in her eyes was deep, abiding sadness. This was not pity, but grief. “Should I have spared you, Lily? Would it have been better if I had said nothing?”

  She shook her head. “Are these men responsible for the murder of my own parents?”

  “I don’t know. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to discover. I was not part of that circle fifteen years ago. Howard Sterling is but a name to me. I did not know your father except by reputation. He was in France at a very dangerous time, Lily.”

  “He was on the king’s business.”

  “I understand that. He was attached to the Foreign Office, I believe, and at the front of some delicate diplomacy. His death was a blow to almost a year of peace efforts.”

  “His death was a blow to me,” she said on a thread of sound. “I was only six.”

  “I did not mean—”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “I know,” she said. “There is no need to make an apology. You did not kill him.”

  “No,” he said, waiting for her to look at him again. “Not him.” He saw Lily flinch at what he hadn’t said, what he could never say. “What do you know of your father’s assassination?”

  “Precious little. It was the abbess who told me my parents were dead, and if she knew the truth, she offered none of it. For years I believed it was typhus that killed them until Sister Mary Joseph told me what she knew. You will have already guessed that I was at the abbey school because my parents feared for my safety, though I never supposed it was for my health. As you said, it was a dangerous time. Even at six, I understood that.”

  “I knew little enough about their deaths, Lily. My aunt is considerably more informed, and she shared what she remembered once she understood the connection between you and Sterling. Did you know that perhaps a year before your parents were murdered the Duc d’Enghien was executed for a plot to kill Napoleon? There were many who suspected the English of financing that plot. It is almost certain that we would have been in favor of that outcome, yet it was Enghien who was executed for it. Aunt Georgia suggests that Howard Sterling was murdered by the French in retaliation, eithe
r for the plot itself or for allowing Enghien to take complete responsibility for it.”

  Sherry watched a crease appear between Lily’s brows as she considered what he’d said. “My aunt’s memory should not be discounted. She numbered your mother among her friends and paid particular attention to the rumors surrounding her death.”

  “There are some who would have me believe my mother was not an innocent in what happened.”

  Now it was Sherry who frowned deeply. “Who? Did Sister Mary Joseph tell you something that would make you think that? Because I can assure you it was not any part of what my aunt told me.”

  “Not Sister,” Lily said. “He said it.”

  Sherry swore softly under his breath. “Then he always knew who you were?”

  “Perhaps not at the very first, not when he came to the abbey to select a governess, but I have always suspected that he knew of the connection by the time he returned for me. I do not think he would have gone to such lengths to run me to ground in Le Havre if he hadn’t known I was Lillian Rosemead’s daughter.”

  Sherry’s eyes lifted to Lily’s hair. “That extraordinary color.”

  She nodded. “I am given to understand it is a family trait. It is also likely that Bishop Corbeil told him who I was. After my parents died, the bishop had to approve my stay at the abbey. I believe it was Sister Mary Joseph who made the request.”

  “Why weren’t you returned to England to be with your family?”

  “There was no one. I am an only child of only children. My mother’s mother died just before we left for Paris, my father’s mother shortly after. Both of my grandfathers died before I was born. One from drink, the other from a cancer. I did not know so much then. I have since learned of the things that influenced the bishop to permit me to remain.”

  “Your employer again? Or Sister?”

  “Some from each,” she said. “Some I learned on my own.”

  Sherry said nothing for a moment. “Why did you never seek out Sister Mary Joseph’s brother? Do you remember his name?”

  “Yes, but I thought you understood why I couldn’t seek him out. He would expect it. I’d hardly be safe there, worse, I would bring him down upon people who did not deserve it. He confiscated my papers at Le Havre. He knew where I intended to go.”

  “Yes,” Sherry said thoughtfully. “He did. That and so much more.”

  Lily raised her knees toward her chest. She removed her hand from Sherry’s knee so she might clasp her own. “He said my mother was a whore and could not be depended upon to keep a secret. He told me my father would have been branded a traitor if my mother had been allowed to live. They were killed in their sleep, you know. Throats slit. My father had to die, he said, because he could not control my mother. It would be different with me. He would not allow me to suffer my mother’s end. I could be made to do as he wished—anything he wished.”

  Sherry watched her lower her forehead toward her knees. She kept it there for a time, eyes closed, face pale. She did not weep, merely collected herself, drawing steady breaths and releasing each one slowly. When she raised her face she was composed again, and her eyes were frank in their assessment of him.

  “Could he have known the truth, my lord? Or was it like so many other things he told me—a lie?”

  Sherry wanted to reassure her, yet he wondered if he could with no evidence. He certainly did not know what motivated the murders in Paris. His aunt had recalled the manner in which Lily’s parents had been killed, but she seemed wholly unaware of any other explanation for their deaths than the one she gave him. Except for the assassin, all anyone thought they knew was merely speculation.

  “I believe it is wiser not to accept anything he told you as truth,” Sherry said. “At the very least, it is a kindness to yourself. You deserve that, Lily. You have done nothing to earn the other.”

  Lily nodded slowly. “Is it the sort of thing you were asked to do? Slit someone’s throat because they spoke out of turn?”

  “It is not speaking out of turn when someone reveals His Majesty’s secrets. If intent is present then the case may be made for treason.”

  “You have not answered my question.”

  He exhaled sharply. “Yes, Lily, it is the sort of thing I was ordered to do.”

  “Ordered? You told me once that you had a choice.”

  He had wondered if she would remember their conversation when he alluded to the things he had done. Apparently she did. What he could not decide was if it was in any way helpful to him now. “I could always pass on an assignment, but that did not mean the assignment was not completed. If I did not accept it, there was always someone else who did.”

  “It does not seem to me there is much choice there.”

  Sherry saw that sadness had returned to her eyes. She relaxed her posture, unfolding beside him, then moved closer and rested her hand on his thigh. He realized he had not understood before, or rather he had not understood everything. The grief he was witness to did not spring only from her own memories; she was grieving for him, for that part of him that she believed he had lost.

  “Ahh, Lily, you are too fine for me.” He gathered her up as she moved into his embrace. “I should have left you in Holborn where you could save more deserving souls than mine.”

  “Do not say it.” She pressed her face against his neck. “I will throw things again.”

  He ruffled her hair, then laid his cheek against it. “That is a threat I can respect. You would make a good bowler.”

  “I am a good bowler. What? Do you think I’ve never had a turn at it? There is a version of cricket that we played in Holborn. Midge is a decent enough batsman, and I am credited with holding my own against him and many others.”

  “Pricked your pride a bit, did I?”

  “We are speaking of cricket, my lord, hardly a matter of no consequence.”

  Sherry’s chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he felt her snuggle closer. He realized she was comforted by the sound of his laughter and wondered why it had taken him so long to comprehend it. “I should like to match skills with you sometime,” he said.

  “Holborn rules, my lord. You must play by Holborn rules.”

  “There are some, then. That surprises.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” She lifted her head and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Will tomorrow suit?”

  He caught her chin in the cup of his thumb and index finger. “Do you mean it?”

  “It is cricket, Sherry, of course I mean it.”

  He kissed her hard, pouring all the emotion he’d failed to express this last hour into that kiss, and when he came up for air he let her know he wasn’t done. He caught the corner of her mouth, her jaw, found the sensitive hollow just below her ear. She was laughing, gasping for breath, squirming deliciously as she tried to dodge his kisses and discovered she was only offering a new sweet spot for his lips.

  He whispered against her ear, tickling her with his warm breath so that she actually shivered. “We will also play the following day.”

  “If you like.”

  “And the day after that.”

  “I did not realize your blood ran so hot for the game.” She squealed as his teeth sank into her earlobe. “Yes, Sherry, I am not leaving you. I will stay as long as you will have me, and I hope you will not regret pressing me to that rash promise.”

  “I will not,” he said, lifting his head so he could see her face. It was bathed in candlelight, no longer pale beneath a gold and orange glow but radiant in a way that made her appear the source of the light. “Will you regret it?”

  “No. I have never made regret my companion.”

  He believed her. It seemed to him that she could not have survived had it been otherwise. “Will you allow me to spend the night?”

  She slipped her arms around his neck and began to draw him down to the bed. “You misjudge my intent, my lord. I will not allow you to leave.”

  Lady Rivendale thwacked the crown of her soft-boiled egg loudly enough to secur
e her godson’s attention. “Did you not sleep well last night, Sherry?”

  Shaken, Sherry rattled the paper in his hand a bit, and he lowered it the few degrees necessary to view her across the length of the table. “I did,” he said. “Why do you ask, Aunt?”

  Her ladyship carefully peeled back a bit of crushed shell and discarded it. “Am I mistaken, then, and you have not been yawning behind that paper?”

  “Perhaps once.”

  “Four times by my count. Your jaw cracks.”

  Sighing, Sherry set his paper aside and picked up his fork. “Is there nothing that passes your notice?”

  Still attending to her egg, Lady Rivendale shrugged. “Something tried once, but I tripped it and wrestled it to the ground.”

  Sherry’s shout of laughter brought his godmother’s head up sharply.

  “Really, Sherry, you might cause me a fit of apoplexy when you bark like that.”

  Feigning contriteness, he reined in his laughter. “Forgive me.” He speared a slice of tomato and brought it to his mouth. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

  “I wondered if you had spoken to Miss Rose.”

  “I did.” He glanced at the footman at the sideboard, then at the maid hovering near the fireplace. He dismissed them both and gestured to the footman to close the door. Once privacy was assured, he said, “There is no part of Miss Rose’s past that can be talked about with others present.”

  “Oh, surely you are—” She stopped, having been accosted by the full force of Sherry’s implacable stare. “As you wish.”

  “I do wish. In fact, I must insist. It is a condition of beginning any discussion at all with you.”

  “Really, Sherry, I am not insensible that you require my discretion. If I thought it were otherwise, I would have upbraided you in front of the servants for returning to your room at the unseemly hour of daybreak. I might have even mentioned I saw you wearing the same clothes you were wearing yesterday.”

  Sherry thought he should check himself for bruises, for he was certain he had just been tripped and wrestled to the ground. He did not ask her how she had seen him. This was no conversation he wished to have with a woman who knew him since he was in short pants.