“Lord Gregson,” Mr. Sutton repeated. “Tall cull, with dark hair? Eldest son of the Earl of Landsdowne, yes?”
She had not supposed Rafe Sutton would be familiar with Lord Gregson. Her blood went cold, panic setting in. Surely they were not friends? Her heart was pounding faster, her mouth going dry.
“I was hired as the governess to Lord Landsdowne’s younger daughters,” she acknowledged. “Whenever he was in residence, he made certain to make advances, which I ignored. But he refused to accept my denial. One night, I woke to find him in my room. I was attempting to fight him off when my cries alerted some of the other members of the household, and he mercifully stopped. His body was so heavy atop mine, pinning me to the mattress. I remember his breath, hot and smelling of sour wine. I was trying to get away, but he would not allow it. He was stronger than I was, and he kept telling me I was a forward chit, that he knew I wanted him…”
The words trailed off as emotion overwhelmed her.
She gagged.
In a swift flurry of graceful movement, Rafe sat beside her on the bench, his hand on the small of her back in a gesture of comfort. “Are you going to cast up your accounts?”
Mayhap. She could not speak at the moment. She was remembering Lord Gregson’s breath, the sweat dripping off his brow, the clammy hand clamped over her mouth. How difficult it had been to breathe, to scream. She had bitten him as hard as she could, and the taste of his blood, coppery and strange, had filled her mouth.
Repulsive.
His hands had been everywhere. And he had told her to keep still, to be quiet.
Cease moving. You want this. You know it as well as I.
But she had not wanted him. Nor had she encouraged any of his many advances. His excuses to find reasons to be near her had been troubling. The night she had arisen to his presence in the darkness of her room had been utterly terrifying.
“Deep breaths, Miss Wren,” Mr. Sutton was urging her now, jolting her from the violence of her recollections to the present.
The carriage was still swaying over bumpy Mayfair roads. His hand passed up and down her spine in slow, steady strokes. She obeyed, dragging air into her lungs, and with it his masculine scent. Time to tamp down the memories. To force them into the box in the dark corners of her mind.
“I spent the rest of that night hiding in the library. In the morning, I gathered my belongings and I left.”
“Slow and steady now,” he said, his voice gentling, becoming almost tender. “Lord Gregson ain’t here. He can’t ’urt you.”
Mr. Sutton was losing some of his polish. The h had vanished once more. He was upset, she realized. On her behalf.
When all she had done thus far was pour laudanum into his brandy and lie to him.
A rush of shame made her cheeks go hot. She had done nothing to deserve his sympathy.
“I am sorry,” she managed. “I should not have assumed you would be the same. When I realized I had poured too much into your brandy, I did not know what to do. I need this post quite desperately. I cannot afford to have to secure another, so I took you to my chamber, fearing Mr. Sutton would see the state you were in and guess at what I had done. I needed to hide you until the effects had worn off, and I was desperately hoping you would not remember what had happened.”
Except, she had not planned on him being so stubbornly determined to wrest the truth from her.
Miraculously, his slow, steady caress up and down her back continued, in spite of her revelations. “When did you knock me on the knowledge box?”
“I did not hit you,” she hastened to explain, wincing as she recalled the sickening thud of his head hitting her bedside table. “You were removing your clothes because you wished to sleep, and I could not persuade you against the wisdom of disrobing regardless of how hard I tried. You lost your balance, striking your head on a piece of furniture as you fell.”
“Little wonder it still hurts like the bleeding devil.”
She had no doubt it would. “The blow was strong enough to knock you insensate for a few moments. I had to watch over you, so I managed to help you into the bed, and there you remained for the night. I did not dare risk sleeping anywhere else for fear of discovery.”
“That explains the wall of pillows you built.”
“I had to be certain there was a boundary.”
“You trusted me enough to sleep at my side the entire night?”
“I had no choice,” she admitted. “But I realized, too late of course, and only after I had poured the laudanum into your glass, that I was allowing my fear of what had happened before to inform my judgment. You had given me no reason to suspect you would force yourself upon me. I simply… I panicked.”
“You were attacked by that vile swine. It is understandable that you would not soon trust another man.”
His calm understanding was almost more than she could bear. “You are being kind to me. Why?”
“I’m a kind chap.” His easy grin returned.
Something in her heart shifted. Slid into place. How she wished she were someone else, and that she could simply revel in this man’s charm.
But she could not fall beneath the easy spell of a man like Rafe Sutton.
Just two more months, Persephone, she reminded herself. When she turned five-and-twenty, Cousin Bartholomew could no longer be a threat to her inheritance. Still, her birthday seemed a lifetime away.
“I do not deserve your kindness.” The words escaped her, the closest she dared come to a complete confession.
The truth was, she was continuing to deceive him, just as she was deceiving Mr. Jasper Sutton and Lady Octavia. Her currency had become lies and manipulation. Anything to protect herself. She was little better than Cousin Bartholomew.
“Everyone in this mad world of ours deserves some kindness and understanding, Miss Wren,” Rafe Sutton said, his hand stilling on her back at last. “With the exception of bloody Lord Gregson. That bastard deserves what is coming to ’im.”
The menace had returned to his words, as had the stiffness to his bearing. She shivered, and it was not entirely from the cold. “What do you mean, Mr. Sutton?”
Surely he did not intend to exact vengeance upon Lord Gregson on her behalf.
Did he?
His response was a grim smile. “You needn’t worry, my dear.” With that, he rapped on the carriage roof thrice, and the vehicle slowed before coming to a halt. “Good day, Miss Wren. I’ll take my leave.”
The carriage door opened, sending in the sunlight and a burst of cool air, along with the undiluted noise of the street.
He rose from the bench, then descended from the vehicle in one fluid motion, all lean strength as he leapt to the street below. When his boots planted on terra firma, he turned to give her a tip of his hat.
And then he simply walked away.
The door closed, the carriage lumbering on.
How empty and quiet the vehicle had suddenly become, bereft of his magnificent presence. Persephone did her utmost to banish the unwanted longing echoing through her. But it was burning to life like a fire too long starved of air, and she very much feared that if she was not able to control this inconvenient attraction she had to Mr. Rafe Sutton, she would end up getting burned.
CHAPTER 5
Having been born to the rookeries had its benefits. One of them was learning how to hide in plain sight. How to blend with the shadows and await one’s prey. In his youth, Rafe had been a dab hand at pickpocketing fancy culls who wandered about like fat hens in a fox’s den. He had learned many lessons in those rough days before The Sinner’s Palace had become one of the most sought-after gaming hells in London. And one of those lessons was about to suit him well.
The best time to strike was when a man was drunk, when he had recently drained his ballocks, or when he thought he was about to accomplish both or either of those pleasantly sated states. He had already used this time-honored tenet to have a mildly violent discussion with Lord Aidan Weir concerning his sister P
en. He was about to have another with Viscount Gregson on behalf of a different woman.
It had taken him only a few days to learn the habits of his quarry. And so it was that he found himself waiting to enter an adjoining chamber at The Garden of Flora. His presence this evening was not, as it had been on previous occasions, to take pleasure. But rather, to confer pain and humiliation.
Madame Laurent had been kind enough, when he had relayed his information concerning Lord Gregson, to offer her assistance. As the owner of one of the finer, if more depraved, establishments catering to the lusty whims of London, Sophie did not tolerate any patrons with abusive tendencies.
The greatest asset of an abbess was her ladies, and if her ladies were injured or worse, it affected her purse. Sophie understood the health and well-being of the women in her employ was distinctly connected to how much coin she could collect from her patrons. If a man were to mistreat any of them, or if he were found to have passed on the Covent Garden ague, he was prohibited from returning.
If a cull is willing to force himself on an innocent governess in his family’s home, Christ knows what he is capable of, Rafe had told Sophie.
Being an intelligent and shrewd businesswoman, she had agreed, promising to send word the next time Lord Gregson arrived at The Garden of Flora. She had also agreed to set up a tableau rendering Rafe’s plan far more easily enacted. Tonight was the night.
Lord Gregson was about to have the basting of his spoiled, lordly life.
The door to the chamber opened, and a brunette named Mignonette emerged. In truth, her name was likely Mary or Sarah, or something equally plain. Sophie required all her ladies to take the names of flowers.
Mignonette was one of the most expensive ladies at The Garden of Flora for a very good reason. She stopped at nothing to please whomever was fortunate enough to enjoy her company for the evening. Strangely, however, her lush beauty, on display in a diaphanous dressing gown, did not stir him this evening.
All his thoughts were for a sunset-haired governess who had drugged him and dragged him into her bed. It made no sense, and yet, there was something about prim Miss Wren that brought out all the possessive instincts he had. Not just desire but a deeper, stronger connection. A bond he could neither explain nor define.
And that was why he found himself here, waiting to mete out justice to that slimy arsehole Lord Gregson, on her behalf. If ever he had known of a man who needed to be beaten to death with a sack of his own shite, it was he. Rafe’s blood ran hot with impotent fury as he remembered how pale and shaken Miss Wren had been in the carriage as she had confessed to what had occurred at her previous post. She had come perilously close to retching. The reminder sent a resurgence of bloodlust slamming through him.
“His lordship is awaiting his surprise,” Mignonette said softly, extending her arm to offer him a rather wicked-looking cat-o’-nine-tails.
Apparently, some patrons of The Garden of Flora enjoyed being flogged. Lord Gregson was one of them. That salient bit of information had given Rafe all the ammunition he required.
He took the whip from Mignonette, surprised by the heft of it in his hand. “Thank you, darling.”
Mignonette came nearer, bringing with her the rich scent of her perfume, which was not nearly as pleasing as the floral notes of Miss Wren’s Winter’s soap. “Of course. I had not realized how despicable Lord Gregson is. We thank you for rooting out a viper on our behalf.”
Mignonette’s accent suggested she had been raised by the quality. She spoke with an eloquence that was difficult to feign. Quite a bit like Miss Wren.
He inclined his head, his fingers tightening on the braided leather hilt of the whip. “My pleasure.”
“Perhaps I can see to your pleasure later,” she suggested, running a finger lightly down his forearm.
Still, he felt nothing. Not a hint of interest. Nor a stirring of his cock. He told himself his lack of response was because of the fury igniting his veins.
“Some other night, love,” he said softly, giving her a smile he knew the ladies always adored.
Women and dimples. He’d never understand the fascination, but he most assuredly wasn’t against exploiting it for his own benefit.
She pouted. “If you insist.”
“I’m afraid I do.” He had other matters to attend to, far more important ones.
Rafe took his leave of the lovely Mignonette and ventured into the adjoining chamber where Lord Gregson anticipated his “surprise.” Madame Laurent had a host of devices and pieces of furniture which lent themselves to the particular vices of her guests. In this instance, Lord Gregson was strapped to a narrow, padded bench, lying prone, a blindfold tied over his eyes. His wrists were bound above his head, and his ankles were held in place with buckled straps at the opposite end. The sight of his pale arse made Rafe ill. At least the bastard was facedown.
“What took you so long, Mignonette?” the viscount asked, having no notion of what he was about to endure.
But then, it was only fitting, for neither had Miss Wren. She had been innocently sleeping when this detestable scoundrel had attempted to force himself upon her. Rafe could only imagine the fear which must have gripped her. Witnessing her reaction to the memories of that night in the carriage haunted him still.
Drove him here.
Now.
To this moment of vengeance.
“Forgive me for the delay,” he drawled, striding forward, preparing to strike.
“What the bloody deuce?”
Lord Gregson’s alarm was as apparent as it was enjoyable. He instantly struggled with his bonds, fear lacing his words.
“You cannot escape, you piece of horse shite,” Rafe said, unable to keep the note of savage satisfaction from his own voice. “Rather similar, ain’t it?”
“Similar to what? What the devil is happening? Who are you, and where is Mignonette?” demanded Lord Gregson, panicked now as he tugged wildly at his wrists and ankles, to no avail.
“Similar to the way you attempted to force yourself on an innocent governess.” He tested the whip, cracking it against the carpets. “You do recall, do you not? Stealing your way into her room in the night, forcing yourself into her bed, pinning her down and telling her she wanted you to violate her? Ignoring her when she told you to stop?”
Rafe had to pause and clench his jaw, his rage overflowing like the swelling banks of a flooded river.
“I never violated anyone!” Lord Gregson denied, his voice high-pitched with fear. “What are you going to do to me?”
“You never violated her, because she was able to fight your drunken arse off and alert the household,” he bit out. “As for what I’m going to do to you, Lord Gregson, that’s simple. I’m going to exact retribution.”
“Please, no,” Lord Gregson whimpered.
“This one is for Miss Wren,” Rafe said grimly, drawing back the cat-o’-nine-tails and striking with all his might.
The lordling screamed in pain. Rafe did not so much as flinch as he drew back the whip again, undaunted by the red welts marring Lord Gregson’s back and hairy arse.
“And this is for any other innocents you may have defiled.”
The whip cracked again.
“Please,” Lord Gregson whimpered. “I beg of you, stop.”
“Do not doubt that if more word of you attacking innocent ladies emerges, I will find you again,” he warned, before lashing him again. “I’ll cut you up and feed you to a pack of wild dogs. Do you understand me?”
“Please.” Lord Gregson was weeping like a babe.
“Tell me you understand.” The whip cracked another time.
“I understand! I’ll never do it again. I swear it!”
The desperation in the other man’s voice was enough to persuade Rafe he may have finally managed to make some progress.
He brought the whip down a final time for good measure before tossing it to the floor. “Heed my warning, Lord Gregson, or I promise you, the next time won’t go as easy.”
With that warning, he stalked from the room, leaving the lord sobbing, welted, and bloody.
* * *
After another long, yet fulfilling, day of working with her charges, Persephone made her way to her room for the evening. Anne and Elizabeth continued to make marked strides in their reading and other lessons. She was quite pleased with the improvement they had shown, and during her daily visit to confer with Persephone over the girls’ progress that evening, Lady Octavia had expressed her happiness as well. Mr. Sutton, who ordinarily accompanied his wife, had been absent.
She could not have been more fortunate to have discovered this post quite unexpectedly whilst living off the meager, dwindling wages she had been able to collect from her previous situation. It had certainly been the answer to her desperate prayers, and in more ways than one. Mr. Sutton and Lady Octavia were kind and thoughtful. They did not speak to her condescendingly as the Earl and Countess of Landsdowne had. They paid her fair wages and treated her as if she were a valued member of the household. They were never sparing in their praise, and nor did they cast judgment on her choice of lessons.
Admittedly, she had never expected to become a governess. When circumstances had forced her into the position to protect herself, she had been uncertain of what she was meant to be teaching. Her own governesses had been strict and stern, forcing her to walk with books balanced on her head, making her wear a corset to improve her posture, rapping her wrists with a rod when she did not please. But Persephone had no wish to implement the same tortures which had been inflicted upon her. She chose instead to instill a love of literature and learning which had been denied her. She was abysmal at needlework and water colors, it was true. Her governesses had all despaired over her fledgling abilities. Cousin Bartholomew had been appalled when he had checked upon her progress.
The work of a tyro, he had said dismissively, before firing her governess of the moment.
Although Persephone had not seen it then, she could discern quite plainly now that he had been attempting to groom her into being the wife he wished for himself. In his mind, it was simple. He would mold her, marry her, and absorb all her wealth for himself. But he had made one mistake in failing to realize she was not the sort of lady who would allow herself to be molded.
Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2 Page 5
