A Little Bit Sinful

A Little Bit Sinful

Robyn DeHart

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by
Robyn DeHart
. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Edited by
Alethea Spiridon Hopson

Cover design by Libby Murphy

ISBN
978-1-62266-093-3

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition
March 2013

To my brother, Rick, for taking his lovely bride-to-be to the bookstore on their 3rd date to show her his “famous romance novelist” sister’s books. And to Barbara, welcome to the family. I’m so glad y’all finally found your happily ever after.

And as always to my husband, Paul...as the saying goes, “sometimes in the middle of an ordinary life, love gives us a fairy tale,” you’re definitely mine.

Prologue

LONDON, October 1875

Clarissa Kincaid wanted to scream, wanted to the run through the house pulling at her hair. Instead, she settled for a calmer, though nonetheless equally unladylike, groan.

Her aunt sat with a letter from her sister in Cornwall. She didn’t bother looking up. “What is it this time?” Aunt Maureen asked from the settee.

“Another denial letter from Mr. Franklin.” Clarissa slammed the letter down on the desk and blew out a breath. “I have lost my patience with that man.”

“Oh dear.” Maureen dropped the letter, then wrapped her handkerchief around her fingers again and again. “What are we to do if the man refuses to deal with us? We shall certainly starve if he will not release monies to us.”

Clarissa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Aunt Maureen had always been somewhat on the dramatic side. “We are not going to starve. Settle yourself, Aunt Maureen. I shall think of something.” Her eldest brother, the earl, had been dead a little over two months now and they had survived on the remainder of Aunt Maureen’s savings, which hadn’t been much. But they were running out. Clarissa still had some money hidden away, but she was saving it until they absolutely had to use it. She had been attempting to work with their family solicitor, but he “refused to entertain requests from any woman.” The narrow-minded fool insisted on hearing directly from the new earl, Clarissa’s other brother, Marcus. The only problem with that was that Marcus had been gone for nearly ten years and no one had any idea when he’d return. Or if he’d return.

“Well, this is simply unacceptable, Clarissa, there must be something we can do,” Maureen said. Her handkerchief now sat in a sad little ball upon her lap and she’d begun working the fabric of her skirt.

Clarissa needed to think of something soon before her aunt had worn through all of her clothing.

“If only we had a more reasonable solicitor to work with,” Maureen said. “Someone who would allow us some say in the matter, or at the very least be willing to communicate with us. This is…this is simply dreadful.”

“Precisely.” Maureen was right. They needed a different solicitor, but where would they find one willing to work with them? And how was she to dismiss Mr. Franklin if he refused to communicate with her? Then it hit her, the idea forming in her mind rapidly. She pulled out a piece of parchment from her late brother’s desk and poised pen over the paper. “You are brilliant!”

“I am. I am?” She eyed Clarissa suspiciously. “I know that look, dear. What are you doing?”

“Something I should have done shortly after Charles died. I am dismissing our current solicitor and hiring a new one.”

Aunt Maureen shook her head in confusion. “Need I remind you that you do not have the authority to do such a thing?”

“It is not I,” Clarissa said in her most innocent voice. “This letter shall come from Marcus. It is time for him to do something worthwhile for this family.”

“And you know of a solicitor who will work with us until Marcus returns home?” Maureen asked.

“Not exactly.” Clarissa smiled. “But I hear that Mr. Ignatius F. Bembridge, LLB is quite forward in his thinking.”

Maureen frowned. “Who might he be, dear?”

Clarissa stood, leaned forward across the desk holding out her hand toward her aunt. “Mr. Ignatius F. Bembridge at your service. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, we are doomed,” Maureen said, not bothering to shake Clarissa’s hand.

Clarissa stepped around the desk and went and sat next to her aunt. “Do not fret. I shall study Charles’ books and learn about our properties and what needs to be done. But someone needs to be in charge of things until Marcus can return. It might as well be me.” Clarissa shrugged. “It will at the very least give us access to the funds right now. And I shall write another letter to Thomas Adventure Tours. Perhaps they can find my wayward brother.”

“Good heavens, child, what if someone discovers what you’re about?” She retrieved her sad wad of a handkerchief and began to worry the fabric again.

“They won’t. It shall be our little secret.”

Chapter One

LONDON, June 1876

Clarissa was in love.

As fortune would have it, she was fairly certain that he felt the same for her. She smiled up at George Wilbanks as he walked next to her in the park. He was so handsome with his dark blond hair and striking green eyes. Every woman in London envied her time with George, but it had become quite evident that he only had eyes for her. He never took any other girls to the park for a walk.

He always brought her daisies, which had never been her favorites, but she knew that they meant love. Though there were some who would argue they meant innocence, but what did they know? It had also been a full two months since he danced more than one dance a night with any girl other than her. But in Clarissa’s mind, the walk was proof enough.

This had become a ritual for them. Every Wednesday afternoon they met and walked in the park, side-by-side, together, with her Aunt Maureen walking behind them several paces. Some days her friend Ella and her brother, Victor, would walk with them, but today, they were alone.

“The weather has been quite unpleasant lately,” George said.

“Indeed. All the dampness, it’s so dreary, not at all the manner of weather one would prefer for the Season.” They had so much in common, agreed upon so many things. They would make a perfect pair. Some day when they were finally able to marry. At the moment, George was waiting. His father was stern and not an all-together pleasant man, and he was stingy with George’s rightful inheritance. So George was reluctant to marry until he had complete control of the funds and the household. No one could blame him for such a thing. A man wanted to be in control of his own household.

“George, how is the future looking? Are you hopeful?” She wanted to come right out and ask him when are you going to propose, when do I get to finally be your wife? Even if they couldn’t marry until his father had passed on, they could be engaged, so that the world knew she belonged to George Wilbanks, and that someday she’d be Lady Wilbanks. Despite all of that, she needed to be patient and give him time. Certainly it was only a matter of time. He had so much to manage with his father.

“The future looks good. Though you know my father is still as healthy as they come,” he said with a chuckle. “Perhaps some would think I’m a black heart for speaking of my father in such a way. Who else is waiting for their own parent to die simply so they can begin living their life as they see fit? I do hope you don’t think ill of me.”

“No, of course not,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “I know the truth. You’ve been a very patient son. Anyone would agree.”

He gave her a wink. “You are such a gem, Clarissa, a true friend. I enjoy our talks.

“And if I would like to be more than a friend?”

He took her hand and placed a whisper of a kiss against her glove. “Patience, my sweet. You must know that I am not in a good place right now. With my inheritance, the title, my father.”

“George, none of that matters as long as we can be together.” She felt certain she would help him weather anything. And his inheritance didn’t matter to her.

He stopped walking and led her over to a bench near a sculpture. He paused while a group of ladies walked arm-in-arm passed them. One of the women looked back over her shoulder and gave George a secretive smile. It was on Clarissa’s mind to ask him about it, but he appeared to have not even noticed the woman.

“I must be honest with you.” He looked around to ensure they were out of earshot from anyone else. “I owe a lot of money to a particular establishment, and I am trying to take care of the situation without alerting my father. Nothing can be done about my future,” he said delicately, “until that matter is resolved.”

She looked up at him and grabbed his hands, then came to her senses and abruptly dropped them. “George, I had no idea you were in such trouble. I have money.” She placed her hand against her chest. “I’ve been saving for years. All you need do is simply tell me how much you owe and I shall loan the sum to you.” Not only did she have her own money, but since taking over the family finances, she had made some very profitable investments. She had, as it turned out, quite the knack for it. Of course she couldn’t tell George that.

He smiled wistfully. “I would never ask you to do such a thing.”

“It is no bother. Honestly, I am not doing anything with the money. It was put away for such an occasion.” If this was the only thing standing between her and George finally marrying, then she was ready, eager even, to hand over the entire amount she’d saved, plus some. She could probably offer him some advice on sound investments too, but she didn’t want him to think poorly of her for handling the family’s monies whilst her brother was gone.

He held a hand up and shook his head. “No. I refuse to take money from you.”

She was quiet a moment, considering the situation. Evidently money was keeping them apart, yet George was obviously too proud to allow her to help. Men were peculiar about such matters. She considered for a moment telling him her secret that she was quite schooled in financial matters, but once he knew that about her, their courtship would most certainly end. Being so unconventional was certainly nothing to celebrate. “At the very least, will you tell me to whom you owe money?”

Another group of people passed by. Clarissa smiled and waved to those she knew.

“You will think ill of me.” He looked away from her. His intense gaze settled on the shrubbery across from their bench.

“Never!” She shook her head. “That is impossible. You must know that I hold you in the highest regard.”

He nodded, then came to his feet. “Rodale’s. I don’t expect you to know what that is. A lady such as yourself, so genteel and proper, would not be aware of such establishments.” He met her gaze. “It is a gaming hell. I’m afraid I’ve gotten into a bit of trouble with some of my wagers. It’s a wretched vice, certainly not one acceptable to a fine, upstanding lady.”

Gambling. She knew that some men struggled with the vice, but she had not expected it of her George. Still, it changed nothing with her feelings for him. If she was to be his wife, she would assist him in any way she could.

She stood and gave his arm a squeeze. “Do not fret over such matters. Your admission has changed nothing about you, in my eyes.”

They began walking again. She knew what needed to be done now. If her suspicion was correct, then Rodale’s could belong to only one man, and she felt certain Justin Rodale would do her a favor.

…

Clari
ssa had selected her attire with great care. She knew that during this particular outing she could not draw attention to herself, so she’d donned one of her black mourning dresses and a hat large enough to cover most of her face. When she’d purchased the hat, it had come with too much plumage and she’d ripped out the feathers leaving it a simple black hat with cream-colored chiffon ribbons. Even as modest as the hat was, she worried she’d stand out too much. She fretted over the hat the entire carriage ride.

Nerves beat wildly inside her stomach. This was not something she would normally do, going to visit a gaming hell, but she had no other choice. There was even an ancient proverb suggesting such a thing, requiring desperate measures during desperate times. The carriage rolled to a stop. She sat still, hands folded in her lap. Men’s voices filled the street that awaited her.

The driver opened the door to the carriage and she did her best to gather her wits. She swallowed, willing herself to be brave. This was something that had to be done, especially if she wanted to be married by the end of the Season. Considering she was rapidly approaching four and twenty, she most assuredly wanted to be married as soon as was possible. Using that very thought to bolster her courage, she stepped down from the hired hack, and straightened her pelisse.

“Wait here for me,” she told the driver. “And I shall pay you extra.”

Despite the late hour, the street bustled with activity. She tried to glance around without revealing too much of her own identity, but she would draw even more attention if she fell on the street in a heap of black wool. Two men walked up the street toward her, presumably heading directly to the establishment she too sought. Clarissa realized with alarming clarity that she knew one of the men, had just danced with him the night before at the Millerton’s ball. She stepped out of their way and looked down at her shoes. Both men stepped into the gaming hell and the door closed behind them.

For a moment she considered climbing back into the hack and going straight home. As it was, Aunt Maureen thought Clarissa had gone to bed early with a sour stomach. But she could not allow fear to prevent her from helping George. If she didn’t take care of this matter now, there was no telling how long it would take George to handle it. No, this was something that had to be done. She felt for the bag at her wrist with all of her money tucked inside. With a hearty breath, she took the steps leading to the unmarked red door.

She didn’t even have to knock, the door simply opened as she lifted her hand. Noise and smoke poured out of the door. She couldn’t see much, but spied a buxom woman sitting atop a man’s lap while he examined his cards. A large beefy man stepped into the doorway, effectively blocking her view of anything save his barrel chest.

She tilted her head to see his face, though kept one gloved hand to her hat in case she needed to quickly cover herself. His thick eyebrows rose as he took in the sight of her. “A lady don’t have business here,” he said brusquely.

“I should like—” She cleared her throat behind her black lace glove. “That is, I need to speak to Mr. Rodale, if you do not mind.”

“Mr. Rodale is otherwise engaged,” the man said, brazenly mocking her speech.

“I have it on good authority that he is here most nights.”

Three men came up behind her. “Are you lost, my lady?” one of them asked, then laughed heartily.

The man at the door moved her aside and admitted the three men before once again blocking the door.

She grabbed the bag at her wrist, hoping the reminder of why she was here would push her forward. “It is imperative that I speak with him.” She tapped her foot in hopes of appearing more courageous than she actually felt. “Now.”

The man eyed her for another minute before making a low growly noise. “Wait there.” Then he slammed the door in her face.

She moved over to the far side of the stoop to allow any other patrons to enter the establishment without her being in the way or really being seen. After what felt like a quarter of an hour a man stepped out of the building, the beefy man stood behind him. “That’s her, said she had to speak with you. It was imperative.” Again the man mocked her speech.

It was not her fault she was well bred and educated.

“I’ll handle matters from here, Clipps. You go back inside and keep an eye on things.” He turned to face Clarissa. “I am Mr. Rodale. What is so important?”

His voice was different than she remembered, deeper, darker even, but still that hint of a French accent he’d tried so hard to rid himself of when he was a boy.

“I need to speak to you,” she said dumbly. She mentally shook herself, then took a chance and glanced up at him. From this angle, the best she could do was get a look at his cravat, which was loosely tied at best. Where they stood now, with the light hanging next to the door, anyone walking by could see her. “Could we speak down here on the street, where it is more private?” She didn’t bother waiting for him to answer, merely took the steps back down to the sidewalk.

“What is this about?” he asked, his voice sharp with irritation.

She looked up at him again, this time tilting her neck far enough to see his face. She could see bits of the boy she knew in the man before her, the same amber-colored eyes and olive skin, but she had not been expecting him to be so startlingly handsome. So tall and athletic and masculine, he was beyond dashing. She sucked in her breath at the same time his brows shot up.

“Chrissy? Is that you?” He grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her more into the shadows.

She closed her eyes against the wretched childhood nickname. “Please do not call me that,” she hissed. “In fact do not say my name at all. I should not be here, but I needed to speak to you immediately.”

He grinned. “Miss me after all these years?”

“I do not.” Though, admittedly, that smile of his did make her wonder what he’d been doing the last several years. She shook her head. Now was not the time to reminisce. “I came to discuss a certain debt with you. Can I be assured of your discretion?”

“Clarissa, you are affecting the discretion of my establishment by being here. This is no place for a woman of your breeding to be seen.” He glanced around them to ensure they were still alone. “What the devil are you doing here? You could have sent a post.”

“I would like to pay the debts of Mr. George Wilbanks.”

His warm caramel eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You heard me.” She indicated the purse hanging from her wrist. “I brought the funds, now if you could please tell me precisely how much he owes, I will gladly pay the sum.”

“Have you completely lost your senses?” Justin’s jaw clenched.

How had she not noticed his handsomeness when she was a girl? He’d simply been her brother’s friend and one whom she hadn’t even deemed appropriate for Marcus to have.

Justin Rodale was a bastard, by birth, if not behavior. He’d been wretchedly surly and nothing more than a troublemaker. Not at all the sort of friend the son of an earl should have. It hadn’t mattered to Clarissa that Justin had gone to all the same schools as Marcus. And he had teased her mercilessly and insisted on calling her that wretched name.
Chrissy.

“First of all, I do not have a running summary in my mind of how much each patron owes me,” he said. “I have far too many patrons for that. Secondly, I am not at liberty to discuss a man’s debts with a woman who is not either his mother or his wife, and even then I probably would still refuse to disclose information.” He paused a moment and eyed her. “Who is this man to you, Chrissy?”