Sinful (2 page)

“Gentlemen,” the loud voice of the auctioneer boomed. The cacophony of voices and laughter immediately died to an eerie quiet.

“Damn me, Wallingford, you’ve dangled this pretty little piece before us long enough. Give us a glimpse, man,” Lord Ponsomby said irritably as he tossed more brandy down his fat throat.

“Yes, you’ve had your fun, now give us a peek,” cried someone near the back of the room.

“Gentlemen,” the auctioneer yelled, hitting his gavel against the wooden podium. “All in due time, gents. Now, we will start the bidding for this exceptional piece at five hundred pounds.”

“Let’s see it first,” shouted Frederick Banks, an investment
banker. Matthew found himself smiling. Old money never cared what they bought, but new money, they wanted to hold on to it, watching it grow, making certain they got good return for their investment. Old Banks was new money, trying to take a pence and press it into two.

Matthew was reasonably certain that Banks would find his portrait an infinitely prudent investment, if indeed, the old roué’s reputation was to be believed.

“Gentlemen, ladies…I give you the
Dance of the Seven Veils.
”

With a whoosh, the sheet was pulled away from the portrait by the club’s butler. A collective murmur of appreciation rippled out from the center of the crowd to the fringes of the room. There was a hushed awe, a sort of reverence in their silence that made Matthew turn his head and gaze at the portrait.

It was as stunning as it was erotic. Beautiful, tasteful, yet titillatingly explicit.

He heard a series of appreciative murmurs.
Simply stunning. Sensually beautiful,
as well as
Erotically elegant.
All words that made him immensely proud.

When he had the idea for the auction, he had known the piece would need to cause a stir. Something that would make the wealthy part with their money, preferably
lots
of their money.

It had started out as a piece of lewd portraiture, but had morphed and changed into something tasteful, but decadent. Any man who adored the female form would shed his own blood to own this painting.

Standing back, Matthew tried to dissect his work. To pick it apart and focus on the imperfections, yet he could not find anything to criticize. It was perfect, even down to the way the women’s bare breasts were being displayed and how some of their ankles and wrists were bound with their veils.

Each woman, white, black, Asian, Arabic, East Indian, was depicted in elegant repose with brilliant colored silk veils that set off the hue of her glowing skin. All were naked and spread for the admiration of the male voyeurs before them. Some were sprawled out on a crimson velvet chaise. Others were kneeling. Two women were bound together by a blood-red veil tied around their bosoms, their mouths locked in a passionate kiss. Two other women explored each other’s bodies, while one looked on, touching herself, her face awash in pleasure.

In all, the seven women were stunningly beautiful, well endowed, and most of all, supremely comfortable posing for him. It was not conceit, but the truth, as well as the mark of a good artist. The easy confidence shone in their faces, in the way their eyes seemed to sparkle and the way their lips curved in secret, provocative smiles and pouts.

“A thousand pounds,” someone cried.

“Two thousand,” Banks, the frugal investor, rebutted.

The numbers continued to be shouted out, climbing at a most pleasing rate. With this amount of blunt, he could purchase the building he wanted, an old little shop in Bloomsbury with a lovely bow window. It needed work, and while he was a shameless rogue, he was not above working up a sweat. He wanted this gallery. It had been the only thing he’d wanted in the past sixteen years.

“Six thousand pounds,” the auctioneer cried. “Going once…going twice. Sold to Mr. Banks.”

With a satisfied smile, Matthew watched Frederick Banks jostle through the crowd, toward him.

“Damn me, what a pretty picture,” Banks said excitedly as he pumped Matthew’s hand with his damp one. “I’ll deposit a draft in your account in the morning.”

With a nod, Matthew glanced once more at his painting.
“I will have one of my footmen deliver it to you. Perhaps the bank would be the best place?”

Banks’s eyes widened. “Yes, yes.” He laughed. “My wife would have a fit of the vapors, although it might teach her a trick or two, wouldn’t it?”

From what he had heard, Mrs. Banks was well versed in a number of delightful little tricks.

“Thank you, Mr. Banks,” Matthew muttered, wanting to depart from the burgeoning crowd that seemed to swell before him. “I think I shall take my leave.”

He never was one for being smothered by bodies. And he had no interest in carrying on idle conversation.

“You look like you could use a drink. A celebratory drink.”

He knew that voice. His rod hardened in his trousers as he took the glass filled with the mysterious green liquid and stared down into a lovely face that looked up at him with hunger. “Ah, the green fairy. How did you know?”

“A woman never tells her secrets,” the woman said with a coy smile as she passed it to him. “Absinthe, it does do wonders for the mind, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm,” he murmured, drinking it down. Nothing made him forget who and what he was like absinthe.

“What a wickedly debauched painting,” she said. Her eyes flickered over the portrait with appreciation. “I would wager that those women actually liked posing for you.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, looking her over. He had seen her a few times before, but had never approached her. Tonight she was wearing a red dress, with a low square-cut bodice. He liked what he saw falling out of the cheap gown.

“I would like posing for you,” she whispered. “Are you up for it tonight?”

Christ, he was already hard and straining. The effects of the absinthe and the euphoria of getting six thousand for his
painting only made the ache more unbearable. “The question is, my dear, are you up for it?”

Her lashes fluttered, concealing eyes nearly as cynical as his. “That, my lord, depends on what you want.”

“You. Tied up.”

Taking the now-empty glass from him, she set it down on the arm of a chair. “That will cost extra, of course.”

He smiled, one he knew could only be described as world weary. “It always does.”

“I have a room upstairs. With a delightfully large bed.”

“What of a wall?” he inquired as he trailed behind her, assessing her hips, which swayed erotically beneath the tawdry red satin. “It’s my usual preference.”

The woman gazed back at him as she headed for the stairs. “For another ten pounds.”

He nodded in agreement. What was ten pounds when faced with fucking in bed? It was an investment in pleasure and what little of his sanity still remained.

“You’re an odd duck,” she said to him, her painted eyes softening in the glow of the wall sconce. “Broken, I think.”

“Broken?” He laughed. “Madam, I am completely and unequivocally damaged beyond repair. Don’t bother to try to fix me. I’m utterly ruined and fit only for the rubbish bin. Now, where the blazes are you taking me?” he asked as the absinthe began to find its way to his brain, making his thoughts fuzzy. Maybe a bed would be all right tonight. He was drunk enough, he supposed.

“Just a little farther up,” she whispered.

“That’s the exit,” he barked, trying to clear his vision. “I thought you said you had a room upstairs?”

“Well, I lied,” she snapped in a voice that turned from siren to spinster. “I’m broken, too. Now hand over your money and your jewels and be quick about it.”

He laughed at the absurdity of her trying to rob him, then snarled as someone came from the dark shadows and shoved him out of the club and into the alley. “Now, guv,” came the cockney accent, followed by a thick arm around his throat and the stench of foul breath and rotten teeth. “Give us the goods and we’ll let you live.”

“Oh, what a treat,” he drawled. “Another morning. A new, mundane day. You do know how to depress a man, don’t you?”

He felt the man turn to glance at the woman, no doubt silently questioning Matthew’s mental state.

“I don’t know,” his would-be assignation spat. “He’s as mad as a hatter but rich as Croesus.”

“Right and wrong, love. Mad, indeed. Rich? ’Fraid not.”

The man holding him paused and loosened his hold a fraction, allowing Matthew to get in his surprise left hook.

“Ow! ’E broke me nose,” the man cried, stumbling back. Matthew was on him, using the skills he’d honed over the years studying pugilism. He was as big as an ox with the stamina of a stallion—the frail cockney indigent would be no match for his fists.

“Afraid you chose the wrong target, mate. I’m no weak guvnor. I’ve boxed for the past ten years.”

There was an angry cry from the depths of the alley, followed by three more ruffians who emerged through the darkness. Fists flying, legs kicking, Matthew fought them off even through his drunken haze.

Wait till he got his hands on that bitch, he thought savagely as he landed a jab into the throat of one of the thieves.

He was about ready to dispatch the last by planting his fist in his face when a glimmer of white whisked past his right eye. In a blinding whirl, he felt something crash against his temple. The last thing he felt was the slime-covered cobbles of the alley as his cheek cracked against them.

“Pick him clean,” the woman ordered. “I saw the winning bidder come up to him. I’m certain he passed him some money. Once you’ve found it, make it so he won’t be identifying me.”

The stench of the wards was always a little overpowering at the beginning of the shift. But tonight it was particularly putrid. The scent of excrement, vomitus, death and disease was literally breath stealing.

Two full pails of water and a pair of mops were placed at her feet—the water too clean to have been put to any use.

“Have you washed the beds and walls yet?” Jane asked the two petulant nurses standing before her.

“Whot fer? They only piss on them again.”

Jane glared at the one, a brunette with a comely face and sinfully curved body. She’d come from the workhouse after being arrested for prostitution. It was clear that the idea of nursing the ill and dying was less appealing than that of selling her body for coin. But for Jane Rankin, a woman of suspect birth, an opportunity to have any sort of respectable job was her idea of heaven.

“When you arrived here, I explained your duties thoroughly. At the beginning of the night you’re to clean the beds and walls before you begin your rounds.”

“And what’s it yer doing, Miss Hoity-Toity, when we’re breaking our backs cleaning?”

Jane straightened her spine. Illegitimate or not, she still had a measure of her aristocratic father’s arrogance. “I am head sister of the ward. Your superior,” Jane stated, prickled by the woman’s insolence. “I take this profession very seriously. If you have no respect for it, then you may leave.”

The new nurse seemed to settle her ire, although anger still flashed occasionally in her eyes. “I like the pay. I ’ate the work. Besides, it’s nothin’ but worn-out whores and old washerwomen doing this work. It’s not like yer an archangel saving lives. More dies in ’ere than lives.” She snorted with amusement. “And alls the men want a tup with their sponge bath. Don’t see ’ow this is any more respectable than whoring.”

“Stop that talk,” Jane commanded. “If we’re to make a go of this, then we must adhere to a strict code of morality and respect. If we want others to see nurses as something other than worn-out women, then we must first believe in the profession ourselves.”

The pair of them snorted. “And whot would the likes of ye know about bein’ on the outs, earnin’ yer coin by spreadin’ yer thighs?”

Jane softened a bit. “I know enough. My mother was a working girl.”

“Yeah? Well it’s not the same as when it’s you gettin’ pawed for a pence.”

“I am well aware of that. And here is your chance to make your life better. You’ll see, in a few years nurses will be respected. As much as a governess, or a…a tutor. Now, go on and see to your duties.”

“Whatever ye say,
Sister,
” Abigail jeered. “But nothin’ will come of it. You’ll see. It’s just another form of slavery for women.”

Jane watched the two new employees of London College Hospital saunter back to the wards, which tonight, were overflowing. They might take the profession of nursing lightly. They might scoff and laugh at it, but Jane could not. How could a girl, born in the gutter and raised by a mother who prostituted herself be anything but grateful for a chance at employment such as this? No, nursing, while in its infancy, had a long way to go, but already, in the short year she had worked here, it had provided so much for her.

She was no longer an illegitimate bastard castoff. She had purpose. Knowledge. And the power to know that when her other employer, Lady Blackwood, left this earth, she would not be left destitute and alone unable to support herself.

It was knowledge like that, that gave a woman power. She would not be dependent upon a man for her survival. She could rent a small room and furnish it in a home with other women who were making their way in the world. Independent women, she thought with satisfaction. There was a new generation of women such as her. Women who believed they could make it on their own. Women who counted on no one for their survival or happiness but themselves.

The world was changing, albeit slowly. Too slow, as far as Jane was concerned. But she took comfort in knowing that there were others out there like her, trying to live a respectable life without the encumbrance of a man.

It was Lady Blackwood’s doing, Jane thought with a wistful smile. It was her employer’s teaching of this radical new thinking. Many people laughed at Lady Blackwood. She had been blackballed by more than one hostess in the past few years, but Jane knew if someone like Lady Blackwood could make her way in a world dominated by men and their laws, then Jane could, too. Lady B. had grown up in a world where she had everything to lose. Jane had grown up with nothing, and everything to gain.

No, nursing was far better than lowering herself by selling her body in the streets. Or worse, being a mistress. There was something so abhorrent to Jane about the thought of a man owning a woman for his pleasure. For Jane, it would be more than the exchange of her favors, it would be the selling of her dignity, her identity—her soul. She may have precious little in the way of material things, but the things that mattered most to her, her ideals and beliefs, made her wealthier than most women she was acquainted with.

As was her nightly routine, Jane strolled down the dark hall, lantern in hand, quietly making her way from bed to bed, ensuring all the patients were tucked in. Most were lying two to a bed. The blankets, threadbare and some moth-eaten, were too thin to ward off the dampness of the April night. Inside the ward, the air was ripe with disease and the melancholy of death. Bad air, she thought as she gently covered up a child who lay with its mother. She wanted to open a window, but knew the cold would make the patients suffer more. Still, the sickly stench wasn’t much better than a damp draft.

There were sixty patients tonight, all suffering from a menagerie of ailments, and that was not including the five who already died since she arrived for her shift. Such were nights at London College Hospital. At first, she had been horrified by what she witnessed night after night. The beatings, the diseases, the air of hopelessness. But Jane had grown in strength these past twelve months, learning more about herself and human nature than she ever thought possible. The human soul was an amazing thing; the willpower to survive, humbling. The capacity to love, frightening.

She, herself, had never loved—not a passionate love. Of course she felt love for Lady Blackwood who had saved her from the streets and given her a life. But that was a different kind of love—a familial one. Sometimes, Jane would watch
the other nurses with the male patients, flirting and flaunting themselves. She was no fool; she knew what went on in certain wards. She had been no stranger to the baseness of men. She had seen prostitutes with their clients. She knew of the acts. Knew that sex could be pleasurable. But what she had never been able to understand was how a passionate connection could be forged between two people. A connection that went beyond the few minutes that sex provided.

Perhaps there was something wrong in her makeup. Some flaw that prevented her from warmth of feeling. It was not that she hadn’t longed for that sentiment, or yearned to discover what sex was all about, it was just that she had never felt moved enough by a man to embark upon the journey that might very well enlighten her about the aspects of pleasure and passion.

She was old by the standards of the day. Twenty-seven, to be precise. She had been kissed only once, and it had left a lackluster feeling inside her. Of course, being a lady’s companion by day and a nurse by night did not exactly bring about ardent suitors. It didn’t help that most found her shy and plain, two facts that Jane had never bothered to worry over. She could not help the way she was born. She would be lying, of course, if she said she hadn’t questioned why she had not been born with her mother’s beauty. Her mother, despite being born in the stews, had managed to capture the notice of an earl’s son, who decided right then and there that she must be his mistress. That aristocrat had been Jane’s father. Homely though he was, he had been a prize for someone like Lucy Rankin. But their life had taken a horrible spiral downward when Jane was six and her father had married another. Lucy had still been his mistress, but his visits were less and less frequent, and Jane had been forced to watch her mother’s beauty, as well her spirit, decline. When her father had kicked
them both onto the street without anything to live on, or a roof over their heads, Jane, at the tender age of seven, had made her first promise to herself. And that was, never be a mistress, and never allow a man to dictate your life or your happiness.

At twenty-seven, she was proud to say she had upheld that promise, and without any regrets. Still, she would be a liar if she refused to admit to at least herself, that there had been the occasional time, lying in her bed, that she found herself wondering what it would be like to share a bed and her body with a man.

“How is the consumptive child who arrived tonight?”

The whispered voice drifted over her shoulder, pulling her out of the unwanted, yet haunting, reminders of her past and the eager yearnings that had recently begun to plague her. Turning, Jane held the lantern aloft, illuminating the intelligent face of Dr. Inglebright, the younger. Dr. Inglebright, the senior, was a crusty old bear, with a wrinkled face and a deep mistrust of the new phenomenon of nurses. Inglebright, the younger, was a man with a kind smile, and gray eyes full of genuine concern—and respect.

“She sleeps at last, sir. Although her breathing is not so easy.”

“Give her a quarter dram of laudanum then.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she murmured, unable to look into his eyes. For the past month, Dr. Inglebright had been looking at her most queerly, and it made her insides turn inside out. Why, she didn’t know. She only knew that her response to the presence of Richard Inglebright had dramatically changed over the course of the year that he had taken her under his wing, teaching her about medicine, and showing her how to care for the ill. Perhaps it was only gratitude. After all, without Richard, she would never have had an opportunity to become a nurse. Mayhap it was friendship. They did talk very easily and freely between themselves.

“How is Lady Blackwood?” he asked, concern evident in his eyes. “I wanted to stop by this morning, but I found myself engaged in sewing up a young lad after removing his appendix.”

Richard Inglebright was far more dedicated to the pursuit of healing than his father. If she had any say at all, she would, without batting an eyelash, request the younger Inglebright, despite the fact that his father was very often called to care for the elite of the city. It was episodes such as these, Richard staying on after his shift to care for others, that endeared him to Jane.

“You must be utterly exhausted,” she said with concern. “You performed four surgeries last night.”

Inglebright’s eyes flashed. “Your concern warms me,” he murmured in a deep voice that flustered her and made her look away. “No one cares about my needs like you do, Jane.”

The statement felt far too familiar, and Jane, unsure of herself around men, did the only thing she could—she retreated behind her veil of coolness.

“As you inquired, Lady Blackwood is very well,” she said, stumbling to get their conversation on a safe course. “That tincture you sent for her has helped immensely with her arthritis.”

He smiled, making Jane wonder if he was laughing at her. “Good, good,” he mumbled, his gaze traveling over her face and the white apron she used to cover her gown with. “You do credit to her, Jane. I know of few lady’s companions who would deign to become a nurse.”

“You give me too much credit, sir. You know very well I came to the hospital to work off my, as well as Lady Blackwood’s, mounting debt to your father.”

His smile softened as he pressed in closer to her. “But you didn’t have to stay once it was repaid.”

A little frisson of excitement snaked along her spine at his
closeness. It was most improper how close they were standing. “I found I liked helping the ill. And what is closer to the truth, I saw it as a means for future employment. We both know that Lady Blackwood will not be with me forever. And where would I go? There is not another Lady Blackwood out there who would overlook my pedigree and bring me into her home to act as companion.”

“There are many that would overlook your upbringing, Jane.” His smile was like a full kiss on the lips. Jane felt it in every cell of her being.

“Doc, we’ve got somethin’ fer ye.”

Irritation flickered in his eyes, and Jane held the lantern higher. The annoyance swiftly passed as he saw two burly night men carrying in the body of what looked to be an unconscious man. A rather large man, Jane thought.

“’E’s bleedin’, he is. Head’s mashed to bits.”

“My theatre,” Richard commanded, taking charge. “Jane, wash your hands and assist me.”

“Yes,” she said, obeying him with a slight curtsy. She ran to the end of the ward where a porcelain sink and a pitcher of clean, soapy water awaited her.

Pouring the now-tepid water over her hands, she rubbed her palms together, using friction to clean between her fingers and beneath her nails. Richard was fastidious about washing, a fact his father laughed about. But Jane had noticed over the months here that Richard’s patients had less wound infections than those of his father.

Drying her hands on a clean towel, Jane walked briskly to the wooden doors that swung open. The hem of her black gown was swishing around her legs, the starched white apron itching against her neck, which had started to perspire. It was not fear that made her sweat, but excitement.

“We have a significant head wound, Jane,” Richard an
nounced as she entered the room where Richard performed his operations. “And perhaps some broken bones.”

Richard’s hands, covered in blood, searched through the tumble of black hair on the man’s head.

“’E’s a rich cove, ’e is,” the burliest of the night men said. “Look at ’is clothes and that waistcoat.”

“Never mind that now,” Richard growled. “Help me to get him undressed so I can see if there is more damage. Jane, bring over the tray with the ether. I have a feeling when this giant awakes, he will not be in pleasant humor.”

The two men began pulling off the bloodstained jacket and waistcoat. Jane turned her back, preparing the silver tray with the ether and an assortment of tools she thought Inglebright might need. For certain, this man would require needle and thread to close the gaping wound in his head.