The Darkest Sin

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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Darkest Sin
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The Darkest Sin
 
 
 
C
AROLINE
R
ICHARDS
 
 
 
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Prologue
R
owena Woolcott was cold, so very cold. She dreamed that she was on her horse, flying through the countryside at Montfort, a heavy rain drenching them both to the skin, hooves and mud sailing through the sodden air. Then a sudden stop, Dragon rearing in fright, before a darkness so complete that Rowena knew she had died.
When she awakened, it was to the sound of an anvil echoing in her head and the feeling of bitter fluid sliding down her throat. She kept her eyes closed, shutting out the daggered words in the background.
“Faron will not rest—”
“The Woolcott women—”
“One of his many peculiar fixations . . . they are to suffer . . . and then they are to die.”
“Meredith Woolcott believed she could hide forever.”
Phrases, lightly accented in French, drifted in and out of Rowena's head, at one moment near and the next far away. Time merged and coalesced, a series of bright lights followed by darkness, then the sharp retort of a pistol shot. And her sister's voice, calling out to her.
The cold permeated her limbs, pulling down her heavy skirts into watery depths. She tried to swim but her arms and legs would not obey, despite the fact that she had learned as a child in the frigid lake at Montfort. She did not sink like a stone, weighted by her corset and shift and riding boots, because it seemed as though strong hands found her and held her aloft, easing her head above the current trying to force water down her throat and into her lungs.
She dreamed of those hands, sliding her into dry, crisp sheets, enveloping her in a seductive combination of softness and strength. She tossed and turned, a fever chafing her blood, her thoughts a jumble of puzzle pieces vying for attention.
Drifting into the fog, she imagined that she heard steps, the door to a room opening, then the warmth of a body shifting beneath the sheets. She felt the heat,
his heat
, like a cauldron, a furnace toward which she turned her cold flesh. Her womb was heavy and her breasts ached as he slid into her slowly, infinitely slowly, the hugeness of him filling the void that was her center.
Was it one night or a lifetime of nights? Or an exquisite, erotic dream. Spooned with her back against his body, Rowena felt him hard and deep within her. She slid her hip against a muscular thigh, aware of him beginning to move within her once again. She savored the wicked mouth against the skin of her neck, pleasured by the slow slide of his lips. Losing herself in his deliberate caress, she reveled in his hands cupping and stroking, his fingers slipping into the shadows and downward to lightly tease her swollen, sensitized flesh.
“Stay here . . . with me,” he whispered, breath hot in her ear.
And she did. For one night or a lifetime of nights, she would never know.
Chapter 1
London: One year later
“A
bloody mess, it was.”
“How many days in the water do they estimate?” “Difficult to tell. Bilious and bloated beyond recognition.”
Lord James Lyndon Rushford barely looked up from the table, his gaze intent on the cards in his right hand. “Are we playing vingt-et-un, gentlemen?” he murmured. “I would suggest, judging by your winnings, that you concentrate on the game.”
The oil lamps burned low, illuminating the generous proportions of the games room hosting four men, jackets casually draped across chairs, neck stocks undone, who were leisurely and relentlessly bent upon losing money, of which they all had plenty. Crockford's was a private club on St. James, luxurious and discreet, requiring membership that demanded deep coffers and cavalier unconcern. On this Monday evening the crowd was unusually light, consisting solely of players for whom the vice of cards was too hard to resist.
Sir Richard Archer threw down a matched set of queens a moment before Rushford bested him with a sprawl of cards, lazily delivered on the mahogany table.
Archer grinned good-naturedly, blue eyes gleaming beneath a bold nose. “Thought we could put you off your game, Rush, but apparently not.”
“Indeed,” murmured Lord Ambrose Galveston, leaning forward in his chair, observing Rushford speculatively. “I should have thought that the specter of a soiled dove washed ashore would pique your interest.” He was a slight man with a receding hairline that matched his retreating chin.
“Hardly mysterious in this case, I'd warrant,” said Sir Harry Devonshire, before throwing down his cards in exasperation. “And I can speak with some confidence. My source of information is not London's chief constable but rather that Irish groom my wife hired last year, a rascal who spends most of his time bedding whatever skirt catches his fancy, whether below stairs or on the riverfront.” He drummed his fingers on the table's edge. “Wonder if he knew her,” he mused.
“And why should it matter,” asked Galveston, “when the body belongs to that of a prostitute?”
“I believe that they determined she was an actress, judging by her finery. Or so reports the Irish groom,” corrected Devonshire.
“A very fine distinction,” Galveston sniffed. “Actress, whore, it matters little. They do come and go with alarming regularity. What do you make of it, Archer? Clearly, Rushford is not inclined to join us in conversation.”
Archer played with the chips at his elbow and shrugged. “This is all prurient speculation. Which means there's not much that need be discussed.”
Galveston gave a puff of derision. “I shouldn't wish to offend your sensibilities. Such refinement!”
“I don't quite know what the bother is all about,” said Devonshire disingenuously, although all the men gathered around the mahogany table in the library knew precisely why this particular incident—this death—held such resonance. “Besides which and much more importantly,” continued Devonshire, deciding to heed the storm brewing on the horizon and decamp while there was still time, “this game has become too rich for me, gentlemen. I shall retire to White's, I believe, for a nightcap before returning home. Anyone care to join me?” Looking about him expectantly, and ignoring the footman who appeared instantly to assist him with his waistcoat and jacket, Devonshire took the last draft from the very fine brandy Crockford's provided to its loyal clientele. “Very well then,” he said rising from his chair with a definitive shrug of his shoulders, “I shall make my way to the club and a lonely night of drinking. Good evening, gentlemen.” He followed with a curt bow and exited the room.
“I shall follow suit, I think, but prefer to keep my own company this evening,” said Galveston, scraping back his chair before jerking his rather meager chin in Rushford's direction. “Although it's difficult to fathom why you shouldn't want to know more about Bow Street's latest gruesome discovery, what with your unorthodox interests, Rushford.”
Rushford smiled slowly, the curve to his lips doing nothing to soften his countenance, an assemblage of hard planes and angles that was not particularly welcoming. He slanted back in his chair, ignoring the winnings piled high to the right of his discarded cards. “One needs something to keep boredom at bay, Galveston.”
Galveston squared his narrow shoulders. “A highly risible claim. Surely, amateur sleuthing is hardly becoming to a man of your stature. That case you involved yourself in earlier in the year, concerning those prostitutes and their keeper. Truly a noisome situation if there ever was one and with spectacular repercussions, if you'll recall.”
Archer cleared his throat in warning, but Galveston continued. “Not much good can come from involving oneself in these matters. And what's the point, after all? The poor and destitute, the morally suspect, shall always be with us, subject to the vagaries of fate.”
Archer tensed in his seat as Rushford's smile widened, never a good sign. “So, Galveston, enlighten me, if you will,” he said slowly, with a poor approximation of patience. “If this woman recently discovered on the Thames's shore were well born, then you would concede an interest in discovering the crime behind her demise. But given that she may have had to earn her living at a trade of sorts, her life is deemed of no value. Despite the fact that you occasionally avail yourself of services that she and her type might have to offer.” The lamps seemed to hiss more loudly.
Galveston pursed his lips, insulted that his extracurricular interests, hardly irregular, would be called into question. He was not quite an habitué of either Cruikshank's nor Madam Recamier's in King's Cross, although he did on occasion sample the wares of either establishment. He smoothed the ivory buttons on his waistcoat with soft hands that had never seen a day's work. “It would appear to me that you're the last one who can afford to cast aspersions, Rushford.”
Rushford pushed back his chair, unfolding his impressive physique. Archer followed suit, hoping that Galveston at least had the good judgment not to raise a matter better left cold and dead. Rushford had an unreliable temper, and it was momentarily doubtful that Galveston recollected the fact that Rushford could drill a dime at twenty paces, counted membership in the West London Boxing Club, and was the winner of the Marquis of Queensbury's challenge cup four years running.
“Time to bid adieu, Galveston,” Archer said helpfully.
“I shall take my leave.”
“Perhaps you would care to finish elaborating your point,” Rushford said.
Not a good plan, thought Archer. Galveston opened his mouth to say something, but perhaps it was a primal instinct for survival that he snapped it closed again. Of course, they all knew what he was thinking, what he wanted to say. Instead, with thinning lips, he concluded, “I shall leave you to your dark memories, Rushford. And good evening to you, Archer.” Galveston gathered up his jacket and with a backward glance over his shoulder added, “We haven't all forgotten, if that's what you wish to believe, Rushford.” He paused meaningfully. “We well realize that your unorthodox diversions are an attempt to make amends, to assuage your guilt—”
Rushford crossed his arms over his chest, the movement straining the superfine fabric of his shirt.
Archer said curtly, “Spare us the preaching, Galveston, and take your leave while you still have time.” In response, Galveston made a show of securing the last button on his jacket before turning on his heel, the door snapping shut behind him.
The silence was conspicuous, marred only by the sputtering of one of the lamps as the oil burned down to release a curl of dark smoke. Rushford reached for the whiskey decanter in the center of the table, splashing a healthy amount into his crystal tumbler. He took a mouthful.
Archer raised an eyebrow. “Can't believe I'm saying this, but don't you think you've had quite enough?” Between the two of them over the years, the decanters they'd emptied could rebuild Blackfriar's Bridge.
Rushford glanced at the pyramid of chips next to his chair. “It didn't seem to affect my performance at cards.” His eyes were the color of a northern sea and just about as friendly. It was difficult to reconcile the fact that the two men had met two decades earlier at Eton and shared a checkered and overlapping past that included several years adrift not only in the Royal Navy but also in London's backstreets, glittering ballrooms, and Whitehall's clandestine offices. But that was long ago, Rushford reminded himself, before everything had changed.
“We're not talking about your facility at cards. That will never be in question,” Archer said dryly.
Rushford raised his glass in his friend's direction. “Thank God. Not that I believe in one. Besides which, your hand-wringing reminds me of my old nurse.”
“You grow more idiosyncratic as you age, Rush.”
“I'm not asking you to keep me company.”
Archer observed his friend carefully. “You've barely emerged from Belgravia Square since February. And it's now May. Perhaps you should take yourself down to the waterfront and to Mrs. Banks to look at the body.”
Rushford placed the now empty crystal tumbler on the table. “Your concern is touching, Archer. You believe embroiling myself in another hopeless state of affairs will ameliorate my ennui. Although I don't think Mrs. Banks would be overly eager to see me.” Mrs. Banks was undertaker to the poor, her ramshackle dwelling in the foggiest, nastiest side of Shoreditch, where London's constabulary saw fit to drop off bodies before they found their way to a pauper's grave.
“Your involvement in the Cruikshank murders helped last time, as you very well know. Despite Galveston's palaver about sleuthing, your particular skills and energies are suited to uncovering the truth.”
He had scarcely solved the mysteries of the universe, thought Rushford wearily, when he had uncovered what the London constabulary had missed right under their noses. Madam Cruikshank's stable of fillies was being poisoned one by one by her footman, at the behest of a disgruntled client, Sir William Hutcheon. The scandal that had blossomed in the London papers had hardly endeared Rushford to London society, of which Galveston was a particularly vocal example. Not that Rushford cared a whit for society's approbation. “Hutcheon deserved to hang,” he said abruptly.
Archer nodded. “This was one crime that could not be kept behind closed doors. Thanks to your efforts.”
Rushford reached for his jacket. “Don't patronize me, Archer.”
Archer held up a palm in protest. “Furthest thing from my mind, Rush.”
“Trust me when I say that I am quite adept at keeping myself occupied.”
Archer eyed the whiskey decanter meaningfully before adding, “Does that mean you will pay Mrs. Banks a visit?”
“Christ, you're a nag. Persistently and painfully bothersome.” But he shrugged on his jacket, not troubling himself to order his cravat. He would go first thing to Shoreditch in the morning, a reason to rise other than cards and boxing. Archer was bloody right, not that he would say it aloud. They both knew thin ice when they skated on it.
Rushford made for the door, Archer close on his heels. “You ought to forgive yourself,” said his longtime friend, to his back. The words burned dully in his brain but didn't penetrate the scar tissue that had closed over his heart.
“Kate would never want you to—” Archer continued carefully.
Without turning around, his palm on the heavy brass knob of the door, Rushford said, “Give it up, Archer. There is nothing left to say.”
Or to feel,
he should have added, the shimmer of Kate's beautiful face always in his mind's eye. “I am going home now, with or without your permission, to decant and drain a fine bottle of French brandy.” Rushford never got drunk. And never forgot. That was the problem.
Archer shook his head, shrugging on his own coat. “Your work for Whitehall was worthwhile in the end, Rush, despite the fact that you refuse to acknowledge your accomplishments. And if you choose at this time to utilize your talents by immersing yourself in more pedestrian affairs, then so be it.”
Rushford turned briefly, his eyes bleak. “Pedestrian? When I think of what was sacrificed for the sake of a few bloody Egyptian tablets that now sit in the British Museum—” He did not finish the sentence but jerked open the door.
Rushford pushed past the footman with barely a backward glance at his friend. The debacle of the Rosetta Stone was one he wished to remove from memory, like a knife from between his ribs. Outcome be damned. Taking two stairs at a time, he did admit to himself that there was something about the body lying at Mrs. Banks's that tugged at his conscience. He wondered briefly why Galveston and Devonshire had been so assiduous in bringing the tragedy to his attention.
Down the stairs and past the discreet entrance off Mayfair, he pulled up his collar against the nocturnal damp, deciding to walk to his town house rather than signaling for a hansom. Anything to shorten what would be a long, sleepless night. He looked up into the starless sky and then down the length of the slumbering street, sensing that his past was opening like an abyss from which he could no longer look away.

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