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Authors: Maggie Robinson

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“Now what, Artemisia? You seem to have all this well in hand.”
She went to him, touching his ruined mouth. “I love you, Andrew Rossiter.”
“I love you more.” Andrew blinked. “My God, I do.”
“It took you long enough to say it.”
“I thought I would get us both killed. You were magnificent.”
Gemma waved the gun. “Enough of that romantic drivel. What are we going to do with them?” The kitchen was filled was foul-smelling smoke, and Gianni's screams were quite distracting.
“They planned to burn the house down after they killed us.”
“You want to burn them
alive
?” Gemma asked.
“Well, yes, but I can tell from your tone you don't think it's a good idea. Tell you what. Give me the gun and run down to the village. Tell people what happened, however you can. Wake up Mary and she can translate. We'll get Mr. MacLaren and some of the fishermen to deposit them on one of the uninhabited islands at daybreak.”
Gemma grinned. “The one with the witches.”
“We can only hope,” Andrew said grimly. “And then we'll be leaving. Immediately. I had booked passage for us on a ship heading for the West Indies a month from now, but we'll go to the mainland early. Get married. Have a honeymoon.” He was pulling curtain cords from the windows and tying Paolo to a leg of the iron stove as he proposed, but Gemma didn't mind. She opened the damper and all the windows. Let Paolo freeze to death instead.
“You still have the special license?”
“It's in my valise. In the rented boat I had to row out here, Gianni and Paolo holding a gun to my head for days. I tried to take a detour, but the bastards had sea charts. The boat's beached in the cove below. We had to take the long way away from the settlement. I'm pretty tired, Gemma. Sorry if I was not more active in our rescue.”
“I'm so sorry about telling you Marc was dead. It was the only thing I could think of to slow things down.”
“It was brilliant. I admit I felt a terrible despair, agony, made even worse by the thought of losing you, too. I was formulating an escape plan, but you beat me to it.”
Gemma cloaked herself and picked up a lamp. “You'll be all right?”
“I'll shoot him if he gets out. Did you hear that, Gianni? I won't think twice.”
Gemma didn't bother to translate the Italian curses. She hurried out the kitchen door, down the path to the village. Scattered stars winked above, and her cloak billowed behind her. Spring was in the air, sharp, fresh, green. It would be light in a few hours. Whatever the day held, she was ready for it.
EPILOGUE
Antigua, 1822
 
 
T
he French doors to the veranda were open to the evening, a gentle sea breeze rattling the palm leaves in the garden. Andrew's stars were out in force in the purple velvet sky, perfectly visible from the bed where he lay with his wife and children. A lantern flickered fitfully on the porch, casting just enough light for his ghost story—a very mild one, safe enough to send Marc to sleep in boredom while Gemma nursed Francesca against the pile of lace-trimmed pillows. She looked down happily as Francie suckled, her rosebud mouth pumping milk like a tiny pink machine.
“I have breasts now, Andrew! Isn't it exciting?” she whispered in the shadows.
Andrew cradled Francie's head as she fed. It was his opinion that while Gemma was very slightly fuller, she was still his woodland nymph, tiny yet tough in every way. She had saved his life in too many ways to count.
“You've always had breasts, love.” And he'd always loved them, just as they were, from the moment she'd risen like a Fury from the bathtub on Batter Island.
“But not like this! I thought all normal men liked a bit more up top.”
Normal
. His heart stuttered, corrected, and resumed its steady tick. “I'm not a normal man, Gemma.”
“No,” she said, “you're not. You're so much better.”
Andrew shut his eyes. He knew nearly perfect happiness at this moment, in bed with his wife, his newest child, Marc dozing next to him. He'd never trade one misstep of his past if it meant being robbed of this present. Present in terms of time, present in terms of the gifts that had been bestowed upon him. He'd been bent and hammered, torn and mended. With Gemma beside him, he'd been given another life. In this new incarnation, anything at all was possible.
“It's time to put the children in their own beds, wife.”
Gemma's gilt eyelashes flicked. “What do you have in mind, husband?”
He stroked his daughter's cheek. She had fallen asleep at Gemma's breast, a bubble of milk in the corner of her lips. All the work to feed herself had been exhausting. It was Andrew's turn now, to feast not upon his wife's breast but on every other delicious inch of her. He raised a brow. “I think you have some idea. You did tell me you were a courtesan's daughter.”
“And an earl's. How odd it was that Barrowdown remembered me in his will.”
Gemma would never need any pin-money from Andrew again. The unexpected bequest had only sweetened their plans for their children.
And there would be more of them, perhaps one even begotten tonight, once Andrew carted off his son to the nursery and Gemma laid Francie in her bassinet in the dressing room. Andrew's reformation was thorough indeed.
But one thing would never change—his lust—his love—for his wife's slender brown body beside him. And he had hours—a lifetime—to prove it to her. Have you tried the other books in Maggie's Courtesan Court series?
Mistress by Mistake
Scandal is only the beginning ...
 
 
Charlotte Fallon let her guarded virtue fall once—and she's paid dearly for it ever since. She swore she'd never succumb to men's desires again. But even a village spinster's life miles from temptation can't save her from a sister with no shame whatsoever. Or a heart that longs for more, whatever the cost ...
 
Sir Michael Bayard found more than he expected in his bed when he finally joined his new mistress. He'd fantasized about her dewy skin and luscious curves, assured her understanding that what passed between them was mere dalliance. But he didn't expect the innocence and heat of her response in his arms. Nor her surprisingly sharp tongue once she was out of them ...
 
A few days of abandon cannot undo the hard-learned lessons of a lifetime. Nor can an honest passion burn away the restraints of society's judgments. Unless, of course, one believes in nonsense like true love ...
Mistress by Midnight
First comes seduction ...
 
 
As children, Desmond Ryland, Marquess of Conover, and Laurette Vincent were inseparable. As young adults, their friendship blossomed into love. But then fate intervened, sending them down different paths. Years later, Con still can't forget his beautiful Laurette. Now he's determined to make her his forever. There's just one problem. Laurette keeps refusing his marriage proposals. Throwing honor to the wind, Con decides that the only way Laurette will wed him is if he thoroughly seduces her ...
 
 
Then comes marriage ...
 
 
Laurette's pulse still quickens every time she thinks of Con and the scorching passion they once shared. She aches to taste the pleasure Con offers her. But she knows she can't. For so much has happened since they were last lovers. But how long can she resist the consuming desire that demands to be obeyed ... ?
Mistress by Marriage
Too late for cold feet ...
 
 
Baron Edward Christie prided himself on his reputation for even temperament and reserve. That was before he met Caroline Parker. Wedding a scandalous beauty by special license days after they met did not inspire respect for his sangfroid. Moving her to a notorious lovebirds' nest as punishment for her flighty nature was perhaps also a blow. And of course talk has gotten out of his irresistible clandestine visits. Christie must put his wife aside—if only he can get her out of his blood first.
 
 
Too hot to refuse ...
 
 
Caroline Parker was prepared to hear the worst: that her husband had determined to divorce her, spare them both the torture of passion they can neither tame nor escape. But his plan is wickeder than any she's ever heard. Life as his wife is suffocating. But she cannot resist becoming her own husband's mistress ...
And don't miss the first of a new series by Maggie Robinson,
LORD GRAY'S LIST,
coming next November ...
December 5, 1820
 
“
T
his is the outside of enough.” Baron Benton Gray tossed
The London List
on the floor beneath his breakfast table, where the new footman quickly scurried to pick it up.
“Burn it! No, wait. What is the business address of the infernal thing?” He should have paid attention to that two years ago, when the first of the scurrilous stories about him appeared in print. Ben had assumed the attention would eventually fade away.
He'd assumed wrong.
Callum the footman blanched and smoothed the newssheet between his spotless white gloves. “I dinna know, my lord. I canna read, my lord.”
“Enough of the my lording, if you please. Tell Severson you want some reading lessons after your duties. All men should be allowed to read. Except I devoutly hope they turn the pages of something far more edifying than this rag. Give it over.”
“Aye, my l—” Callum blushed and thrust the wrinkled paper into Lord Gray's large hand. His gloves were now streaked with gray from the cheap ink that was spilling into Ben's life every Tuesday and ruining it.
“I need nothing else, leave me be. Colin, is it?”
“Callum, my l—Lord Gray.”
“Come down recently from Castle Gray, have you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How is the old place?”
This gave the young footman pause. “Old, Lord Gray.”
Ben didn't doubt it. His ancestral home in the wilds of Scotland had begun as a humble fortified tower on a rocky promontory overlooking the sea. Centuries of wind and neglect had driven his mother back into the bosom of London society as soon as his bellicose father had the courtesy to meet an early end. Consequently Ben had not been raised to tramp the hills in a kilt and kick sheep out of the way. No, Baron Benton Gray was a modern, cultured man, prosperous with his investment in Sir Simon Keith's railroad scheme and suitably celebratory. How dare
The London List
make him sound like he was the veriest devil? Veronique had had no objection to—well, Ben reflected, she never objected to anything. She was paid well not to.
Perhaps it was time to give her her conge. Let the talk die down. She'd been his mistress for seven months and that thing she did with her hips was beginning to feel old hat.
Ben scowled. How did his morning decline from smug satisfaction over his bacon to this depressing state? He was not going to give up Veronique!
Unless someone better came along.
Not
a wife. Ben had avoided the slavering mamas—except for his own—for over a decade. He'd been successful, for the most part. One did not reach the advanced age of thirty entirely unscathed, however. There had been that misunderstanding with the Crittendon chit a few years back, and he didn't allow himself to ever think of Evie.
She must be over thirty now herself. Probably running and ruining some poor man's life so that he longed for an early death. Ben hadn't heard a thing about her for ages. He'd stopped looking for her dark head in a London crowd once he'd found out she'd gone back to Scotland. Evangeline Ramsey was one reason he so much enjoyed living in London as a confirmed bachelor and with as many mistresses as he could handle.
Enough of the sentimental journey down memory lane. Ben poured himself another cup of coffee and opened up the distasteful newspaper. He skimmed the advertisements, chuckling only briefly when he came upon “
A young woman from a respectable family, honest, hard-working, country bred, would like to correspond with a city gentleman for amusement and possibly more. Physical attributes are unimportant, though it would be helpful if said gentleman is under forty and in possession of most of his teeth and a modest fortune.
”
Ben swiped his tongue over his even, fully intact teeth, dislodging a morsel of toast. He supposed he was a prime candidate, not that he was going to mix himself up with some uncivilized wench who probably had a hairy mole on the end of her chin. He pitied the poor people who were desperate enough to use
The London List
to try to solve their problems.
Blast! Where were their offices located? He began squinting again at the front page of the slender publication, avoiding the prominent article mentioning his recent activities in such lurid detail. He might have all his teeth, but he wondered if he was becoming eligible for reading glasses.
There was nothing the matter with his nose however. His mother was on her way into the dining room, her lily-of-the-valley perfume announcing her arrival quite a bit before she stepped through the door. He hastily shoved the paper underneath his bottom and plastered a smile on his face.
“Benton, darling, good morning!”
Ben angled a smooth-shaven cheek for his mother to kiss. Lady Emily Gray was a well-preserved forty-seven, her nut-brown hair only beginning to silver. She had practically been a child when she married and was brutalized by his father. The fact that Ben was the image of the man—large, tawny-haired, green-eyed—did not seem to stop her from holding her only child in deep affection. Sometimes too deep. She was most anxious to become a grandmother, and never ceased to remind Ben of his duty to his title, such as it was.
Lady Gray's slate blue eyes swept the table. “Where is it?”
“Where is what, Mama?”
“
The London List
. It's Tuesday. For that matter, where is Callum? Though I suppose I'm still capable of fetching my own breakfast.”
“Let me get it for you, Mama.”
Ben recognized his error immediately. If he rose to get her a plate from the sideboard, she would see the newspaper he had taken such pains to hide. For the life of him, he could not see its appeal. But everyone from the loftiest viscount to his valet seemed addicted to the thing. Tuesdays could not come soon enough. There was much speculation in the clubs as to the identities of the blind items, and servants were always seeking greener pastures in the employment columns. Ghastly young poets could pay to have their ghastly poems published, too. Something for everyone, whatever their station in life.
There were plenty of people to write for and write about. Ben was extremely tired of finding himself on the front page week after week. It was almost as if the
List
's publisher had a particular grudge against him.
He was saved from discovery as his mother waved him away and attacked the sideboard herself. She was pleasantly plump, convinced that she kept wrinkles at bay with a few extra pounds. Ben watched her pile her plate high with eggs, mushrooms, bacon and toast, then returned to his own food, which was sadly cold after his paper-pitching fit. But if he got up for a fresh helping, he'd be right back in his pickle. Sorry now that he'd dismissed Callum, he took a sip of lukewarm coffee.
“Did
The London List
not come with your post this morning? I knew we should have ordered more subscriptions.”
Ben clinked his cup into its saucer. “More? Just how many do we get?”
“Well, Cook insists on her own copy. Severson as well. The maids share theirs, except for my dresser Barnes, who is far too top-lofty to share with anyone. I doubt she'd share with
me
. I believe a copy goes out to the stables. One for the footmen—”
“Callum does not read,” Ben interrupted.
“Oh? I'll make sure Severson is apprised of that, although I'm sure he knows. He knows
everything
. He mentioned as I came downstairs that you managed to make the front page again.”
Damn.
So much for keeping his household, especially his mother, in the dark. If he'd counted correctly, he was paying for seven bloody subscriptions to announce his every peccadillo to the world.
“It's all a pack of lies!”
His mother raised a sculpted brow and took a forkful of egg. Once she swallowed, she said, “You are a grown man. How you choose to spend your time is, I suppose, your business. But you will never get a decent woman to marry you unless you curtail your notoriety. As it is, you're verging into desperate widow territory.”
“Mama, I don't want a decent woman or a desperate widow. I have no interest in marriage, as well you know.”
“Just because your father was a brute does not mean you will follow in his footsteps,” his mother said, her tone remarkably mild.
Ben's father had died when he was a child, but not soon enough. He could remember every blow he and his mother suffered under Laird Gray, and the pervasive feeling of hopelessness and helplessness had never quite gone away. His father's temper had been legendary, which was one reason Ben worked so hard to control his. To cultivate an attitude of laissez-faire. To permit the unpermittable without much fuss or bother. He was the epitome of utter affability. Nothing would ruffle his feathers.
Except for the damned
London List
.
“Perhaps I've not yet met the right woman,” Ben parried, his tone equally light. “Maybe I'm not holding out for a desperate widow but a buck-toothed virgin with spots.”
“There are plenty of those this year.” His mother laid her fork down. “Let us be serious for a moment. I made a mistake in my marriage—or rather my parents made it for me. There were whispers about your father, but they ignored them. The Gray fortune was temptation incarnate.”
“It still is.”
“I'm not questioning your stewardship, Benton. Everything you touch turns to gold. Which is why if you put your mind to it, I know you could be an adequate husband. And father.”
The portion of his breakfast he had eaten turned to a hard lump in his stomach. “I will count that as a compliment, Mama. High praise indeed.”
“It is meant to be. I have faith in you.”
His poor mama. He supposed all mothers were easily gulled. Even his paternal grandmother had probably loved his father.
Ben changed the subject. “What are your plans for today?”
“Well, I'll have to cadge a copy of
The London List
from one of the servants. One can't start one's Tuesday morning without it.”
With a sigh, Ben shifted in his chair and drew out the crumpled copy.
“Benton Alexander Dunbarton Gray! You devil!”
“I wanted to protect your delicate sensibilities, Mama. The article about me is pure rubbish.”
Mostly
.
“My delicate sensibilities have gone the way of your good judgment. Hand it over.”
His mother slipped her reading glasses out of a pocket sewn specially for them. For the next five minutes Ben was subjected to his mother's pursed lips and head-shaking. It seemed she needed to read the story about him four times, if following the pattern of her finger was any indication. But she was mercifully silent. Ben was relieved when she turned the page to the paid advertisements.
“If you don't plan to give me a scold, may I be excused from the table?”
His mother looked up, her eyes wavery under the thick lenses. “I'll scold you later. I wonder who is in need of “
a strapping young valet whose hands and teeth can make quick work of neckcloths and falls?”
“Mother!”
“Oh, do be quiet, Benton. It's not as if I can shock
you
.”
A pity she had such a low opinion of him, but she was right.
Mostly
.
Ben left his mother to her gossip and speculation. Braving the kitchen and Cook's opprobrium, he snagged an extra scone and her copy of the newssheet. Over his crumbs he found the offices of the paper buried between advertisements for the improvement of manly vigor and custom reupholstery.
R. Ramsey, Publisher.
An odd coincidence that the bane of his existence shared the surname of his lost and unlamented love.
He had nothing better to do today but defend his honor and demand satisfaction or retraction. He was
not
going to sit in his club and endure the jibes of his so-called friends as they reminded him that he was the number one topic of conversation in the ton. Bad enough Severson gave him a gimlet eye as he assisted Ben with his coat against the raw December wind.
It would do him good to walk the distance to the newspaper's office. Work up his umbrage and indignation. His calves would get exercise too. Ben wouldn't let a few nights of dissipation wreck his carefully-crafted body. It was damned hard to stay fit in Town, but Ben did by fencing regularly at a private
salle d'armes
. Using his fists was far too reminiscent of his father's proclivities, so he left Gentleman Jackson's to others.
In a matter of half an hour, he had traversed quite a bit of fashionable London and stood before the impeccably scrubbed front window of
The London List
. He could see clear to the back of the rear brick office wall and the hulking black printing press which would be idle for the rest of the week. A young gentleman, his black hair cropped brutally short, shirtsleeves rolled up and jacket discarded, appeared to be tinkering with the source of Ben's choler. If the infernal machine was broken, that would save him the trouble of smashing it himself.
BOOK: Master of Sin
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