Simply Sinful (30 page)

“Don’t blame yourself, sir. I perfectly understand.”

But he didn’t. How could a mother do that to her only child? Was he so unlovable? Had she seen something in him and decided he would cause her nothing but pain so it was better to let him go? Christ, how could he blithely contemplate making a child with Abigail and walking away? Was he cut from the same cloth as his mother?

He turned back to the concerned faces behind him, manufactured a smile and bowed.

“I would be delighted to meet with your family, Reverend Howard. I would consider it an honor.”

Not that the invitation would ever materialize, he thought cynically. Why would they want him in their lives reviving painful memories of a daughter who had ice water running in her veins and a cutthroat ability to hurt those who loved her?

William stood up, his expression distraught, tears gleaming in his eyes. “I hoped to spare you these things, but I realized after our first meeting that if I stuck to my story and took all the blame, you might be lost to us again. And I found that, despite the best of my intentions, I really couldn’t bear that.”

Peter patted the older man’s shoulder. “I am perfectly capable of dealing with the truth. I only regret the pain my mother put you through, and I apologize for misjudging you.”

William squeezed his hand and cleared his throat. “I appreciate that, my dear boy. I’ll be in touch about our next meeting very shortly.” He shrugged. “My wife is beside herself with excitement at the thought of you being alive.”

Peter paused. “That’s right, I remember you saying you believed I was dead. Did my mother tell you that as well?”

The anguish in William’s eyes was enough to answer Peter’s question. He patted the older man’s shoulder and then turned to shake hands with Mr. Davies.

“Thank you for your help. May I take this box with me?”

“Of course. And if you would leave your home address with my clerk I’ll be in touch about any other legal matters that arise.”

“I’ll do that.” Peter glanced at William, who had sank back into his chair, his face pale and drained, a visible tremor running through his narrow frame. “Can I help you to your next destination?”

William waved a fragile hand. “No, thank you, I’ll sit here for a while and chat with my old friend and then I’ll be right as rain.” He looked up at Peter, his eyes shrewd. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again. Don’t let your feelings about your mother ruin a potential relationship with her family. We are not all as fickle in our affections as she was.”

Peter picked up the box and headed for the stairs. He barely remembered the clerk and scribbling down his address before he found himself back outside his own house, the box clutched in his arms. Adams met him in the hall.

“Good morning, sir.”

He managed a nod. “Good morning, Adams, I’ll be in my study. See that I’m not disturbed, will you?”

His study was in half darkness, the drapes not yet drawn although a fire burned brightly in the grate. He set the box down carefully on his desk, helped himself to a large glass of brandy, downed it and poured another.

He carried the brandy bottle over to the fire and took a seat. Allowed his head to drop into his hands. He’d fantasized about his mother of course. Imagined her coming and saving him from the hell of his life in the brothel, of warm arms wrapped around him, protecting and loving him.

As he grew older he’d used Valentin as a substitute to provide him with those things. He placed his glass on the floor, picked up the bottle instead. How long was it since he’d gotten really drunk? Not since he’d given up opium and orgies. A longing for the oblivion of the poppy seed crawled over him. It would be so easy to obtain some form of the opiate to see him through his anguish.

He licked his lips, tasted the brandy, wished for the bitter taste of the poppy instead. He drank deep, saluted himself with the bottle. His mother would be proud. He’d turned out just like her, a body sold to others for their enjoyment, a man incapable of fidelity and love because he craved the excesses of sexuality.

“My mother was a bitch. And I am her true son.”

He said the words out loud, said them again louder, finished the brandy and started on the whisky. As he turned back to the fireplace he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He pulled out the miniature of his mother and studied it. They were even more alike than he realized. Both beautiful empty shells with as much substance as air.

He stared at his face, the pure lines of his cheekbones, the blue of his eyes, and saw a mask, a chameleon, a nothing. With a curse, he picked up the picture and threw it at the mirror. The glass shattered and the small picture fell to the floor. He sank to his knees amongst the shards of glass and stared at the cracked frame. Hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway and Adams appeared in the doorway.

Peter waved him away. Tomorrow would be soon enough to pick up the pieces. Today belonged to him, and misery hated company.

Abigail banged harder on Peter’s front door knocker. Eventually a man dressed in a brown livery opened the door. She recognized him as Peter’s valet and gave him a bright smile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Adams. I’d like to see Mr. Howard.”

Adams didn’t move, his expression one of polite regret.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Howard isn’t receiving visitors today. He is a trifle indisposed.”

“I’m not a visitor. I’m a friend. You met me the other day! Please tell him Lady Beecham is here and he can decide whether he wants to see me himself.”

Adams bowed. “I’ll inquire, my lady.”

Abby stamped her feet against the chill as she waited for him to come back. Peter hadn’t returned from his supposed business errands that morning and, in a fit of bravery, Abby had decided to find him herself. It was now almost four in the afternoon and she was growing impatient.

The door swung open a little and she saw a flash of red on the table next to the door. Curious now, she shoved the door fully open and focused on a pair of ladies’ gloves that lay on the table. She set her jaw and strode into the hall, paused to listen for the sound of voices and headed off to the right.

So much for Peter not seeing anyone. She laid her palm on the last door at the end of the corridor and gently pushed. It opened inward, giving her an excellent view of Peter sitting behind his desk and the elegant dark-haired woman pacing the carpet in front of him.

“Peter, this is ridiculous! Valentin had admitted he was at fault. Why can’t you simply come back to us?”

“Because I don’t wish to?”

Abby realized it was Valentin’s wife, Sara, who stood there, her fists clenched, her face flushed with frustrated anger.

“Is this because of my pregnancy?”

Abby clutched at the door frame. Sara Sokorvsky was pregnant? A tendril of fear curled in her stomach. Peter sighed, his face at its most remote. Was this what he did? Got women pregnant and then moved on when they could no longer satisfy him sexually?

“I told you how I feel about your pregnancy.”

“No, you pretended to agree that I repulsed you. You allowed me to believe what I wanted to believe.”

Peter shrugged one elegant shoulder. “I’m not coming back, Sara. And you can tell Valentin I mean it.”

“Do you think I came here as his messenger?” Sara’s voice broke and Abby bit her lip. “I came for myself, for what we have shared. Good God, Peter, this child might be yours.”

Peter looked away from her. “Don’t be ridiculous. It can’t be. You and Valentin are married. Any child you have is legally considered his offspring.”

“You would deny your own child?”

Sara stepped forward and Peter stood up.

“Why not? People do it all the time.”

Abby frowned as he swayed slightly. The scent of strong spirits wafted toward her. Several empty bottles littered the fireplace as well as the odd shard of glass. The mirror was missing from above the mantel. She stiffened as Peter stared right at her.

“You might as well come in, Abigail. You’ll hear so much better.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but the door was open.”

He shrugged and spoke as if to himself. “And I just wanted to be left alone today to indulge myself in a little self-pity.” He refocused on Abby. “Lady Sokorvsky has already forced her way in, despite my denials, why should you be any different?

Sara Sokorvsky’s gaze flew to Abby and she blushed.

“Who on earth are you and how dare you eavesdrop on our private conversation?”

Abby sketched a curtsey. “I’m Abigail Beecham, Lady James Beecham. Your husband might have mentioned me.”

Sara lifted her chin. “Are you the reason why Peter won’t come back to our bed?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Peter about that.” She turned to him, hoped her desperate need for him to confirm their relationship wasn’t too obvious.

“I don’t intend to come back to anyone’s bed. I’m not a lapdog to be coaxed with treats, threats or blandishments.”

Abby stared at him. Something was very wrong. He seemed as brittle as the fine porcelain cup on the desk in front of him. She met Sara Sokorvsky’s eyes and realized she was equally worried. Sara cleared her throat.

“We all care about you, Peter. Please believe that.”

His smile was cold, his eyes even more so. “I’m sure you do. The question is rather, do I care about any of you?”

Abby’s hands fisted. “What do you mean?”

He bowed and turned first to Sara. “You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? Valentin, a title, a baby on the way. Why would you need me anymore?”

“Because you are my friend…my lover.”

“Things that your husband tolerates only because he loves you.”

“No! It is not like that. You know how Valentin feels about you.”

“Do I?”

His hard gaze flicked back to Abby. “And you will be delighted to see the back of me once you become pregnant as well, won’t you?”

“It isn’t that simple…”

“It is. Your husband, like Sara’s husband, required me to do a job for them. They both know me well enough to realize that providing fleeting sexual pleasure is what I live for.”

Abby faced him, forced him to hold her gaze. “Providing sexual pleasure is your preferred occupation?”

“Yes, satisfying wives, providing them with additional sexual services.” He sounded bored, jaded even. “Apparently I perform rather well.”

“I can’t speak for Lady Sokorvsky, but it was never like that for me.”

His eyebrows rose. “Are you sure? You wanted a child and your husband was prepared to do anything to help you achieve that aim—even take another man into his bed. Not that that was a hardship for him, of course.”

Abby shook her head in an attempt to clear it. “Why are you saying these things? Are you deliberately trying to hurt us?”

“I’m trying to extricate myself from a situation that has become intolerable to me.” He bowed to Sara. “May I suggest you go home now? Tell Valentin that we can discuss dividing the business on another occasion.”

Sara leaned her palms on the desk, as if trying to get as close to Peter as he would allow. “Don’t do this. It’s not necessary. It’ll destroy Valentin.”

“And that, of course, is what all this is about, isn’t it, Sara? Not concern for me, but concern for your husband.”

Sara drew herself up, two spots of color burned high on her cheekbones. “I don’t understand you at all, Peter, but you can be sure I’ll not repeat a word of this to Valentin. You can sort out your own sorry mess.”

She curtsied to Abby. “See if you can make him see sense. I give up. Good-bye, Peter.”

Abby watched Peter intently as Sara walked out, head held high, and slammed the door behind her.

“I can understand if you wish to sever your connection with the Sokorvskys so that you can continue in a relationship with James and me, but did you need to be so brutal?”

He glanced up at her, his mouth set in a tight uncompromising line.

“You’re not listening, Abigail. I said I didn’t wish to be the third in any relationship, and that includes yours.”

“Why?”

Silence fell as he avoided her gaze.

“I am no longer willing to be used.”

Her fingers tightened at her throat. “You feel used?”

“You find that surprising?”

“Yes, I do. In all our interactions I’ve always had the sense that you were the one calling the tune, not me or James.”

“James sought me out. I didn’t come crawling to him.”

The self-disgust in his voice cut through to her soul. “No one said you did. James asked you to help us reconcile in bed.”

“And judging from your erotic display last night, I’ve achieved that aim, haven’t I?”

Coldness swept through her, followed by the first hint of anger. “Are you suggesting it meant nothing to you?”

He turned his back on her, strode to the window. “Why should it? Sex is just a game.”

“And that is what we shared?”

“Yes. Good sex, admittedly, but just sex.”

She licked her lips and stared at his averted head. “But not good enough for you to want to stay around and have more of it.”

He turned toward her, his face a bland mask, his eyes flinty. “Am I not allowed to want more in my life? Am I expected to perform like an unpaid prostitute for the pleasure of you and your husband for the rest of my life?”

“That is unfair.”

“Is it?” He came closer, fury emanating from the rigid set of his body. “You can control James now, you know the secret. You’ll be pregnant soon. Isn’t that enough?”

Her throat dried as she stared up at him. James had told her to tell Peter how she felt about him. There was no way she wanted to risk that while he studied her with such dislike.

“I want you to be happy.”

“Then leave me alone.”

He walked away from her and sat behind his desk. Even though part of her wanted to run crying from the room, Abby stayed put. Peter picked up his pen and ignored her. She listened to the scratch of his quill, the soft tick of the solitary clock on the mantelpiece.

She studied his desk, saw the open box and the cracked miniature portrait tossed to one side. She drew closer until she could guess who the picture represented. What had happened since yesterday night to change everything? What had his grandfather done? She drew an unsteady breath.