The Sinner Who Seduced Me (22 page)

Especially against James.

It had been the cantering that had brought Clarissa to the most important conclusion of all: She still loved James. Even now, after convincing herself that she needed to tamp down her emotions and embrace the order and safety to be found in acting according to one’s mind without thought for one’s heart, she realized that it didn’t make one whit of difference. No matter which organ she employed, she loved the man. Despite what had happened before—and since.

She stared up at the ceiling and sighed. He took far too much pleasure in being right. And he’d been cool to the point of cruel during their time at Kenwood. Yet Clarissa realized with a pang that, essentially, the same could be said of her.

She couldn’t fathom how he’d found himself in the employ of Les Moines, but she felt sure that together they’d figure something out. They had to. The only remaining
question was whether he’d accept her belated apology.

She’d watched him burn with emotion when he’d realized she still blamed him for what had happened five years before. Could she convince him to let go of the pain and suspicions that had kept them apart for far too long?

A sliver of light cut its way across the ceiling and Clarissa froze. It was all well and good to plan a grand gesture: an overdue apology and lovers’ reunion. But to follow through with said plan? Clarissa was suddenly stricken with shyness as she raised her head and peered through the darkness at the moving lantern.

Odd, that, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut then opening them again. James had either shrunk since that afternoon, or it was not James who was tiptoeing across the deeply piled carpet toward the dressing chamber.

Clarissa swung one leg over the edge of the bed, carefully setting her foot on the floor before lowering her other foot and standing. She waited until the form had disappeared into the dressing chamber before following on tiptoe.

She stopped just outside the partially open dressing chamber door and listened, the sound of rustling clothing reaching her ears. She took a deep breath and pushed hard against the door, sending it slamming against the inside wall. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded of the person facing away from her.

The figure squeaked and nearly dropped the lantern in her haste to turn around.

“Daphne?” Clarissa asked, surprised to see it was Iris’s maid.

The frightened woman burst into muffled sobs. Clarissa nearly took the poor girl in her arms to comfort her, but she was still in St. Michelle’s clothing. The last
thing Daphne needed was to be embraced by a Frenchman right now.

“Beg your pardon, sir.”

“
Non
, please, allow me to apologize. I didn’t mean to upset you so,” Clarissa began, looking about the shadowed room for something to dry Daphne’s tears. She snatched up a discarded cravat and handed it to the maid. “But, mademoiselle, what are you doing in Rougier’s dressing chamber? If it’s money you need—”

Daphne let out a wail of protest. “I might have done some bad things this evening, sir, but stealing isn’t one of them.”

“Then help me understand why you’re here,” Clarissa replied, gesturing to the small room, “in the middle of the night.”

“I can’t.”

“You must,” Clarissa said simply, though her tone was earnest and firm.

Daphne let out a second wail and handed the lantern to Clarissa so that she could blow her nose. “He said I mustn’t tell you—not you or Pettibone. I promised. Please, don’t make me break my promise.”

Clarissa’s stomach rolled at the mention of Pettibone’s name. “Is ‘he’ Rougier?
S’il vous plaît
, Daphne, you can tell me at least this.”

Daphne began to frantically pull together what appeared to be a complete suit of clothing from James’s things, beginning with a shirt. “I told you. I made a promise.”

She was frightened, that much Clarissa could deduce on her own. This fact, and the inclusion of Pettibone in whatever was going on, filled Clarissa’s heart with dread. “Daphne, what if there was a way to get us both what we want—me, information, and you to keep your promise?”

Daphne paused, looking at Clarissa as if she’d suddenly
sprouted a third eye. “How would we do that, then?”

“You made a promise that you wouldn’t ‘tell.’ Nodding yes or no when asked a question is not telling—not in the strictest sense,
oui
?”

The maid pondered Clarissa’s words, clearly wanting to unburden herself but unsure whether she should. She continued on with her search for clothing, pulling at a pair of breeches in the wardrobe.

“Daphne, Monsieur Rougier is a dear friend of mine. And I suspect you would agree that the man is deserving of our help—if he was to find himself in need of it. Help me, Daphne.”

Daphne stopped and clutched the breeches to her chest. “I want to do the right thing, sir.”

Clarissa squeezed Daphne’s shoulder reassuringly and gave her a kind smile. “Is it Monsieur Rougier who asked you not to speak with either Pettibone or myself?”

Daphne hesitated, then jerked her head up and down.

“Good girl,” Clarissa praised the young maid. “Now, has he gone somewhere?”

Daphne nodded in the affirmative, the look of relief on her face assuring Clarissa that she’d done the right thing.

“Do you know where, exactly?”

She shook her head from left to right emphatically.

Clarissa paused to consider the possibilities. Why was Daphne involved? Of course! “Does this involve Mademoiselle Bennett?”

Daphne’s head moved up and down so strenuously Clarissa feared it would fall off.

“It’s the gaming hell,
oui
?” Clarissa asserted triumphantly.

Another enthusiastic head nod told her that she was correct.

But such knowledge would do very little good if
Clarissa didn’t know the name or location of the establishment. She’d not been privy to the planning of their outings—but Pettibone surely had. “Does Pettibone know the location of the gaming hell?”

Daphne’s eyes flashed with fear at the mention of the man’s name as she nodded yes.

Clarissa frowned. She could hardly go ask the man, that much was clear.

Daphne collected a pair of boots then reached for a small wooden chest in the corner.

Clarissa stared at the chest, then the boots, and finally the clothing—and something clicked. “Daphne, did Rougier send you to fetch these things for him?”

This last question drew the most fervent nod of all.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Clarissa ground out, belatedly remembering their agreement. “Of course. I apologize. I should have put the clues together sooner.”

Daphne gestured toward the door of the dressing chamber, her arms laden with James’s things.

“You cannot carry a lantern in addition to all of that,” Clarissa told her firmly. “Therefore, I will. And if that means it’s necessary for me to follow you wherever you may be going, then it is entirely on me—a fact that I’ll make sure Rougier understands.”

Daphne nodded and hurried toward the door, stopping short at the sound of voices in the hall.

Clarissa listened as Pettibone and a man stood just outside James’s chamber, whispering low enough that she couldn’t understand their words.

She turned to look at Daphne, who was trembling from head to toe and had turned unnaturally pale. Clarissa pointed to herself, then to the door, indicating that she would continue. She then gestured for Daphne to return
to the dressing chamber until it was safe to come out.

The maid didn’t waste a moment, but turned around immediately and hurried for the safety of the other room.

Clarissa steeled her nerves then turned the handle, opening the door just wide enough to allow herself through but no more. “Pettibone, what are you doing?”

“I need to speak with Marlowe. Is he abed?”

“No,” Clarissa replied simply, her tone hiding her racing heartbeat. “I’ve need to speak with him as well. Come,” she urged, beginning to walk down the hall, “he often visits the library when he is unable to sleep.”

Clarissa glanced over her shoulder to make sure the two men were following. The footman hesitated, looking to Pettibone. The agent began to walk after Clarissa, and the footman followed.

“How fortuitous that we crossed paths, St. Michelle.”

Clarissa’s skinned crawled. “Yes indeed.”

James had chosen the Eagle’s Nest for a variety of reasons. Its location, within a mile of Kenwood House, was beneficial in its easy access. He could reach the gaming hell either directly through the busy warren of nearby streets or more covertly through the heath. Its distance from the more popular gambling establishments also meant, in theory, that fewer of the ton would bother patronizing it. The quality looked to a gaming hell for cards, women, and drink. For these gentlemen, going to the hell itself was dangerous enough. They didn’t require any further thrills from their fellow patrons.

The Eagle’s Nest was, according to those in the know, a viper’s den that attracted only the most serious of customers. Seasoned criminals, gamblers, and drunkards made up the lion’s share of the patronage, which, when James had set about conceiving of Iris’s adventures, had
actually made sense. It afforded him the greatest amount of anonymity, which was a primary concern at the time.

And now? James fingered the mustache that he’d hastily affixed just above his upper lip in the barn before riding off at breakneck speed across the heath. He required anonymity even more now, the Corinthian’s sighting of him at the boxing match making his nerves burn.

As for Iris’s proclivity for getting herself into the greatest amount of trouble she could possibly find? Well, he’d hardly known that when he’d chosen the Eagle’s Nest. He settled his top hat more firmly in an effort to assure his wig stayed in place. The Eagle’s Nest was the last establishment a risk taker such as Iris should ever enter. But there was little that could be done about that now.

He reined the gray down Wessex Street, the smell of rotten produce and the stench of all sorts of iniquities being undertaken burned his nostrils as he neared the Nest. A man roughly the same size as the plain, painted door that he guarded glared at James as he pulled up his mount and jumped down.

“You’ll see to my horse?” James asked the mountain of a man, in a slightly superior tone, aware that he needed to take the upper hand here.

The doorman grunted, his beefy arms folding across his massive chest. “Now, why would I do that?”

“The Bishop of Canterbury wishes it so,” James recited the sentence he’d memorized from Pettibone’s contact.

The man nodded reluctantly at the secret password and snapped his sausage fingers loudly.

A scrawny boy, no more than ten, came running from across the street. “Yes, sir,” he said anxiously in a high-pitched tone, cowering in front of the giant.

“Take his horse, Squeak, and be quick about it,” the
man ordered, making to cuff the boy with the back of his hand.

But the boy was quicker, his meager form doing him a service. He slid out of the way, closer to James. Taking the reins, he looked up through a mess of tangled brown hair. “He’s a beauty, your horse.”

James reached into his waistcoat and retrieved a few shillings, depositing them in the boy’s waiting hand. “He is indeed. Make sure to take good care of him and there will be more where that came from.”

“Off with ya,” the man growled, tiring of the boy’s dallying.

Squeak trotted away with the gray in tow, toward the back of the establishment.

“Come along, then,” the man said impatiently, turning to the door and banging hard on it with one closed fist. A panel instantly slid open to reveal a pair of eyes.

“Open up,” he demanded.

The sound of locks being thrown followed and the door creaked open, revealing a man of similar build to the first.

“Step inside, then,” the first grunted, moving aside to let James pass.

James stepped over the threshold into a small antechamber. The room contained nothing more than the second waiting man and a second door.

The first door slammed behind him, leaving James, the second guard, and one lone candle. “Not much of a job you have here,” James commented, looking about the sparse room.

“Even less so when I’m expected to chitchat with the customers,” he grunted, clearly as charming as his counterpart. “Password, please.”

“Fair enough,” James replied. “Nelson’s short pants.”

The man nodded in the same manner as the first then
beat on the door. A panel opened, revealing not only another set of eyes, but the sounds of drunken revelry.

“Open up,” the man commanded, then turned his back on James and resumed his station.

This door featured nearly double the locks of the first but an equally burly man behind it was revealed when he slowly opened the plain wooden entryway and gazed critically at James.

“Are you all related, then?” James asked, gaining a smirk from the brute.

He gestured for James to enter and closed the door behind him, sliding the bolts home as soon as James passed. “Such humor will get you good and killed here, sir,” the brute warned.

James pulled two guineas from his vest and handed them to the man. “It would do to have a friend.”

The brute grunted knowingly and took the coins in his meaty hand. “Just ask for Harry.”

“I’ll do that,” James replied, then turned to take in the Eagle’s Nest. It wasn’t much to look at, though James hadn’t expected it to be. A low haze of smoke hung in the air, making the already dark environs even more so. He was standing in one of what he assumed to be several card rooms, this one hosting All-fours, Loo, Faro, and Ecarte. The large, round tables were full, each rickety chair occupied by a man resembling Harry in demeanor, though their clothing told a different story. Only one or two men of quality were present, their exquisite coats, obviously the work of Weston, and starched cravats making them stand out.

A number of those a few rungs further down the social ladder occupied several of the tables. Business owners, if James was right in his assessment, their clothing noticeably poorer in quality to those of the ton, but vastly superior to the rest of the men who made up the crowd. These were the working class and lower. Their
ragged appearance and complete lack of polish immediately identified them as such. The one fact that unified all the men was their utter seriousness toward the task at hand. Their faces told one another and James that tonight was not for frivolity and a bit of muslin. No, tonight was for winning.