His Wicked Sins (24 page)

like that—" She broke off, looked away, clearly abashed by her presumption.

He shook his head, uncomfortable at being caught out in his private musings.

"No, I do not suppose you have." He paused, tucked the packet of shirts beneath his

arm. "I will be sending young Thomas home to do the heavy chores on Saturday," he said,

and Mrs. Gormley's head jerked up, her expression brightening.

"I have little in the way of heavy chores, but my heart gladdens at the thought of seeing

my son."

Her words brought a twinge of pain. His mother's heart had never gladdened at the sight

of him. Instinctively, his fingers traced the small white scar at the corner of his mouth, and

then he noted his action and dropped his hand to his side.

Impatient with himself, he drummed his fingers on his thigh and looked away, noting

the broken chair tied together with twine, and the long crack that snaked down the wall.

He brought his gaze back to the widow.

"I have been weighing the need for new aprons for the upstairs maids," he said. "If you

would be so kind as to cipher the cost and provide me with a list of requisite materials, I

will have what you require delivered from Northallerton"—Mrs. Gormley shook her head,

but Griffin cut off any protest—"within a fortnight."

In a rare and unusual action, she raised her gaze to meet his own dead-on.

"Within a fortnight, Mrs. Gormley," he repeated softly.

She hesitated a moment longer. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." And with that, her gaze slid

away.

Taking his leave, Griffin stepped out the door and strode down the street.

The main thoroughfare of Burndale boasted a tavern with three rooms above for weary

travelers, and a small assortment of shops, including the draper, the baker, the chandler.

Northallerton was larger by far, but Griffin liked to visit the local vendors, not from

generosity, but perversity.

They always watched him as though they expected him to sprout horns and cloven

hooves and a forked tail.

He found it mildly amusing that none dared confront him directly with their suspicions

and dire imaginings. Of course, they all knew of his actions, knew he had killed his wife.

He was certain that they were horrified by that, but it was the deeds they knew nothing of

that were darker still.

He crossed the road toward the chandler's, only to draw up short as a man emerged

from the tavern, the sun hitting him full in the face, leaving no doubt as to his identity.

Richard Parsons saw him immediately—they were the only two people in the

roadway—and raised a hand in greeting. In his other hand, he held what appeared to be a

folded handkerchief, marred by a dark reddish brown stain. Furtively, he shoved it in his

pocket and swaggered forward.

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"Ho, Griffin!" he called.

Griffin waited, forcing himself to maintain a relaxed posture.

What the bloody hell was Parsons doing in the village? Bad enough to know he was

slinking about in Northallerton, but to have him here in Burndale, virtually on Griffin's

front drive, was … dangerous. The man knew too much, had stories to share that Griffin

had no desire for others to hear. And Parsons knew it.

Drawing near, Richard shot his cuffs and straightened his shoulders. His fingers strayed

to the buttons of his white waistcoat, fumbling across the empty front. Empty because his

watch and chain were not there.

Griffin raised his gaze to Richard's face and caught his unguarded expression of

concern. Where was the watch? Lost? Sold off? He could not recall ever seeing Richard

Parsons without his pocket watch. Richard and Griffin had each obtained one in Stepney

more than a decade past; they were common enough there, a favorite among sailors who

put in to port.

Though Griffin's watch no longer told the time, he wore it still. Perversity, or habit.

Clearing his throat, Richard dropped his hands to his sides, curled the fingers into fists,

only to uncurl them an instant later. He cast a glance at the package Griffin carried.

"I've a tear here"—he indicated the place, a worn patch on his sleeve near the elbow—

"small, but bothersome. I have need of a seamstress. Can you offer a recommendation,

dear boy?"

Griffin weighed Mrs. Gormley's monetary need against the certainty that sending

Richard Parsons through her door would not be an act of kindness. Not for her. Not for

himself.

"I'm afraid not," he said, silently vowing that Mrs. Gormley would spend the next

weeks sewing new aprons for the upstairs
and
downstairs maids of Wickham. That should

be enough to see to her needs for months.

Richard's brows rose, but he made no effort to force the matter.

"What do you here, Richard?" Griffin asked, tired of the game.

"Ah, a bit of this and a bit of that."

"A bit of
what?"
Griffin prodded. "Here? In this tiny village?"

Purposefully misunderstanding Griffin's remark, Richard grimaced and blew a snort of

air down his nose.

"Yes, yes. 'Tis a pedestrian place, to be sure," he said, then paused as a wagon

approached and the sound of hooves and rolling wheels grew loud, only to fade as it rolled

on. "Little in the way of entertainment. Even less in the way of business. But I have a

concern here of an entirely different nature."

"And what concern might that be?"

"An affair of the heart?" Richard ventured, his tone ironic.

"That I doubt," Griffin mused. "Unless the heart is one you wish to rip, still beating,

from a bloodied, carved breast."

Richard cleared his throat, a choked sound, and slapped his open palm to his chest.

"You wound me, dear boy."

Griffin narrowed his gaze. "Then the heart you speak of must be solid gold encrusted

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with jewels, a heady lure for any thief. Offhand, I cannot call to mind such a treasure."

He drummed his fingers on the side of his thigh, and continued, darkly soft. "Richard,

there is no one hereabouts worth robbing … save me. And I warn you against that."

"For shame, dear boy." Richard reared back. "Do you think so low of me, then, that I

would stoop to thieving from a friend?"

"We have both sunk that low at times. And lower," Griffin replied, blunt.

"Aye, well, those were hard times that called for hard measures. We are different men

now, are we not?" Richard waited a heartbeat, and then laughed, an ugly, mocking sound.

"Or perhaps we are exactly what we have always been, eh, dear boy? Exactly the villains

we have always been."

"How much will you take to leave?" Griffin wanted Richard gone. Gone with his

secrets and his vile knowledge of their ugly shared past.

He wanted what paltry peace he could find in the daylight, for the nights offered no

serenity, haunted as they were by guilt and ghosts.

"Leave, dear boy? I would not think of it." Richard's expression hardened. "There are

fine, sweet pickings here. Fine, sweet pickings, indeed. But you already know that, don't

you, dear boy? You already know."

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Chapter 14

Burndale, Yorkshire, October 4, 1828

B
eth stood in the large schoolroom, reading lines of dictation and waiting as the girls

wrote the words in their copybooks. The room housed three groups of students and their

teachers. At the far end, Miss Doyle read aloud a rather ridiculous poem in her high,

girlish voice, the sound carrying above the general din of the schoolroom.

At the opposite end, near the door, Mademoiselle Martine drilled her class on French

verbs. The ever-present cacophony seemed amplified today, loud and distorted, coming at

Beth from all sides.

Bending her head to the book she held, she read aloud in a modulated tone another line

of dictation, her thoughts jumping about in distraction.

Over the past two weeks, she had seen little of Mr. Fairfax. Once or twice, she spotted

him from a distance, and her heart danced and sped. She told herself she was foolish, for

there was no good place for her fascination with him to lead.

His relationship with his daughter captivated her. He was so handsome he stole her

breath. He was so interesting that she found herself thinking of every word they had

exchanged, over and over. He was strong and intelligent, and he had shown her only

kindness.

And he might well be the person who stalked her from the shadows and watched her in

the night.

Did she truly believe that? No. But she would be a fool to discount the possibility.

In truth, she knew nothing about him save that he named himself a villain, and that he

was conveniently present at Burndale Academy each time she felt she was being watched.

Since the morning she had met him in the corridor, the morning after someone had

snuck into her chamber, she had become careful and wary, taking her evening walks only

within sight of the school. But she took every care to let no one see her distraction, to

present only a calm and sanguine demeanor, to teach her lessons to the best of her

capacity, to draw no attention to herself.

She could not chase the memories of Miss Percy's overheard words from her thoughts,

the implication that she would be let go for her lack of skill and her emotional behavior.

A letter had come from her mother, and though she tried to put a cheerful turn to her