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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Darkest Sin
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Rushford reached for the dossier, his eyes skimming. “Bloody fucking hell” he said softly after a moment. “The damn Rosetta Stone.
Again.
Why am I not in the least surprised.” He shoved the papers back across the desk to Archer. “I never did believe the rumor that he had died in the fire at Eccles House. And this proves it,” he continued. “The man's made a very pact with the devil, I swear.”
“It's the only intelligence we have for the time being.” Archer leaned forward in his chair. “But I need to ask—are you ready for this reprise?”
Rushford left his seat, unable to remain still, pacing around his desk. “Don't even ask, Archer. I cannot let it stand, not this time.”
“You did what your conscience ordered you to do. You safeguarded the Stone.”
“For fuck's sake,” Rushford fumed, his voice a low growl in contrast with Archer's calm tones. He took a step back and let out a short breath to slake the fury that made his hands shake. “I won the battle but lost everything in the bargain. And for that alone, if I have the chance, Faron will pay.”
Archer stood, meeting his friend's eyes. “Whitehall wants you back.”
“I'm not doing this for goddamned Whitehall,” he ground out. “And if that makes me a lesser man, so be it. I'd rather spend my time at the gaming tables, in the ring, or helping the Madam Cruikshanks of the world.”
Archer held his ground. “And what about the girl? Miss Warren. How is she involved in all of this?”
Rushford's gray eyes darkened. “Despite my lamentable record, I shall protect her.”
And use her
, his conscience taunted him. “Most of all from Faron. I've learned from my mistakes.”
Archer assessed his friend. “The mistakes weren't yours to make, Rush. It was Kate's decision to become involved with the Stone. Remember, she'd been married to a diplomat and was far too accustomed to putting her nose where it did not belong.” Bored senseless by the never-ending cavalcade of social events that marked the life of an ambassador's consort, Kate had unwisely turned to other interests. Rushford included, thought Archer sadly. He realized that his friend believed grieving was not enough, that it was his obligation to set things right. “Everything else is superfluous. The Rosetta remains in British hands due to your efforts,” Archer concluded with finality.
“For how much longer?” Rushford asked, his eyes glittering. “The contest begins again, but this time I've learned that a defensive strategy is not the answer. Last time, Faron went after us. This time, I propose that we change the nature of the game.” He gestured to the dossier lying on his desk. “And you've just confirmed my reasoning.”
“You're hardly a novice,” Archer said, acknowledging Rushford's vast experience in a world few knew anything about. “But this young woman . . . to drag her into a maelstrom of events that she is totally unprepared for is hardly fair.”
Rushford acknowledged the warning, and what was left unsaid, with a look. “I won't allow another cock-up. Trust me on this one, Archer. Miss Warren and her family will remain unharmed.”
“I don't have to tell you that Faron has an unerring instinct for weakness.”
And for innocence, Rushford thought, but hesitated only a moment. This time, instead of sending Miss Woolcott to safety as he'd done over a year ago, he would take her into the heart of darkness itself. But unlike Kate, he vowed, Rowena would emerge alive.
 
The rolling thunder of applause shook the seats of the Garrick Theater in London's West End. The melodramatic tale of Buckston's
The Dream at Sea
had titillated its audience with its double entendres and bawdy repartee. Rowena sat stiffly with Lord Rushford in a private box, wearing the pale gray satin gown with its daringly low-cut portrait collar encrusted with mother-of-pearl delivered that afternoon by Madame Curzon's. The lavish creation was as distinctly foreign to her experience as the drama unfolding before her eyes.
She and Julia had read the entire works of Shakespeare, Molière, and Johnson, but nothing had prepared her for the sights and smells of a crowded theater, and an energetic plot bristling with scheming villains, lurid details, and bosomy heiresses, many of whom she guessed had been compatriots of Felicity Clarence. The box gave them a strategic view not only of the stage but also of the audience, of the women turning to survey each other's plumage, lorgnettes and opera glasses raised with serious intent. In the dimness, Rowena scanned the neighboring boxes, looking for an as yet unidentifiable threat.
As the lights rose after the final act, she leaned against the plush velvet seat, going through the motions of clapping, her hands cold in her gray lace evening gloves. She observed Rushford's profile discreetly, the boldness of his nose and chin. Slowly, his steady gaze turned to meet hers.
“Try not to look as though I'm about to devour you, Miss Warren,” he said once the applause had subsided and the audience began to move to the atrium for champagne and ices and morsels of gossip. “We've a whole evening ahead of us.”
She responded with a brilliant smile, more for the benefit of onlookers than for Rushford. “You're too arrogant by half, Rushford. It is not you whom I fear,” she lied, snapping her ivory fan for emphasis. She had not been able to keep her attention on the farce, her own personal drama intruding. For the moment at least, she wished she could ignore that sharply planed face, strong and austere, and that tall, tightly coiled body whose imprint still burned against her skin. She unclenched her jaw. It did neither of them any good to remember those moments, at the tavern and at Crockford's or for that matter in the bedchamber at what she privately referred to as
Miss Warren's apartments.
Although Rowena's hands were cold, the air around them seemed far too warm.
Suddenly eager to leave the privacy of the box, she made to rise. “I can't say that this play was quite what I was expecting. Although Miss Barry's performance was impressive,” she added, making mention of the evening's leading lady. “Despite the material with which she had to work.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Rushford, already standing next to her. “It was hardly
Hamlet
.” He crooked a smile. “Yet we were so obviously impressed by Miss Barry's prodigious talent that we wish to engage her attention in the salon downstairs.”
Any excuse would do. “I'm certain a woman as beautiful as Miss Barry is accustomed to adulation,” Rowena said. “Although she might be surprised to learn that her prodigious talents are not what we're interested in but rather anything she might reveal about the company the late Miss Clarence chose to keep—and why,” she finished as they moved to the back of the box. It required all her concentration to focus on Rushford's words. His physical presence was even more potent in the confines of the private box than when he'd first arrived at her apartments to convey her to the theater. His impeccably cut evening jacket, made less severe only by the dove gray of his waistcoat, emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his legs.
Rushford would handily attract the interest of the exotic actress, thought Rowena, unwilling to examine her flash of irritation at the prospect. “Perhaps Miss Barry may snatch you away from your current mistress,” she said aloud, surprising herself.
“Impossible,” he replied with a smile.
“No need for flattery, Rushford,” Rowena said crisply. “I shall play my role with appropriate insouciance and worldliness that should allow Miss Barry plenty of room to practice her wiles. And for us to glean what we require. I am certain that Miss Barry is aware of our presence, given the entrance we made earlier this evening.” She recalled the carriage with its simultaneously discreet and distinctive crest, sweeping them to the entrance of the theater, whereupon they had made their leisurely entry. To her great relief, there was not one familiar face in the melee, making it easier for Rowena to move confidently through the crowd in her role as Miss Warren. Uneasy, she touched a hand to the fair curls of a newly procured wig, courtesy of Madame Curzon, before her hand drifted to the heavy ruby necklace encircling her throat.
She thought back to the moment at the apartments when Rushford had reached into his pocket and withdrawn something in his fist. “As I recall, a gentleman always brings a lady some token of his affection,” he had said. “Please turn around, Rowena.”
She had presented her back to him, and he'd placed something around her neck. His fingers worked the back clasp, brushing her skin, sending flickers of heat coursing through her. When he'd finished, she went to one of the many mirrors in the room and gasped. About her neck was a magnificent necklace of rubies inlaid in intricate gold work. She had touched the stunning piece tentatively before letting her hand drop to her side.
Now in the dimness of the theater, Rushford's gaze swept over her with uncharacteristic intensity. “No flattery, only the truth. You look beautiful, Rowena. Never fear. You will have everyone convinced that you have snared my undying interest.” The last words held a tinge of mockery. Rowena reluctantly looked up from the necklace to meet Rushford's focused gaze, his eyes a smoky gray. She had to say something, to respond. “Thank you. For the loan of the necklace, that is. It's lovely,” she said, licking her dry lips, acutely aware that a more sophisticated, experienced woman would respond differently, with rapier sharp wit or a double entendre. Her mind had seemingly stopped working whenever he was near.
She moved ahead of him toward the door of the box. Gathering her wide skirts with a hand that also gripped the fan at her waist, she did not need to glance over her shoulder to confirm Rushford's proximity. His gaze scorched her naked shoulders. It seemed an eternity until they reached their destination in the theater foyer. It was filled with a stream of players, most still in their costumes, a dazzling parade of furbelows and greasepaint. Several of the actresses flitted their fans to smile coquettishly at their male admirers, as aware as their audience that many liaisons were forged in such salubrious circumstances. Behind Rowena, several men craned their necks, looking about the salon for the latest seductress whose favors were in high demand.
The murmurs in the crowd increased. Miss Barry had decided to make an entrance of her own, smiling for the small cluster of men who gathered around her, their hands clapping in enthusiasm. She had changed from the wedding dress required for her role as Anne Travinion into a sumptuous gown of bronzed brocade, with a daring bodice overlayed in black lace and paste diamonds.
“Enchanting.”
“Incandescent performance.”
“A veritable siren!”
The chorus paid homage to the woman in their midst, her black hair piled high on her head, emeralds from her last admirer, a count, glittering at her swanlike throat. She was smaller than she looked onstage, with fine, doll-like features highlighted by the contrast of white skin and dark hair.
Rushford offered Rowena his arm, and they glided toward the lovely actress, whose eyes narrowed appreciatively, her gaze devouring Rushford. Nodding generously to her admirers, she then held out a slender hand to Rushford with a tilt of her head.
“What an honor, Miss Barry,” Rushford said, bending over the diminutive figure, aware of the crush of devotees watching enviously from the sidelines. “Lord Rushford and Miss Warren,” he said smoothly by way of introduction.
The actress looked up at the man who stood nearly a foot taller than she, purring her response. “The pleasure is surely mine, my lord.” Her heavily kohled eyes lowered assessingly. “And your Miss Warren is certainly lovely”—she parted her red lips in a smile—“and so very young.”
Well done, thought Rowena, opening and shutting her fan with a decisive click. Miss Barry had effectively advertised her highly vaunted experience and expertise in the amorous arts in one simple phrase that put the young mistress precisely where she belonged—in the schoolroom.
Rushford bent toward her, his warm breath brushing her ear. “No need to blush, my darling,” he said, his words bringing her instantly back to the conversation and pointedly reminding her of her role. “I was just about to inquire of Miss Barry whether we might take some refreshment, perhaps somewhere quieter, more private.” This was a different side to Rushford, who was suddenly, irritatingly charming. His gaze swung back to Miss Barry.
The actress rewarded him with a devastating smile that could not obscure the faint lines around her eyes under the heavily applied makeup. “Delighted! What a capital idea, my lord. As a matter of fact, I should be more than pleased to give you a tour of the very private and fascinating areas behind the stage, where I happen to have champagne cooling at the very moment,” she said, waving her hand with the flourish of an accomplished performer. “Do follow me, Lord Rushford, Miss Warren.”
Making her second dramatic exit of the evening, Miss Barry clung to Rushford's arm, her skirts in full sail, supremely confident of ensnaring every pair of eyes in the salon. As the disappointed groans and murmurs of the audience faded, the opulence of the salon abruptly gave way to a narrow hallway and then a labyrinth of narrower passageways that comprised the theater's spine and skeleton. Old scenery canvases lay against the walls, interspersed with portable spiral staircases and rolls of canvas. “Fascinating,” Rowena said for the actress's benefit, turning around in a show of appreciation before following Rushford and Miss Barry through another door into what appeared to be a dressing room. A large mirror was propped up against the wall, reflecting a dressing screen draped with corsets and lacy undergarments, to the left of which sat a bottle of champagne, chilling as promised. A lavish canvas was propped against the opposite wall, depicting a Venetian canal complete with gondola and gondolier. Miss Barry collapsed in an extravagant heap on a narrow brocade chaise, taking Rushford with her.

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