The Darkest Sin (25 page)
Authors: Caroline Richards
She looked up, meeting his eyes, seeing the bitterness there. “No, not betrayal,” she said desperately. “I would never betray you after all you have done for me. And yet, I don't understand what happened tonight and what's changed.” She searched his face, seeking answers. “You spoke with the Baron.”
“I did. And we came to an agreement.”
“About which you will refuse to tell me.”
“Correct,” he said darkly. “I thought I was protecting you by keeping you from learning things that might prove a danger to you. Instead, I discovered tonight that by doing so I ended up protecting myself.”
Rowena struggled with the grim picture he was presenting. “You have your loyalties, as do I. Yours are to your countryâ” She paused with difficulty. “And to the Duchess. And yet what happened with her, between the two of you,” she said softly, carefully. “A woman whom everyone says you loved to distractionâ” she could not continue, reluctant to put into words what she had learned from the Baron. Suddenly she understood that she had been fooling herself not only for the past three days but also for the past year, lulled into believing that the man who had fished her from the river cared for her. His feelings for her were but a pale imitation of his love for the Duchess. The memories flooded back, and she turned her head aside, reaching for her robe, not wishing him to see her pain.
Rushford said flatly, “She was murdered. By Faron's men. Drowned.”
Rowena took a deep breath, forcing herself to look at him and confront her own truth. Yet another drowning, and this one Rushford could have prevented. So much made sense now. She laid a hand on his arm, immediately feeling the muscles strain beneath her fingers. “You loved her very much,” she stated quietly, her own instincts urging her on. “And yet not enough.”
“I don't want to talk about it. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
Yet he had betrayed the woman who had seemingly meant everything to him, given up the woman he loved most in the world. For what? There was something in the darkness that he would not permit her to see. “You are allowing the past to color your future, Rushford,” she said. “You refuse to believe me when I say that I would not betray youâa man who saved my life. But you can't make proper sense of this situation because you are still in mourning. I can sense it,” she persisted. And something else. Something worse. She took a step closer and placed her arms around his shoulders. Brushing the bruise on his chin softly, she watched as he closed his eyes as if to hide the truth in them. She wanted to gather him into her arms, hold him against her body, allow him to weep for his duchess and the love they'd had. The love that he had betrayed.
He did not push her away, and they stood like that for what seemed a moment and an eternity. “What do we do now?” she asked finally, feeling as though she had aged a decade in the short time they had known one another.
He opened his eyes and deliberately removed her arms from his shoulders. “We go on. You get what you want and I get what I want.” He did not have to say that there was no use in hiding behind subterfuge, because it would be of little use. He would be cutting her from his life like a cancer from his flesh. “You will remain safely at the Knightsbridge apartments,” he said, “until I decide otherwise. And when I tell you what you need to say to Sebastian, you will do it. Understood ?”
“I will not betray Meredith or Julia.” Somehow she had to bring Rushford back. “You would not force me?” Rowena looked into his eyes and saw her own reflection in the flat gray. There was something in the depths that she didn't want to read, something that sent renewed chills over her skin.
“Don't even ask what I am prepared to do,” he said.
Chapter 16
L
ord Rushford stood in his shirtsleeves by the windows of his study on Belgravia Square, looking out into a late spring night made miserable by the rain that lashed at the glass. London rain was as predictable as the world spinning on its axis, but this storm seemed to be gaining strength, the pellets of water beating against the drains and bouncing off the walkways in the street below.
ord Rushford stood in his shirtsleeves by the windows of his study on Belgravia Square, looking out into a late spring night made miserable by the rain that lashed at the glass. London rain was as predictable as the world spinning on its axis, but this storm seemed to be gaining strength, the pellets of water beating against the drains and bouncing off the walkways in the street below.
The stormy weather matched his mood. Still staring out the window, he pulled the stopper from a decanter of brandy by his side and turned to pour a glass. The spirits, he knew, would do nothing to wash away his anger and guilt. At least the path he had to take was now clear. He tossed back half the brandy, savoring the slow burn down his throat.
He had not seen Rowena in the five days since they'd returned in stony silence from Alcestor Court. What he'd learned from Sebastian had shaken him to his core, even though, tonight, he simply ached for her. She was young and she was inexperienced in the games that men like Faron and Sebastian playedâyet that would not have stopped her from betraying him if she could have worked the treachery in her favor. The knowledge hurt far more than it should. At least he knew. Bloody hell, he'd seen that expression before. But he had never expected it from Rowena Woolcott.
He thought back to the night at the edge of the river over a year ago now. How he had hit the water like a knife, swimming toward the small form, a silvery shimmer in the current of the river. Impenetrable blackness, a dark, great void, and long timeless moments passed as he propelled his arms and legs in the water, coming up for air and then going deeper. He kicked out hard with his legs, going as long and hard as his breath wood allow, the current threatening to suck him under. His lungs were about to burst, his muscles screaming against the heaviness of the current, when he surfaced again, breathed and looked up for the fourth time. Then he saw her, a faraway stain of silver floating on the surface, almost indistinguishable in the river's undulations. With strong, certain strokes, his objective in his sights, he swam toward her. Rowena's skirts billowed around her like an umbrella, her hair like seaweed in the water. He positioned an arm beneath her head, turning her body upward, so that her eyes stared at him unseeingly. He drew her back against him and began stroking toward the shore, drawing her steadfastly in the direction of the rocks in what seemed an endless journey.
An endless journeyâone that was to finish soon, he reminded himself, despite the currents that kept changing and threatening to pull him under. He looked at the raindrops trickling down the windowpane. Alcestor Court had actually made the choices clearer. Smashing the smug, patrician features of the Baron into a pulpy mess would have been highly satisfying, but he realized the benefits of self-restraint. Eliminating the Baron would have accomplished little when Faron was the prize. They believed he would do anything to protect Rowena Woolcott, and so he would feed the delusion with pleasure, including continuing the masquerade of keeping her as his mistress. It was expected, by Sebastian and his watchers. And so public appearances were necessary, at the theater, at Crockford's, even at damned Galveston's on the morrow, he thought acidly.
His bitterness ran deep, the thirst for revenge deeper still. Fleetingly, he saw Kate's face, the passionate brown eyes, the crooked, charming smile, the small, pointed chin. Then it faded away to be replaced by the dark blue eyes and full, mutinous mouth of Rowena Woolcott. He remembered the feel of his hands on her body, the assured touch of a lover who thought he knew the deepest recesses of his beloved's soul.
Cursing, he slammed down the glass and left his study. He needed air.
Thirty minutes later, the sweat and liniment laden air of the West London Boxing Club filled Rushford's lungs. He greeted curtly the odd acquaintance on his way in, nodded to the awaiting valet, and in short order had stripped down to his breeches and was laced into boxing gloves. It was not his regular day for a bout, but no matter, he would be sparring with Nat Langham, the son of poor framework knitters. Langham's trainer, the valet informed him, was looking to put Langham in a serious bout with George Gutteridge the following fortnight. Langham would welcome the practice, and he was already in the ring, shadowboxing with an imaginary opponent. The pugilist stood just under six feet and weighed eleven stone, and his left-handed punch, with his legs wide apart, could render his opponent blind. Langham's punch, Rushford knew, would be a downward left hook, the so-called pickax blow. It was exactly what he needed today, he thought philosophically, climbing into and facing his opponent in the ring, eyeing the brutish face, the tense muscular body.
The circling began slowly, both men narrow eyed, crouching, advancing in progressively smaller circles. No enmity existed between the two, just the tension of the sport. They mirrored each other, tracked each other's moves until, like a snake striking, Langham lunged and caught him with a strike to the abdomen, the air whistling between them.
Rushford was fresh and angry, and before all the breath left his lungs, he launched a blow upward with all his strength, the impact of his fist cracking his opponent's chin. A smaller man would have been felled, but the tree trunk of muscle merely grunted and stumbled, dancing drunkenly away from Rushford. Then he lunged back and his right hand slammed into Rushford's shoulder.
They both fell to the ground, but Rushford's legs were free. Drawing in a breath, he heaved his weight up, forcing all his strength through his legs. Images of Sebastian flickered before his eyes. Then images of Johnston delivering his steady, targeted blows while Rushford sat shackled to a chair. And Rowena, her face pale and steadfast, preparing herself to betray him.
A few men watched the fight from the wooden seats surrounding the ring, murmuring their approval, a series of incomprehensible words floating over the enclosure. But Rushford wasn't listening, hearing other phrases instead rebounding in his head. They would never stop, until he finally stopped Faron. And put his guilt to rest.
He bounced to his feet, and in utter silence, he and his opponent faced each other again. For a full minute, they shambled around one another, advancing, retreating, the one trying a short circular punch delivered with elbows bent, the other a mindless jab. A blissful rhythm to the dance continued until suddenly, the larger man came at Rushford with shuddering speed. Rushford jerked his head aside to protect himself and at the same time delivered a sharp jab to his opponent's solar plexus. Langham landed on his knees, his outstretched hands catching his own face. Rushford was breathing hard and fast, the pressure in his head mounting breath by breath, sweat dripping down his face, the salt stinging his eyes. The well-bred crowd stifled their excitement. The round was to be of three-minutes' duration, as by the rules, with one minute's time between rounds. The well-versed group also knew that if either man fell through weakness, he must get up unassisted within ten seconds. The count began in the stifled silence.
Rushford hung back, watching, as Langham wrenched his body into a sitting position with his last ounce of strength and then with a grunt, rose to his feet and hurled himself forward. Rushford threw himself into a sharp volley of jabs. Then Langham was hanging on the ropes in a helpless state, his toes off the ground. He was unable to acknowledge the rules or his defeat, but considered down after only one round.
Blood thundered in Rushford's ears as he claimed his victory and a measure of catharsis. He pulled the gloves from his hands and swept the sweat from his face. Extending a hand to help his opponent from the ropes, he then stepped outside the ring, oblivious to the hands clapping his shoulders or the towel thrust at him by Sir Richard Archer.
“I hear you didn't even warm up. Just went into the ring bloody cold as ice. Feel better now?” Archer asked, pulling him aside to one of the benches. He drew a small silver flask from his jacket, which Rushford accepted gratefully, taking several deep draughts of water.
“Not really,” Rushford said, breathing deeply, mopping the sweat from his torso and returning the flask to Archer.
Unchastized, Archer smiled. “Personally, I didn't think you were doing all that well. Otherwise you might have finished more quickly. The poor sodâLangham acquitted himself bravely.”
“Your pledge of confidence is always appreciated.” He took in Archer's formal attire, the black breeches, and polished boots, with a jaundiced eye.
Archer's smile broadened. “So what are you feeling so hellish about that you need to take it out on someone in the ring? At least your pretty face didn't get battered, although that bruise I see on your jaw is surely not a souvenir from Langham. Looks too ugly for that.” Archer paused. “The visit to Dorset with the Baron did not go well, I presume?”
“Yes and no.”
“That answer doesn't help much, Rush,” Archer said. “And by the way, I ran into Galveston the other day at White's, and he scurried away from me like the rodent he is.”
Rushford grunted in appreciation. “We shall get to him in time, never fear. Justice will have its day.”
“All this talk of justiceâyou are beginning to take on a reputation.”
Grimacing, Rushford grabbed the flask and took another drink. “I'm as compromised as the devil himself,” he said abruptly. He saw Archer's smile disappear, noted the instant sobering.
“And what of Miss Warren?”
“I'll get to her in a moment,” Rushford said.
“I'm certain you will,” Archer said after an infinitesimal pause while he took a closer look at his friend. “Never let them see your agony,” he said enigmatically. “And by that I mean metaphorically and literally, both in the ring and outside.”
“My mistake the first time around,” Rushford said, thinking of Kate.
The brooding silence did nothing to help matters along. “And what of the Stone? You have decided upon a plan?” Archer asked in an attempt to turn the course of the conversation. “Of course there is oneâI can see it in the steeliness of your eyes,” he added with a dose of sarcasm. “I should say that I have your back at Whitehall, for which you owe me by the way. They know nothing of your involvement in this matter and have not questioned me as to my interest in the recent dispatches from France. Which, as you will recall, I shared with you last time we met.”
“Much appreciated,” Rushford said.
“You could at least show some gratitude,” Archer grumbled.
“I thought I had.”
“I was thinking more in the way of an all-night card game, copious amounts of brandy, or a visit to our old friend, Mrs. Cruikshank.”
“Not in the mood, but you go ahead.”
“It was a jest, Rush. Have you not regained a semblance of your old humor?”
“I have lost my train of thought.”
“Doubtful. So what's the plan?”
“The situation is actually ideal,” Rushford said abruptly, a score of possibilities racing through his mind.
“I'm relieved to hear it.”
“Sebastian wants me to secure the Rosetta Stone on Faron's behalf.”
They're mad, was Archer's first startled thought. “There's got to be more to it than that.”
“They would use Miss Warren against me.”
“Kate all over again,” Archer said, wiping a hand down his face.
“You would think I'd have learned the first time.”
Forgive yourself, once and for all, damn it. The Duchess of Taunton is not worth it,
Archer wanted to say, but didn't. He saw the pain and guilt etched on his friend's face, the corrosiveness of regret that still worked through him, the stain as vivid and fresh as in the early days of his loss. “And what of Miss Warren?” Archer asked carefully, putting one booted foot up on the bench.
Archer wanted to say, but didn't. He saw the pain and guilt etched on his friend's face, the corrosiveness of regret that still worked through him, the stain as vivid and fresh as in the early days of his loss. “And what of Miss Warren?” Archer asked carefully, putting one booted foot up on the bench.
“It's a little more complicated than it looks,” Rushford said, explaining in the briefest way possible Miss Warren's true identity and his involvement with her one year earlier.
Listening intently, Archer lifted his mouth in a small smile. “Explains why you were in such a dark mood this past spring. You went to great lengths to ensure Miss Woolcott's survival. Are you certain you don't care for this girl?”
“Don't be ridiculous, Archer. I can't afford to care. And worse still, I don't know how to care. I've proven that, haven't I? Although Miss Woolcott doesn't know what she's doing, they are using her as bait, in the same way they used Kate and Felicity Clarence, to capture my interest and ensure my collaboration. Well, this time it won't work.”
“How so?”
“I intend to follow their directives to the letterâand deliver the Rosetta Stone into their hands. Right to Faron's door.”
Archer knew his best friend better than that. His eyes gleamed. “What do you have in mind?” he asked, his eyes alight with sharp intelligence.
“I'll tell you in a moment,” Rushford said, tossing the linen towel aside. He looked around for his shirt, the sweat drying on his skin. “But I require your help.”
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