The Sinner Who Seduced Me (14 page)

The two watched as Iris danced with the man, her body becoming more ragdoll and less masquerading courtesan by the second.

“How long do we allow her to dance with him?” Clarissa asked, concern in her voice.

James swore. “It’s not as easy as all that. I can’t make a scene or someone might recognize me.”

“Use me, then. I’m nearly as tall as the man,” Clarissa proposed.

Now James found himself dangerously close to laughing. “Yes, you’re nearly as tall. But he has four stone on you. It’s out of the question.”

“Well, what are we meant to do? Allow her to dance the night away with him?” she demanded.

James wished it was that easy. “When you suggested the Cyprians’ Ball, did you not know anything of what went on here?”

“Honestly?” Clarissa began, standing tall as she always did when she was readying to admit an error. “No. I overheard Lord Musgrove make mention of it when he visited St. Michelle’s studio last spring.”

James felt close to roaring now, but for a number of reasons such a demonstrative response would have been inappropriate, the least of which was losing control. He would not lose control when it came to Clarissa, not ever again.

“The purpose of the ball, beyond fulfilling the courtesans’ vain need for their own extravagant social event, is to bring the girls to market, if you will.”

Clarissa ran a hand over her hair, ruffling the short locks. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You’re familiar with the horse market Tattersalls?”

“Of course,” Clarissa said impatiently. “Go on.”

James looked about the room, suddenly struck by the accuracy of his metaphor. “Well, think of the Cyprians’ Ball as Tattersalls. The courtesans are the horses, and the men are their potential owners. They’d hardly commit to such an expensive undertaking without taking the horse for a ride. Which they do, in various positions and with some very inventive accoutrements—there.” He nodded, indicating the hallways that Iris had inquired about earlier.

Clarissa bit her lip nervously. “But Iris is nearly unconscious from the champagne. Surely he wouldn’t dare—”

“He would, and he could,” James interrupted, moving quickly as the man put his arm around Iris and walked her toward the hallway on the far left.

Clarissa scurried to catch up and the two walked shoulder to shoulder toward the retreating couple. “What will we do?”

“May I be of service, gentlemen?” A honey-haired woman dressed head to toe in midnight blue stepped directly into their path. “I believe we have a mutual friend—Pettibone?”

James nearly reached for the woman and kissed her full on the mouth, her presence promising to make his task far easier. “Of course. Pettibone. Damned fine fellow.” He took her offered hand and brushed his lips across the backs of her gloved fingers. “Follow them into the room. Make sure that the door remains unlocked,” he ordered in a smooth murmur.

The woman nodded in agreement and turned toward the hallway, easily reaching Iris and her companion before they disappeared into the last room on the right.

“What should I do?” Clarissa asked, obviously alarmed but still resolute from the looks of it.

“Fetch the carriage at once. Wait for us on the south side of the building, near the servants’ entrance.”

She nodded solemnly then turned, disappearing into the crowd almost at once.

James set his damned mask right one last time and walked toward the hallway, cracking his knuckles. “This ought to be fun.”

Clarissa waited in the darkness of the coach. Finding their driver had taken longer than she had liked. She’d never done such a thing as a woman before, the carriage having magically appeared the moment she’d stepped foot outside an event.

Clarissa was out of her depth in this charade. No matter how she thought on the situation, she always circled back to that one truth. With her painting, she was in complete control. St. Michelle had given her that; his faith in her talent and skill had rebuilt her confidence after James’s actions had so brutally torn it down.

James. She’d put him and Iris in harm’s way, and for what? To indulge her own feelings? To try to hold on to something that was never hers to begin with? She wanted to cry—she wanted to scream. But she bit her hand and held herself in check. Emotions would be of no use to her now. Indeed, they were a hazard.

The carriage door suddenly opened and Iris’s limp body was forcibly lifted onto the seat, next to Clarissa. James climbed in and slammed the door shut behind him, pounding his fist against the ceiling of the coach twice to signal the driver to go.

The coach lurched forward, and Clarissa held Iris in her lap. “Did you reach her in time?”

James tore the mask from his face. “Yes. Seems her companion took to the idea of two women at once with
a remarkable amount of enthusiasm. He was too busy unbuttoning his breeches to see me come in.”

Clarissa sighed heavily. “Thank God. And what are we to tell Iris?”

“Judging from the amount of champagne she drank, I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t remember a thing,” James offered, scratching at his face where the mask had been. “We’ll tell her that she had a grand time. End of story.”

The lights had grown fewer and farther between, indicating that they were progressing toward the edge of London proper. They’d soon be back within the forested arms of the heath.

“I’m sorry, you know,” Clarissa said quietly, looking into James’s shadowed face. “I didn’t realize.”

He settled back into the cushions, his face cast completely in darkness. “Just don’t let it ever happen again.”

“I promise.”

Clarissa didn’t miss the double meaning she felt sure James had delivered.

She didn’t know how, but she would keep her promise.

Sunlight filtered through the mullioned windows onto the bountiful breakfast set out on the buffet. James filled his plate with shirred eggs, six rashers of bacon, an assortment of stewed fruits, and three hot rolls. He took his seat across from Mr. Bennett and accepted a servant’s offer of coffee.

He cut into the bacon with enthusiasm and forked a bite into his mouth, looking at Iris, who sat nursing a cup of tea. She looked absolutely awful, though considering the amount of champagne she’d consumed the night before as compared to her diminutive size, James supposed she could have looked worse.

The Cyprians’ Ball had not turned out as badly as James had assumed it would. Quite to the contrary, actually. They’d fulfilled Iris’s need for excitement before tying herself to a title. In addition, James now knew the identity of another Les Moines agent, which would surely prove useful in his investigation. She’d not revealed her name, but James could hardly forget her face.

He chewed a second bite of bacon then moved on to his eggs. The agent had done just as James had requested, even having the foresight to ensure that Iris’s companion stood with his back to the door while removing his breeches. James had found it comical, watching the man attempt to flee with the breeches about his ankles. He’d fallen against the woman in blue and she’d practically had to hold him for James to land
the punch. He’d managed to render the man insensible with one strike.

They’d removed the limp Iris from the bed and dropped the unconscious man in her place, ensuring that anyone who came across him would assume he slept, having fallen victim to love’s charms, not James’s arm. James had scooped Iris up and followed the woman to the entrance where he’d asked Clarissa to wait.

He’d hardly had the opportunity to thank the agent before she was gone.

Wishing he’d had more time to question the woman, James finished his eggs and sat back, savoring his coffee. A name would help, but the face was a start. And a damn sight more than he’d managed since arriving back in England.

Bennett finished perusing the morning paper and folded it crisply in half before setting it on the table. “Well, Iris, I must say that you’re a lucky girl to not be allowed out amongst society yet. That Sutter Ball last night was awful.”

Iris cringed at the sound of her father’s cheerful voice. “Really, Father. How could a ball be anything but grand?”

Bennett looked to James for a show of solidarity. “Rougier, can you think of anything ‘grand’ about a ball? Honestly, I almost fell asleep while talking with Lord … Well, I can’t remember his name, which should tell you something.”

James smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve little experience when it comes to balls, monsieur.”

“I see you’re a lucky one as well,” Bennett replied, gesturing for the servant to bring him more coffee. “It’s ‘deuced’ boring—now, did I say that correctly? I heard one of the gardeners use the term and have been looking for the opportunity to trot it out. Tried several times last
night but none of the ‘bacon-brained’ lords and ladies batted an eye.”

Iris finished her tea and set the china cup down. “Father,” she began, holding her hand over the cup when the servant attempted to refill it. “Surely balls in England are no worse than the assemblies we attend in Halifax, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would not,” he replied resolutely. “At least in Canada my money is good for something. Here, it may get me in the door, but—”

“Father,” Iris interrupted, “there’s no need to shout. It will simply take a bit of time, you’ll see,” she reassured him, smiling weakly.

Bennett drained his cup and returned it to its saucer. “Not too long, I hope, my girl. You’d best be getting on with catching a suitor—hunting season has started back home, you know,” he advised, playfully pinching her cheek. “Though you’ll never manage, looking like that,” he added, belatedly noticing his daughter’s pallid appearance. “Have Daphne help you with some of those pots of rouge that your mother and you seem so fond of. St. Michelle may be the best portrait artist of his time, but you need to look lively for him.”

Iris nodded in agreement, though the effort seemed to only rattle her aching head further.

“Perhaps some food would do you good?” James proposed innocently, enjoying Iris’s discomfort far more than he should. “A portion of bacon and eggs? Stewed prunes?”

Iris’s hand flew to her stomach and she swallowed hard. “No, that’s not necessary.”

“Then I suggest you employ Daphne’s assistance with your …” Mr. Bennett paused, gesturing vaguely in the general vicinity of Iris’s ashen face “… appearance and quickly. St. Michelle sent word that he’ll require your presence directly following breakfast. I do believe he intends
to begin painting the portrait today. Let’s not keep him waiting.”

“
Non
, we do not want to keep St. Michelle waiting,” James agreed, finishing off the last of his coffee and standing.

Iris squeezed her eyes shut as the servant pulled her chair back from the table, hesitating before she opened them and stood. “No, we would not want that.”

Clarissa arranged Iris’s skirts about her and stood back, critically eyeing the scene. “
Mon dieu
. You look dreadful.”

Iris surveyed the deep burgundy upholstered settee that had been chosen specifically for the portrait. “Is it the color of my dress? I thought the pale cream would complement the settee perfectly.”

“
Non
, it’s not the dress—it’s you,” Clarissa said candidly, moving to smear a bit of the rouge from the girl’s cheeks.

Iris rolled her eyes in response. “Yes, everyone seems all too eager to agree on my dreadful appearance.”

“Well, the rouge isn’t helping. Rougier, hand me that bit of cloth,
s’il vous plaît,
” Clarissa asked, pointing to her table where a clean rag sat.

Clarissa ventured to guess that she herself felt much the same as Iris looked. Though she hadn’t taken one sip of champagne last night, she wished she had—the comfort of an incomplete memory would surely be preferable to the ache in her heart and head that still lingered.

James handed her the rag and resumed his seat near the door, not bothering to say a word.

The worst part was that he managed it so easily. It would be one thing if he appeared to struggle with torturing her, even a little. But the man seemed made for the task. The ache worsened. But Clarissa had devised a plan for this very situation while lying in bed last night.
At the first sign of her emotions threatening to get the better of her, she decided to picture herself stomping on James. More specifically, his head. The action would drive him into the ground until nothing was left—not even a hair.

She’d slept very little. She’d read and reread the letters from her mother, a new one having been delivered by Pettibone that very day. And when that had done little to ease her mind, she’d relived every emotional occurrence involving James, from the early days of their blossoming love to the previous evening, when he’d made it clear that they’d come to an end. Each memory was followed by the swift, purposeful image of James being driven into the ground by Clarissa’s own feet, until the overwhelming desire to cry turned into a sense of satisfaction.

She’d gone so far as to alter his facial expressions from scene to scene. More often than not he appeared angry, but occasionally terrified, and in more than one scene apologetic. Clarissa felt sure her mother would call such behavior childish. But it was preferable to winding herself about a pillow and crying until she thought she would perish.