The Sinner Who Seduced Me (17 page)

“I think he likes you,” he assured Clarissa, anxious to be done with the matter.

Clarissa stroked the feline between his flattened ears. “He doesn’t—but he will.
Oui
, I’ll take him.”

James clapped Thomkins on the back. “Excellent. We’ll let you get on with your day, then.”

“Here,” Clarissa said firmly, then handed the cat to James. “He’ll require a bath. I will see you and,” she paused, looking at the cat thoughtfully, “Cinder?” she asked, looking at the groom.

“Bit frilly if you ask me,” he answered honestly.

“
Exactement,
” Clarissa agreed. “Well, I’ll expect you and the cat who’s yet to be properly named in the studio this afternoon.”

She opened the door and walked out, the remaining cat stealthily escaping while Chester continued to sleep.

“Have you ever bathed a cat?” James asked Thomkins as Ink’s claws dug into his coat sleeve.

“Never even heard of it being done. Can’t imagine why you would. Cats hate water.”

“Is that so?” James growled with annoyance.

“More than anything,” the groom replied, nudging the orange lump with his foot. “Chester here found himself in the middle of the water trough a few days back. Sulked like a woman left at the altar, he did.”

Thomkins laughed at the memory, finally giving up on Chester moving of his own accord and bending down to retrieve him. “I almost wish I had a bit of time to help.”

“I’d happily postpone Ink’s baptism until you’ve a spare moment,” James offered. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the opportunity to do what surely no one before has done.”

Thomkins smiled and allowed James to walk through the door first. “Quite kind of you, but no. I’m afraid my work won’t wait. I’ll get you set up, though. Let me see if Cook has a bowl she could spare.”

James watched the groom stroll down the aisle, Chester’s tail bobbing with each of the man’s steps.

“
Parfait.
”

The sound of footsteps reached Clarissa’s ears long before James appeared. She arched her back, relieving the ache that had developed after sitting too long upon a leather-topped bench.

“Looking for inspiration?”

She turned her attention from the portrait hung on the wall directly in front of her and fixed him with an indifferent stare. “Perhaps I could simply paint over the face of Lady Wentworth here with Iris’s features. Do you think anyone would notice?”

“I fear that you’ve set a verbal trap,” he answered, placing the black cat on the floor and joining Clarissa on the bench.

The cat limped toward Clarissa and sat, his tail twitching about her ankle. “How so?”

James stared up at the portrait then looked at the many more that surrounded it. “If I agree, you’ll question my faith in your work. If I disagree—well, you’ll question my faith in your work.”

Clarissa could feel the beginning of a small smile on her lips despite her desire to remain unaffected. “I’d not even thought to catch you so, but I cannot deny that your logic is …” She dropped her palms to the leather seat and leaned back, her eyes looking up at the gilt border just where the walls met the ceiling as she searched for the right word.

“Logical?” James offered helpfully.

“Yes, actually,” Clarissa agreed, continuing to examine the decorative touch.

James’s low laugh held amusement. “You needn’t sound so surprised. I can be rather clever when it’s absolutely necessary.”

Clarissa’s gaze drifted back to James. This felt altogether too comfortable. Too familiar. Too dangerous. Especially with a man who’d insisted her mother be taken hostage. Pettibone’s revelation concerning her mother had hurt far worse than Clarissa could have imagined. James was keeping more from her than she’d realized. Well, two could play at that game.

“Thank you for seeing to Pharaoh’s bath,” she said politely, cutting short the flirtatious moment.

James only nodded in response. “Pharaoh, is it?”

The cat jumped awkwardly into Clarissa’s lap, settling himself down upon her fawn breeches. “Looks as if he already knows his name. Then Pharaoh it is. Now, I suppose I should return to my work.”

“There is something I need to speak with you about—beyond Pharaoh,” James replied, his tone turning serious.

Clarissa began to stroke the cat, her mind working furiously. Did he know of Pettibone’s visit to the studio? And if he did, what was she going to tell him? She’d not yet decided. She’d come to the portrait gallery for that very reason; critically examining the work of others was a way of freeing her mind to think on other things. But she’d only begun the process, the last hour hardly sufficient time to complete such a task. She hated him for treating her mother so inexcusably. But did she hate him enough to endanger his life? For Pettibone inspired in Clarissa an intense mistrust that she felt sure was warranted.

“I’ve decided on Iris’s next outing.”

Clarissa nearly let out an audible sigh of relief. “Is that so?”

“Yes. A boxing match—not far from here. It shouldn’t draw many members of polite society, but enough that Iris will be pleased.”

Pharaoh growled in irritation and swatted at Clarissa’s hand. “How on earth will you explain the presence of a lady at such an event?” Clarissa asked.

“Really, St. Michelle?” He lifted a brow, lips quirking in a small smile.

Clarissa resumed stroking the cat at a more leisurely pace while she mulled over James’s response. Suddenly, it occurred to her that the man just might be fool enough to repeat his daring use of disguise. “You cannot mean to—”

“But why wouldn’t I?” he interrupted, examining Clarissa from head to toe. “It has worked well, wouldn’t you agree?”

“First of all,” Clarissa said matter-of-factly, “the girl is far more endowed than I. Where do you think to put those?”

James’s critical gaze rested on Clarissa’s bound breasts. “True enough. Hers are roughly three times the size of yours. But this is for one night only. Don’t you think an additional binding or two would suffice?”

Clarissa folded her arms across her chest and fought the urge to tell James just what she thought he should do with his “additional bindings.”

“As for the rest of her far-more-feminine form,” he continued, “we’ll just have to do the best we can. The majority of the men at the match will be foxed, which should aid our efforts.”

Clarissa crossed her legs, sending Pharaoh jumping for the space between herself and James. “Yes, I believe it was my grandmother who said, in a pinch, public drunkenness is always helpful.”

“We’ve no choice in the matter. Better to accept that now,” James replied, standing. “I’ll fetch Iris and meet you at the servants’ entrance tonight at one o’clock. Agreed?”

“Will Pettibone be joining us for the outing?” Clarissa inquired, attempting to keep her tone disinterested, though she was eager for information on the man.

“No,” James replied. “Why do you ask?”

She shouldn’t have mentioned Pettibone, that much was clear. James was readying to leave and now here he sat, asking a question that Clarissa couldn’t begin to answer.

“Why do I ask?” she countered, attempting to secure a bit of additional time.

James picked up Pharaoh and set him gently on the floor, then slid the distance between the two on the bench until his leg brushed up against Clarissa’s. “Pettibone is mine to deal with, not yours,” he said firmly.

“Of course,” Clarissa agreed, running her fingers through the short hair at the nape of her neck. “Really, there’s no need to turn so serious. It was a simple question.”

James reached out and caught her chin between his forefinger and thumb, staring hard into Clarissa’s eyes. “There is nothing simple about Pettibone—nor the men that we work for. This is a matter of life and death, Clarissa. I need to know you understand that.”

The feel of his warm, strong fingers on her skin made Clarissa tense, as did his words. He had no idea just how right he was. Pettibone was up to something, Clarissa could feel it in her bones.

She searched James’s eyes, finding nothing beyond a cool, calculated concern. If it was true that the eyes were the windows to the soul, Clarissa believed she’d found her answer.

She nodded, then pulled away, needing to be free of his touch.

“We’ll be one step closer to our goal by the end of the evening. Just keep that in mind.” James stood and strode from the gallery, leaving Clarissa with only Pharaoh and her thoughts for comfort.

Clarissa listened until she could no longer hear his boots upon the oaken floors. She lifted Pharaoh from beneath the leather bench and buried her face in his soft fur, his small, warm body comforting her sore heart.

“It’s so dark! I can’t see anything.”

James gripped Iris’s hand harder and continued on down the hall. “It’s meant to be dark, mademoiselle. How else would we make our way through Kenwood House undetected?”

“Oh,” she said conspiratorially, then added, “Still, would one candle have ruined everything?”

James wanted to say that she’d already ruined everything, but held his tongue. The silly girl had tried his patience time and time again. And James was not a patient man to begin with.

He’d waited nearly an hour outside her chamber door while her maid fussed with the preparations. Iris had asked after a modiste to adjust the cuffs of her shirt—requiring that James explain the ridiculousness of such a request at the late hour. Daphne needed two explanations of how to properly button the breeches, ending in James demonstrating on his own. Then Daphne had nearly fainted at the indecency of it all—a malady cured quickly by the addition of funds to what she’d already been promised by Pettibone. James had wanted to tear down Iris’s door and dress the woman himself, but even he could understand why such an act would be disastrous.

When she’d finally stepped from her room, the
pleased look on her face only irritated James further. He’d straightened and rebuttoned her coat as best he could until he felt she could pass for a man—at least for one night.

Agreeing to more “adventures”—as Iris had been so fond of calling them—would hopefully prove fruitful. Pettibone was so tight-lipped about Les Moines that James felt sure he’d hardly get anything useful out of the man.

And James wanted information. It wasn’t enough to intercept the funds. He wanted to destroy every last one of the conspirators, from Durand and Pettibone to the woman at the Cyprians’ Ball and all the way up the ranks to the person who pulled the strings. James was a loyal Young Corinthian, and that had been enough to convince him to accept the task in the beginning.

But now? Now he wanted someone to pay. His time at Kenwood House had only served to remind him what he’d learned so long ago: Anything beyond physical lust was pointless. He mentally slammed his fist into the wall for allowing thoughts of Clarissa to enter his mind. What James would not give if she’d never seen fit to reappear in his life.

But the neckless twin, in all of his infinite wisdom, had broken St. Michelle’s arm. And if Les Moines had not employed the neckless twin? Well, James would probably still be scurrying down a dark hallway with Iris in tow, but he certainly would not be scurrying toward Clarissa.

“Ouch,” Iris squeaked as she struggled to keep pace. “You’re about to break my wrist.”

“My apologies, Mademoiselle Bennett,” James murmured, though he could hardly find it in himself to feel anything but irritated.

He knew that Clarissa was as much to blame for his situation as anyone—including himself. When they’d
parted years ago, he’d told her she was weak for not trusting in him. And he’d believed it. But he hadn’t blamed her. She was, after all, a woman.

So he could hardly hold her accountable now. She was, despite appearances, the same feminine creature who had drawn him to her like a moth to the flame. As of late, though, something had come over Clarissa. He could not quite put his finger on it, but she’d altered her demeanor—and purposefully.
Purposefully
. Such a word in relation to Clarissa was unthinkable. She was anything but purposeful. Headstrong. Emotional. Mercurial. Those were descriptions suitable for the woman he’d known.

James stopped abruptly at the end of the hallway. “
Attendez
. There’s a light up ahead,” he whispered into Iris’s ear. There was no one about, but he thought it best to embellish a bit while the woman was fully aware.

“How utterly exciting!” Iris whispered urgently, peeking around James’s shoulder. “I feel as though I’m a spy in His Majesty’s service!”

Iris’s words were akin to being brained by a cricket bat. James pulled the girl toward the stairs and made haste for the main floor.

And suddenly realized that Clarissa was turning into a spy. Before his very eyes, no less. He’d hardly thought of her in such a way, but it was true. He’d come to rely on her—through no fault of his own, of course; the utter lack of Corinthian support made it completely necessary. But she was becoming his partner.

Where were he and Iris off to at that very moment? To meet Clarissa. Who was needed to part Bennett from his money? Clarissa. James missed the last step, stumbled, and almost pulled Iris down with him.