The Den of Iniquity Page 7

  Sin wondered if his partner lingered in the office because he sought to escape demons—same as he. ‘A new friend.’ He didn’t say more knowing Cole wouldn’t pry.

  Luke entered, the heel of one hand rubbing his bloodshot eyes. ‘I fell asleep in my office but I’m still exhausted.’ He yawned, the action underscoring his complaint. ‘I haven’t had six hours’ solid rest since I’ve returned.’ He slumped against the door frame. ‘Any trouble tonight?’

  Sin snagged Cole in silent communication. ‘None at all. The usual aggravation when one brings together privileged prigs with full pockets and empty heads.’

  ‘What about the saucy minx you plucked from the floor?’ Luke’s tired eyes seemed unusually wide with interest.

  Cole aborted a laugh with a feigned cough. ‘I thought you were sleeping.’

  ‘Not the entire time.’ Luke swung his gaze from one friend to the other. ‘Apparently I woke up at just the right moment.’

  Sin shook his head. ‘I sent her home with our escort.’ He strode towards the door. ‘Be sure to lock up.’

  He whistled for Ransom and left directly, unwilling to allow either friend the opportunity to riddle him with buffoonery or, worse, unanswerable questions. Having stayed at the hell overlong the sunrise limned the horizon as he headed to his apartments five blocks away. As was his routine, he relished the walk, welcomed the quiet after a night of loutish noise and chaotic commotion. Still his footsteps marked a desolate beat on the cobbles. Without intention, he recalled another morning when he’d taken to the street in hope of expending pent-up frustration, the morning after his father’s funeral.

  He’d received word of the arrangements but, excluded from the ceremony, could do little more than observe from afar. His father’s wife refused to see him and the following morning when he’d showed at the house, he’d forced his way into the drawing room demanding she at least look at his face and acknowledge his existence.

  Perhaps the resemblance proved too strong. She had him promptly removed and discarded in the street like a piece of trash, unwanted and insignificant. Yet during their brief altercation, when she’d railed at him for invading her home and disrupting her mourning, she’d raved like a woman distraught, not just with sadness but also with anger and malice. He recalled her venomous words with pristine clarity.

  ‘I knew of your mother. I wished her dead.’

  That statement lit a flame and began a search that spanned years until it brought him to his present dismal condition.

  He discarded his morose musings as he arrived home and took the steps by twos. Locking the door, he tossed his keys to the foldaway table nearby. Exhausted and anxious for sleep to blot out the ugly remembrances of his past, he fed Ransom, shed his boots and clothes, and collapsed onto the mattress.

  He lay quiet. His breathing evened and he closed his eyes. The image of Vivienne’s crystalline gaze haunted him. Her kiss…it damned near sliced him in two, piercing his heart with a tender aching emotion he no longer believed possible. She’d trembled against him, her lush breasts pressed to the wall of his chest as if their hearts yearned to touch.

  He didn’t want to feel anything beyond the one purpose of his immediate intentions. Bloody hell, he’d force reality to chase the sentimental notion. Revenge dictated his actions now. He wouldn’t allow a woman to get under his skin when he was so close to finding Pimms and putting it all to rest.

  Besides, what could he offer her? His lack of lineage and unusual lifestyle were burden enough without the hollow emptiness of his heart. How much easier not to care. Vivienne deserved better than a murderer. A man whose solitary reason for living was to murder again.

  Still her image persisted, remembrance of her sweet lips and evocative scent hardened his cock despite total exhaustion. Opening his eyes, he stared at the ceiling and lowered the sheet to his waist. He rested a hand on his erection willing it to subside and take with it any false hope, both attempts at the impossible. Vivienne tasted like everything he’d lost in life, everything he’d worked years to forget. He couldn’t want her. Yet she lived in him. The velvet caress of her tongue, the delicious noise she made when he’d yanked her to the desk, the tentative weight of her fingers on his chest. Best he exorcise his desire and be done with it.

  Later that week Vivienne and Sophie shared the afternoon, the carriage laden with packages of every variety, a successful shopping excursion completed.

  ‘Nothing distracts like new gowns and ribbons. It’s exhilarating to be out of black and muted lavender.’ Weary from the bustling day Vivienne reclined against the banquette, a dreamy smile on her face.

  ‘What else are you thinking about? That grin can’t possibly be caused by lutestring silk and taffeta.’ Sophie rapped her on the knee. ‘What are you keeping from me?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Vivienne struggled to contain her grin. It was magical to cherish the remembrance of Sin’s kiss but by the same account she yearned to tell someone.

  ‘You must confess. We tell each other everything, do we not?’ Sophie tugged on her skirt this time, her bid more determined. ‘Take advantage of our day spent alone. Poor Crispin, whenever I turn around he’s on my heels questioning if we’ve made plans for the day.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Vivienne straightened on the bench. Her smile fell away.

  ‘And worse, he’s convinced you’ll pursue an unsafe path out of the goodness in your soul ever since our conversation about charity work and reformation. He’s become a self-appointed watch guard.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Additional scrutiny was the last thing Vivienne desired.

  ‘Crying off for the modiste offered a brief reprieve, though I’m sure he’ll be waiting when we arrive home.’ Sophie’s voice hushed with the sombre conclusion.

  Nothing was said for several beats, all sound consumed by carriage wheels and traffic.

  ‘Now, no more sour talk. Tell me your secret. I’m dying to know.’ Sophie strove to reinstate their prior cheerfulness.

  With the same persistence Vivienne adored in her friend, she acquiesced. ‘You promise not to tell a soul?’ She delayed the retelling.

  ‘I keep all your secrets, big and small. You are my dearest friend and always will be. I’ll never violate your trust.’ Sophie’s expression grew sincere and in good conscience, Vivienne could not stall another minute.

  ‘In consideration of your never-ending loyalty I suppose I must tell you.’ She paused one last moment. ‘I was thinking of Mr Sinclair.’

  An ear-piercing squeal bounced off the walls of the carriage interior. ‘Do tell. Every detail. Quickly.’

  Vivienne savoured the moment. Not being able to share her experience, his breathtaking kiss, epitomized the poignant anguish of living without her mother. When last she’d spoken to Sophie, Vivienne hadn’t elaborated about the incident at All Hallows by the Tower Church and when she’d schemed her ideas for reform while sitting in the Daventry salon, who’d have predicted Mr Sinclair would kiss her senseless? She’d forced Sophie to stew long enough. ‘Mr Sinclair is wicked.’

  Sophie’s eyes flared and she leaned closer. ‘Where did you meet him?’

  No reason existed for whispering but since Sophie began, Vivienne answered in kind. ‘In the graveyard on Byward Street.’ At her friend’s sharp gasp, she explained. ‘That was the first time. The second time occurred near midnight at his gaming hell.’

  ‘Good Lord, he sounds like the devil.’ Sophie pushed back on the bench, though her rapt attention didn’t waver. ‘Can I meet him too?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He works all night.’ Vivienne added. ‘Crispin would never allow you out at that hour.’

  ‘Oh.’ So much disappointment in that little word. ‘That’s true.’ Sophie mulled this over for a minute. ‘What does he look like?’ Her eyes grew brighter with the question.

  ‘Oh, he’s not handsome.’ Vivienne shook her head with assured finality.

  ‘No?
’ Sophie’s crestfallen expression compounded her sullen disappointment.

  ‘No. I mean, handsome…the quality isn’t enough.’ Vivienne’s voice rose with emphasis. ‘He’s every wonderful description you can think of all together as one. I doubt the proper word has been invented.’

  ‘Oh.’ This time the word held reverence.

  ‘He has deep dark eyes, riveting in their appeal, and glossy black hair, just a little too long.’ She spaced her fingers near her neck to show the length. ‘Very tall and broad, with strong, hard arms of solid muscle.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Sophie returned to whispering.

  ‘Because his kisses are more wicked than his appearance.’ Sincere yearning marked that sentence.

  ‘Vivienne.’ Sophie sounded as if she couldn’t catch her breath. ‘We’ve shopped all day and now, when we are three blocks from my home you tell me this?’ She sagged against the bolster as if she’d just run a long race. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t share this sooner.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Quiet consumed the carriage until the ladies matched eyes. Then they burst into a fit of laughter that had them holding their sides, ribs sore and smiles aching, when the driver finally parked in front of Daventry House.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘What do you have for me?’ Sin sunk into the convenient obscurity of the rear booth at Broken Bone Tavern. Drink in hand, he waited. One didn’t rush a source as dependable as Wilson. The informant slanted his eyes left and right before he murmured an answer.

  ‘I think I’ve got your man.’

  The reply caused a surge of eagerness but Sin replaced his tankard with care and stabbed at random drops of ale on the tabletop to bide his time patiently. He’d received Wilson’s message late afternoon and wasted no time in arranging the meeting. Searching for a low-level miscreant like Pimms proved a dicey business, especially as the slimy predator knew he was hunted and hence perpetuated a near invisible existence. When word of a sighting circulated it was always after the fact, making retaliation too late. Worse, Pimms possessed the ability to blend into the camouflaging filth of his surroundings and subsequently disappear, a skill learned well while he wasted years in Newgate Prison.

  Sin waited then too, and upon Pimms’ release the criminal returned to his specialty of highway thievery without a lesson learned from incarceration. These facts mattered little to Sin who desired a more personal type of retribution, the variation dependent upon his mood, though all guaranteed Pimms a painful last breath.

  He cast a furtive glance around the half-full tavern. He’d practised discretion in all inquiries with little success. An unholy loyalty existed between beggars, thieves and the like dwelling in the rookeries, all willing to sell information or recant a savoury titbit if it won something of value in return. If Pimms knew of Ludlow’s untimely demise, the cur would be that much more cautious thereby making Wilson’s report crucial. As a criminal, Pimms saw the world differently, living a day-by-day existence with no plans for the future other than to wake up and seek gain.

  ‘He’s taking credit for a daring robbery in Southwark where he claims to have advanced upon the carriage of a respected dowager and her young granddaughter, stealing their purses and jewels, at once scaring the two ladies senseless.’

  Sin’s blood ran cold. He clenched his fists in his lap for lack of something, someone, to strike. Every report hammered another nail into Pimms’ coffin. Nay, the man deserved a dirt grave.

  ‘Time may be short if you’re to catch him on this soil. He’s renting a room at Blackfriars Lodging House blending in with the river pirates and smugglers, no doubt.’ Wilson continued. ‘With so many enemies he plans to buy his way onto a packet headed for America and be gone from England for good.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Sin shoved back his chair and stood, tossing a bag of coins on the table. ‘He’ll not escape Fate so easily.’ He walked away, his brain busy calculating an immediate trip to Southwark come morning.

  Vivienne sat near the fire, a novel on her lap, quiet company for the dreary day. Drizzle beat against the windowpanes in a solemn rhythm and in boredom she’d selected a volume from the study’s bookshelf only to discover it an exercise of tedium. Though she stared at the paragraphs and turned the pages occasionally, she retained no idea of the storyline, her mind consumed with the remembrance of Max’s kiss and worse, her enthusiastic response. Her heart had stuttered to life within his embrace, her only thought now to finagle a reason to visit the hell again.

  But how could such a feat be accomplished? She had no one to ask. Crispin would provide escort if she insisted, but that consideration was wrong on so many levels she refused to consider it. Besides he held a strong opinion of Max and she had no desire to listen to Crispin elaborate on everything that was wrong with the enigmatic hell owner when she firmly disagreed.

  Tomorrow she planned to volunteer with other members of The Educational Women’s League as they travelled to Southwark to visit the Marine Society. Poor young boys entered the program to be trained for a life at sea and Vivienne and the other ladies of the league dedicated afternoons in hope of teaching the uneducated men how to read before they were assigned to a vessel. Vivienne enjoyed this charity more than others, as the lads were often amusing, uncomfortable in their awkward transitional stage of gangly youth yearning for the responsibility and reputation of adulthood. Her thoughts flitted to Thomas and his insistence she call him ‘Ace’.

  ‘Vivienne?’

  Lord Huntley entered the drawing room and startled her from the memory. Placing the book on the table at her side, she rose to answer her stepfather.

  ‘There you are.’ He lent her a smile. ‘I’ve spent the better part of the morning amongst your mother’s personal belongings, in particular items she’d stored in a trunk in her dressing room yet failed to unpack when she moved here to Nettlecombe.’ He approached until he stood at her elbow. ‘I have put off the task overlong and thought you’d like to look through the collection. There may be keepsakes that hold special memories for you, along with that box I mentioned earlier.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she agreed. ‘Now would be a perfect time and with the overcast weather, it’s a good day for distraction.’

  ‘Then I’ll show you upstairs.’

  They climbed the steps in silence and moved down the hall until he paused in front of her mother’s bedchamber. His rooms were to the right with an adjoining door between the husband and wife assigned dressing rooms, the chambers designed to lie adjacent and provide passage from one to the other.

  Vivienne hadn’t revisited her mother’s bedchamber in months, emotion still very much with her. Directly after her mother’s death she’d avoided the rooms as they were cleaned and aired. Having spent endless nights tending her mother and trying unsuccessfully to ease her pain and offer comfort, Vivienne couldn’t bear resurrecting the desolate failure in the time that followed.

  Now as she crossed the threshold in her stepfather’s shadow, sadness welled deep. She blinked back a wash of tears. ‘Mother always favoured yellow.’ She forced herself to take in the room in its entirety, tidy and bright with fresh drapery and linens. A light floral scent lingered in the air unlike the cloying medicinal smells she remembered, the suffocating odour absorbed into her clothing as she sat bedside.

  ‘You must miss her terribly.’

  He didn’t turn though he stood before her. Perhaps he reminisced as well. ‘I do.’

  The topic surrendered to silence. With soft steps she continued after him, across the polished wood floor to her mother’s dressing room. Atop an oval wool rug, a heavy trunk stood open, the type used when travelling on a long journey. Vivienne remembered her mother’s optimism as the servants unpacked their luggage on moving day.

  Having grown without a father, Vivienne had viewed the move to Nettlecombe with scepticism. Her mother seemed secretive whenever she’d asked about the earl’s history, quick to reassure and suggest Vivienne look fo
rward to the new life they would have in London. She remembered many conversations focused on security, her mother worried about her daughter’s future. In contrast, Vivienne wished for her mother’s happiness above all else and was gladdened by her mother’s decision to remarry, but beyond those wishes she knew her own future waited. Residence at Nettlecombe would be temporary at best.

  She settled her eyes on the items from the trunk strewn across the inside lid and spied a particular winter bonnet her mother favoured, the white fur bright against the other articles. She leaned forward and ran her finger along the trim.

  ‘Your mother looked lovely in that hat.’ He lifted the bonnet with care. ‘You should have it.’ He extended the hat in her direction.

  ‘No.’ She wasn’t ready to face the conflicted intensity of wearing her mother’s garments. ‘I’d rather not.’ She mollified her sharp answer at her stepfather’s disapproving stare.

  ‘It suits you. How beautiful you will look with your ebony hair. Do not doubt it.’ He held his arm steady with the offering.

  ‘Thank you, but it’s not for that reason.’ She stammered, seeking to explain what would be best left unexplored. ‘I-I’m afraid it will always cause heartache by remembrance of her.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should look through these other items and see if there is something different you’d like to keep.’ He poked amongst a few more items on the lid, moving aside a small embroidered pillow to find a satin pouch hidden beneath. He untied the drawstring and emptied an emerald brooch into his palm. ‘Aah, I’ve looked for this. It wasn’t in your mother’s jewellery box when I searched earlier.’

  Vivienne followed his actions. ‘The brooch you gave Mother on your wedding day?’

  ‘Yes. She scarcely had time to unpack and get settled before she became sick.’ He frowned, but promptly replaced it with a wan smile and raised his attention from the brooch to meet her watchful stare. ‘The emeralds are almost as brilliant as your eyes.’ He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the pin’s surface. ‘You must have it now.’ When she shook her head in the negative he continued. ‘Little use it will be inside a pouch in an old trunk.’