The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) (32 page)

She reached deep for the courtesan manner Sebastian had taught her. Her hair, her cosmetics, her jewelry all altered her—as had so many things in the three years since she’d last seen her friend. It would have to be enough.

She met his eyes with the sauciest look she could muster, her head tilted at a coquettish angle Rachel Covington would never have dared use. “Forgive me, monsieur,” she said, still in French, for the sake of the Spanish nobleman who was overhearing their conversation. “I believe you have me confused with someone else.” For Mr. Rapson’s sake, though, she winked, and saw him flinch slightly. Rachel had never winked. And the Reverend Mr. Rapson had never been a man anyone winked at.
Dear God
, what was he doing here? “My name is Salomé Mirabeau.”

Mr. Rapson looked confused for a moment, but then his eyes gleamed thoughtfully, and he gave a gracious bow. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Mirabeau,” he returned, in equally excellent French. “I have heard of you, but we have not met before now. It’s just that you remind me, quite forcefully, of someone I knew long ago.”

“How delightfully charming,” she answered. “And intriguing. How I’d love to hear more about this lady who resembles me. She was very beautiful, of course.”

Mr. Rapson colored slightly, but he did not give their game away. “Of course.”

Rachel turned to the Spaniard and curtsied. “Forgive me, Don Andrés,” she said, in Spanish now, “but I would like to speak with this gentleman, who will tell me so many delicious things about my beauty. I will speak to him alone, if you don’t mind, and seek you out again later. ” She gave Don Andrés’s hand a playful squeeze, a squeeze with as much sensual promise as she could put into it.

“Of course, I mind,
cara
Salomé,” said the Spaniard, but he kissed her hand obediently, and backed away. “Yet, I must bow to your will, if you wish to dismiss me. Such is ever the fortune of a loving, loyal heart like mine.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Mr. Rapson, switching to Spanish with equal ease, and entering into the deception with surprising fervor. “Love is well known to be cruel to the true of heart.”

Mr. Rapson watched the Spaniard go, then turned to look back at her, wonderment still plain on his face. “It
is
you,” he repeated, whispering, “isn’t it?
Sarah
?”

“Shh!” she said, her heart fluttering, and took his forearm to guide him a little distance away, where they would not so easily be overheard. “Yes,” she replied quietly, hoping it sounded like an admission, not a lie. She gave him a sultry smile.

“I’m sorry for blurting out your name just now,” said Mr. Rapson, very low. “I was caught by surprise, that’s all, suddenly seeing you again, after so many years. I should have addressed you as Mademoiselle Mirabeau from the start.”

“You—
knew
of Salomé?”

He glanced down at her rather scandalous gown now, with all its vulgar display of her bosom, and blanched and brought his eyes quickly upward again. “I am aware of what mode of life you have been obliged to follow these past few years.” A flush began inching its way up from his neckcloth. “Please understand I’ve never judged you for it. I know the London streets offer few choices for—for a young woman with no family to protect her.”

Regardless of his gentle words, her cheeks flamed. She fought to tamp down her embarrassment. She had to be Salomé, to protect both herself and him. “You must pretend to be flirting with me,” she scolded him, playfully tapping at his forearm with her fan. “People may not be able to hear us, but they are watching.”

“
Flirting
?” Mr. Rapson blinked, looking rather alarmed.

“Surely you’ve learned how by now. A handsome young man, suddenly in possession of a fortune—women must flock to you.”

The flush had reached his cheekbones now. “That is not within my repertoire, I’m afraid.”

“Then you will ruin my reputation. For me to be seen talking seriously with a clergyman, I would lose every client I have.”

His brows drew together, a pained expression on his face. “Great heaven, Sarah. None of that will be necessary now. Don’t you understand?”

“Whisper,” she reminded him in an undertone. “And try to smile. Regardless of my profession, these are uncertain times for an Englishman in Spain. If you look too serious, rumors will spread that you are here for reasons other than pleasure. That you are perhaps a spy.”

His eyes widened in astonishment at the idea, but he lowered his voice still further. “Please, listen,” he said. “Rachel and I looked for you, for a very long time after you left your great-aunts’ home. When I came to London, I kept at it, hoping that somehow you were still alive. My deepest regret is that I did not find you sooner. So that your choices might have been . . . well,
other than they were
.”

“My life has been complicated,” she answered, with the sort of archness Salomé should use, and hoped he would leave it at that. “And
you
are still not flirting.”

“Of course I am not.”

“Here, I will help you with a mild sort of question a flirtatious woman would ask: what about
you
, Mr. Rapson?” She waved her fan to indicate his snowy neckcloth, its linen far finer than anything he could have afforded when she knew him before. “Clearly, your life is not what it was when I left home. I am fascinated to hear more.”

“Please, my friend. Don’t make a game of me. It is unworthy of us both.”

Shame twisted in her gut. She’d become all too used to feigning and lying. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be the person she used to be with her good-hearted tutor. How very different it was from talking to Sebastian, who seemed to know nothing but deception and irony and evasion and games.

The temptation to tell him who she really was became almost unbearable.

“Forgive me,” she said sincerely.

Mr. Rapson’s vexation lasted only a moment more, and then he gave a little rueful laugh. “You know I always will. And you are quite right. My life has changed nearly as much as yours. Fortune has been strange to both of us, I suppose.”

“Tell me. I do want to know, truly. What has Fortune inflicted on you?”

“This title I now hold. It belonged to an uncle of mine—a great-uncle, once removed. I scarcely knew he existed. He had two sons, four grandsons, more than enough insurance against fate.” Mr. Rapson’s expression grew somber. “But within the past two years, a house fire took one son and two of the grandsons. The other son died of a fever, and the remaining two grandsons were lost together in a sailing accident less than a year ago—a sudden storm off the coast of Cornwall.” He looked down at his feet, abashed. “That was a morbid recitation, I’m afraid. But I find I am Lord Fairholme now, and I do what I can to pray for the souls of those who should have held the title in my stead.”

How very like Mr. Rapson to see things that way. For all his poverty, Mr. Rapson had never desired riches or power, merely the freedom to study his books as many hours a day as he wished without starving outright.

He looked up and directly into her eyes now, a particularly earnest look on his face. “Have you heard anything of Rachel? She left home while I was away in London, just before the news of my inheritance came to me. I’ve searched and searched for her after she left Rookshead, but she seems to have vanished into the ether. I must believe she left a letter for me with the Reverend Cadwallader before she went away, but he denied its existence and would tell me nothing about where she’d gone. His mind had long been poisoned against her.”

Rachel had to school her face to hide the relief she felt at those words. Sebastian had been wrong: Mr. Rapson hadn’t forgotten about her, or Sarah. He’d tried to find them
both
. But his very sincerity, his very
decency
, meant she could not be honest with him now. He would be unable to keep her secrets. Her disguise as Salomé Mirabeau had never felt so stiff, so heavy. “My rebellion cannot have helped her case,” she said. “Imagine if Mr. Cadwallader had learned what came after the running away—how fully I immersed myself in sin.”

Mr. Rapson nodded ruefully. “Your aunts and the Reverend never forgave your defiance. Though you must believe me, Sarah—I did. I understood what you were running from. False piety. Discipline without mercy, religious observance without true spiritual intent.” His eyes shone with their old familiar kindness. She remembered all that she had valued about him. His intelligence, his seriousness, his efforts to make moral distinctions that truly mattered.

An odd thought flashed into her mind: if she’d brought those papers with her tonight, the ones with the black symbols, she could have Mr. Rapson’s help in deciphering them. Of course, she could never show him such sensitive documents. But the idea tempted her far more intensely than she could have imagined. Allies were proving to be few and far between out here. “Thank you,” she said. “Your understanding matters more to me than you can know.”

“You have it, always.” For a moment, his fingers stretched towards hers as though he might take her hand, but he let his own fall to his side again. He had always been so careful with her and Sarah. Always so proper. “But neither of us has found Rachel.”

It was not hard to bring a genuine look of regret into her eyes. “We never spoke again after the day I left home. I—I never told her where I was.” Her face flushed, though she hoped her friend would attribute her rising color to feelings of guilt rather than pain. “I was ashamed of the life I had come to lead.” Just saying the words, was oddly soothing. To have to face Mr. Rapson, kind as he was, and speak of the life of Salomé Mirabeau, made it clearer to her why Sarah hadn’t wanted to contact anyone from her old life.

“You need not remain in this life, you know,” said Mr. Rapson gently. “Redemption is always possible. It is never too late.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rapson. I mean, Lord Fairholme.” She could not resist grinning at him. “It will take some getting used to, calling you that.”

“It has taken some getting used to responding to it, believe me. I feel perfectly ridiculous to myself. And it’s strange for me, trying to call you Miss Mirabeau.”

“I would much prefer that you call me Sarah,” she said, feeling a twinge of guilt at the continued lie.

“Do you still study the ancient languages?” he asked suddenly.

“I do.”

He beamed. “I am very glad to hear that. It assures me there is great promise for you yet.”

“I hope there is.” She smiled at him again, and all at once the oddness of their situation struck her in full force. “I cannot express how lovely it is to see you again. But why on earth are you in Spain? At a time like this?”

He cocked his head at her, a puzzled expression on his face. “But don’t you understand? Sarah, I came here for
you
.”

“You what?”

“I came to Spain looking for you. All those years when I searched, as a poor curate, I could find nothing. Every door slammed in my face. But you cannot imagine the difference holding a title can make—not to mention having gold in one’s purse. As I learned from other peers about the way they lived their lives, the debaucheries in which they engaged, it occurred to me that perhaps there were other avenues in which I might search for you beyond orphanages and workhouses. I began to ask about women fitting your description who . . . well,
labor
in your profession. When I spoke of the color of your hair, and your eyes, several men mentioned the name of Salomé Mirabeau, and I hoped, and I prayed—” He broke off, clearly embarrassed, but then his smile beamed. “And my prayers have been answered. You are here—and alive. How ironic that it should turn out to be easier to find you than to find Rachel.”

Oh, far more ironic than you think, my friend
.

“Yes,” she said, “I am here. But you should not be. Napoleon is on his way, and you cannot possibly hope to pass as Spanish or French. This place is full of very bad sorts, and you are—”

Mr. Rapson gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “A bookish curate. Yes, I know.”

“I don’t mean to insult you. I honor your virtue, believe me, and your courage in coming after me. But I am not worth the risk to your safety.”

“Sarah! You know as well as I do that virtue cannot hide safe at home and call itself virtue. Of course I came to find you. Nothing could have prevented me.”

“How did you even you even learn I was in Spain?”

“Lord Henry Walters. He told me.”

Her flesh chilled. “Lord Henry Walters?” So that’s why she’d seen them together at the Countess of Leeds’s ball. They’d been talking about her, or rather, about Sarah. Spain was dangerous enough for the unworldly clergyman, but Lord Henry Walters—of the razor-sharp fencing blades and mercurial anger—posed far too great a threat for him to safely handle.

“Several people told me he knows everyone, and indeed he knew of you, and had seen you just days before, and understood that you were heading here. Thanks to him, I’ve found you.”

Good Lord
. Mr. Rapson was like a child walking too near the kitchen fire, oblivious to the danger. Thank heaven Lord Henry was still on British shores.

But the clergyman seemed oblivious to his peril. He grinned at her, purely happy. “You can come home now, Sarah. To England. To your true self. We will find Rachel, and this money that has come to me will bring freedom to us all.”