To Seduce a Sinner (4 page)

Hartley had been a corporal in the army. One of the few men to survive the massacre of the 28th. He’d told Jasper that some traitor within the regiment had given their position to the French and their Indian allies. When Jasper had joined Hartley in searching for the traitor, they’d discovered a murderer who’d assumed the identity of one of the Spinner’s Falls fallen—Dick Thornton. Thornton—Jasper had trouble calling him anything else, though he knew it wasn’t his true name—was now in Newgate, charged with murder. But on the night they’d captured him, Thornton had claimed that he wasn’t the traitor.

Jasper nudged Belle’s flanks to guide her around a pushcart piled high with ripe fruit.

“Buy a sweet plum, sir?” the pretty dark-eyed girl next to the cart cried to him. She cocked her hip flirtatiously as she held out the fruit.

Jasper grinned appreciatively. “Not as sweet as your apples, I’ll wager.”

The fruit girl’s laughter followed him as he rode through the crowded street. Jasper’s thoughts returned to his mission. As Pynch had so rightly pointed out, Thornton was a man who told lies as a matter of habit. Hartley had certainly never voiced any doubt as to Thornton’s guilt. Jasper snorted. Then again, Hartley had been busy with a new wife, Lady Emeline Gordon—Jasper’s first fiancée.

Jasper looked up and realized that he’d come to Skinner Street, which led directly into Newgate Street. The imposing ornamental gate of the prison arched over the road. The prison had been rebuilt after the Great Fire and was suitably decorated with statues representing such fine sentiments as peace and mercy. But the closer one drew to the prison, the more ominous the stench became. The air seemed heavy, laden with the foul odors of human excrement, disease, rot, and despair.

One leg of the arch terminated in the keeper’s lodge. Jasper dismounted in the courtyard outside.

A guard lounging beside the door straightened. “Back are ye, milord?”

“Like a bad penny, McGinnis.”

McGinnis was a fellow veteran of His Majesty’s army and had lost an eye in some foreign place. A rag was wrapped about his head to hide the hole, but it’d slipped to reveal red scarring.

The man nodded and yelled into the lodge. “Oy, Bill! Lord Vale ’as come again.” He turned back to Jasper. “Bill’ll be ’ere in two ticks, milord.”

Jasper nodded and gave the guard a half crown, insurance that the mare would still be in the yard when he returned. He’d quickly figured out on his first visit to this dismal place that extravagantly bribing the guards made the entire experience much simpler.

Bill, a runty little man with a thick shock of iron-gray hair, soon came out of the lodge. He held the badge of his trade in his right hand: a large iron ring of keys. The little man hunched a shoulder at Jasper and crossed the yard to the prison’s main entrance. Here, a huge overhanging doorway was decorated with carved manacles and the biblical quote
VENIO SICUT FUR
—
I come as a thief
. Bill hunched his shoulder at the guards who stood about by the portal and led the way inside.

The smell was worse here, the air stale and unmoving. Bill trotted ahead of Jasper, through a long corridor and outside again. They crossed a large courtyard with prisoners milling around or huddled in clumps like refuse washed upon a particularly dismal shore. They passed through another, smaller building, and then Bill led the way to the stairs that emptied into the Condemned Hold. It was belowground, as if to give the prisoners a taste of the hell they would soon spend eternity in. The stairs were damp, the stone worn smooth by many despairing feet.

The subterranean corridor was dim—the prisoners paid for their own candles here, and the prices were inflated. A man was singing, a low, sweet dirge that every now and again rose on a high note. Someone coughed and low voices quarreled, but the place was mostly quiet. Bill stopped before a cell that held four occupants. One lay on a pallet in the corner, most likely asleep. Two men played cards by the light of a single flickering candle.

The fourth man leaned against the wall near the bars but straightened when he saw them.

“A lovely afternoon, isn’t it, Dick?” Jasper called out as he neared.

Dick Thornton cocked his head. “I wouldn’t know, would I?”

Jasper tsked softly. “Sorry, old man. Forgot you can’t see the sun much from in here, can you?”

“What do you want?”

Jasper regarded the man behind the bars. Thornton was an ordinary man of middling height with a pleasant, if forgettable, face. The only thing that made him stand out in the least was his flaming red hair. Thornton knew damn well what he wanted—Jasper had asked often enough in the past. “Want? Why, nothing. I’m merely passing the time, seeing the sweet sights of Newgate.”

Thornton grinned and winked, the facial expression like a strange tic he couldn’t control. “You must think me a fool.”

“Not at all.” Jasper eyed the man’s threadbare clothes. He dipped his hand in his pocket and came up with a half crown. “I think you a rapist, a liar, and a murderer many times over, but a fool? Not at all. You wrong me, Dick.”

Thornton licked his lips, watching as Jasper flipped the coin between his fingers. “Then why are you here?”

“Oh.” Jasper tilted his head and gazed rather absently at the stained stone ceiling. “I was just remembering when we caught you, Sam Hartley and I, at Princess Wharf. Terribly rainy day. Do you remember?”

“ ’Course I remember.”

“Then you may recollect that you claimed not to be the traitor.”

A crafty gleam entered Thornton’s eyes. “There’s no claim about it. I’m not the traitor.”

“Really?” Jasper dropped his gaze from the ceiling to stare Thornton in the eye. “Well, you see that’s just it. I think you’re lying.”

“If I lie, then I’ll die for my sins.”

“You’ll die anyway, and in less than a month. The law says that convicted men must be hanged within two days of their sentencing. They’re rather strict about it, I’m afraid, Dick.”

“That’s if I’m convicted at trial.”

“Oh, you will be,” Jasper said gently. “Never fear.”

Thornton looked sullen. “Then why should I tell you anything?”

Jasper shrugged. “You still have a few weeks left of life. Why not spend it with a full belly and clean clothes?”

“I’ll tell you somethin’ for a clean coat,” one of the men playing cards muttered.

Jasper ignored him. “Well, Dick?”

The red-haired man stared at him, his face blank. He winked and suddenly thrust his face at the bars. “You want to know who betrayed us to the%" yed us French and their scalping friends? You want to know who painted the earth with blood, there by that damned falls? Look at the men who were captured with you. That’s where you’ll find the traitor.”

Jasper jerked his head back as if a snake had struck. “Nonsense.”

Thornton stared a moment more and then began laughing, high, staccato barks.

“Shaddup!” a male voice from another cell yelled.

Thornton continued the odd sound, but the entire time his eyes were wide and fixed maliciously on Jasper’s face. Jasper stared stonily back. Lies or insinuated half-truths, he’d not get any more from Dick Thornton. Today or ever. He held Thornton’s gaze and deliberately dropped the coin to the floor. It rolled to the center of the passage—well out of reach of the prison cell. Thornton stopped laughing, but Jasper had already turned and was walking out of that hell-damned cellar.

She looked down at her grayish portion of boiled beef and considered how she was to tell her brother and his wife of her understanding with Lord Vale. Carefully she cut off a small piece of beef. She picked it up in her fingers and held the bite down by her skirts. Under the table, she felt a cold little nose against her hand, and then the beef was gone.

“I am so sorry to have missed Mary Templeton’s wedding,” Gertrude commented from the foot of the table. Her smooth, wide brow was marred by a single indent between her eyebrows. “Or rather, her
not
wedding, for I am sure that her mother, Mrs. Templeton, would="4„ have appreciated my presence there. I am told by many people,
many
people, that I am a comfort and a relief to those whose fortunes are in decline, and Mrs. Templeton’s fortunes are
quite
in decline at the moment, are they not? One might even say Mrs. Templeton’s fortunes are abysmal.”

She paused to take a tiny bite of boiled carrot and looked to her husband for his concurrence.

Harold shook his head. He had their father’s heavy jowls and thinning light brown hair, covered now with a gray wig. “That gel ought to be put on bread and water until she comes to her senses. Throwing over a viscount. Foolish, is what it is. Foolish!”

Gertrude nodded. “I think she must be insane.”

Harold perked up at this. He was always morbidly interested in disease. “Does lunacy run in the family?”

Melisande felt a nudge against her leg. She looked down to see a small black nose poking out from beneath the table edge. She cut off another piece of beef and held it under the table. Both nose and beef disappeared.

“I do not know if there is lunacy in that family, but I would not be surprised,” Gertrude replied. “No, not surprised at all. Of course, there is no lunacy on
our
side of the family, but the Templetons cannot say the same, I’m afraid.”

Melisande used the tines of her fork to scoot the peas to the edge of her plate, feeling rather sorry for Mary. Mary had only followed her heart, after all. She felt a paw against her knee, but this time she ignored it. “I believe that Mary Templeton is in love with the curate.”

Gertrude’s eyes widened like boiled gooseberries. “I don’t think that pertains.” She appealed to her husband. “Do you think that pertains, Mr. Fleming?”

“No, it does not pertain at all,” Harold replied predictably. “The chit had a satisfactory match, and she threw it away on a curate.” He chewed meditatively for a moment. “Vale is well rid of her, in my opinion. Might’ve brought a bad strain of insanity into his bloodline. Not good. Not good at all. Better for him to find a wife elsewhere.”

“As to that . . .” Melisande cleared her throat. She would find no better opening. Best to get it over with. “I have something I’ve been meaning to tell you both.”

“Yes, dear?” Gertrude was sawing at the lump of beef on her plate and didn’t look up.

Melisande took a deep breath and stated it bluntly, because really, there didn’t seem to be any other way to do it. Her left hand lay in her lap, and she felt the comforting touch of a warm tongue. “Lord Vale and I came to an understanding today. We are going to be married.”

Gertrude dropped her knife.

Harold choked on the sip of wine he’d taken.

Melisande winced. “I thought you should know.”

“Married?” Gertrude said. “To Lord Vale? Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale?” she clarified as if there might be another Lord Vale in England.

“Yes.”“Yesnt>

“Ah.” Harold looked at his wife. Gertrude stared back at him, quite obviously at a loss for words. He turned to Melisande. “Are you quite sure? Might you have mistaken a look or . . .” His sentence trailed away. It was probably quite hard to think of what else might be mistaken for a marriage proposal.

“I am sure,” she said quietly but clearly. Her words were steady, though her heart was singing inside. “Lord Vale said he would call upon you in three days to settle the matter.”

“I see.” Harold stared in consternation at his boiled English beef, as if it had turned to Spanish stewed squid. “Well. Then I offer my congratulations, my dear. I wish you every happiness with Lord Vale.” He blinked and looked up at her, his brown eyes uncertain. He’d never really understood her, poor man, but she knew he cared for her. “If you are sure?”

Melisande smiled at him. However little they had in common, Harold was still her brother, and she loved him. “I am.”

He nodded, though he still looked worried. “Then I shall send a missive informing Lord Vale that I will be glad to receive him.”

“Thank you, Harold.” Melisande aligned her fork and knife precisely on her plate. “Now, if you will excuse me, it’s been a long day.”

She rose from the table, conscious that the minute she exited the room, Harold and Gertrude would discuss the matter. The skitter of claws against the wood floor trailed her as she entered the dim hallway—Gertrude’s economy of candles prevailed here as well.

Their amazement was only to be expected, really. Melisande had shown no interest in matrimony for many years, not since her disastrous engagement to Timothy so long ago. Strange, to think now how devastated she’d been when Timothy had left her. All that she’d lost had been unbearable. Her emotions had been sharp and burning then, so awful that she’d thought she might die from his rejection. The pain had been physical, a deep cutting thing that had made her chest ache and her head pound. She never wanted to feel such agony again.

Melisande rounded a corner and mounted the stairs. Since Timothy, she’d had few suitors and none of them serious. Harold and Gertrude had probably long resigned themselves to her living with them for the rest of her natural life. She was grateful that they had never shown any aversion to her constant company. Unlike many spinsters, she’d not been made to feel a burden or out of place.

In the upper hall, her room was the first around a curve to the right. She shut the door, and Mouse, her little terrier, jumped onto the bed. He turned three times, then lay down on the counterpane and looked at her.

“An exhausting day for you as well, Sir Mouse?” Melisande inquired.

The dog tilted his head at her voice, his black bead eyes alert, his button ears—one white, the other brown—pricked forward. The fire was burning low in the grate, and she used a taper to light several candles around the small bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished, yet each piece was chosen carefully. The bed was narrow, but the delicately carved posts were a rich, golden brown. The counterpane was a plain white, but the sheets hidden underneath were made of the finest silk. There was only one chair in front of thshun fronte fireplace, but the arms were gilt, the seat richly embroidered in gold and purple. This was her refuge from the world. The place where she could simply be herself.

Melisande went to her desk and contemplated the pile of papers there. She was nearly done with the fairy-tale translation, but—

A knock sounded at her door. Mouse sailed off the bed and barked wildly at the door as if marauders were without.

“Hush.” Melisande toed him aside and opened the door.

A maid stood outside. She bobbed a curtsy. “Please, miss, might I have a word with you?”

Melisande raised her brows and nodded, stepping back from the door. The girl eyed Mouse, who was grumbling under his breath, and made a wide berth around the dog.

Shutting the door, Melisande looked at the maid. She was a pretty girl, with gold curls and fresh, pink cheeks, and she wore a rather elegant green printed calico gown. “Sally, isn’t it?”

The maid bobbed again. “Yes, mum, Sally from downstairs. I heard . . .” She gulped, squeezed her eyes shut, and said very quickly, “I heard that you’ll be marrying Lord Vale, ma’am, and if you do that, you’ll be leaving this house and going to live with him, and then you’ll be a viscountess, ma’am, and if you’re a viscountess, ma’am, then you’ll be needing a proper lady’s maid, because viscountesses have to have their hair and clothes just so, and begging your pardon, ma’am, but they’re not just so right now. Not”—her eyes widened, as if fearing she’d just insulted Melisande—“
not
that there’s anything wrong with your clothes or hair right now, but they’re not, not—”

“Exactly like that of a viscountess,” Melisande said dryly.

“Well, no, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am. And what I wanted to ask—and I’ll be ever so grateful if you let me, truly I will, you won’t be a wit disappointed, ma’am—is if you’d take me with you as your lady’s maid?”

Sally’s flow of words stopped abruptly. She simply stared, eyes and mouth wide, as if Melisande’s next words would decide her very fate.

Which well they might, since the difference in station between a downstairs maid and a lady’s maid was considerable. Melisande nodded. “Yes.”

Sally blinked. “Ma’am?”

“Yes. You may go with me as my lady’s maid.”

“Oh!” Sally’s hands flew up and it seemed she might grasp Melisande’s in gratitude, but then she must have thought better of it and merely waved them excitedly in the air. “Oh! Oh, thank you, ma’am! Oh, thank you! You’ll not regret it, really you won’t. I’ll be the best lady’s maid you ever did see, just you watch.”

“I’m sure you will.” Melisande opened the door again. “We can discuss your duties more thoroughly in the morning. Good night.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. Good night, ma’am.”

Sally bobbed into the hall, did a half-turn, bobbed again, and was still bobbing as Melisande shut the door.or.

“She seems a nice enough girl,” she said to Mouse.

Mouse snorted and leaped back onto the bed.

Melisande tapped him on the nose, then crossed to her dresser. A plain tin snuffbox sat on top. She briefly brushed the battered surface with her fingertips before taking out the button from where she’d hidden it in her sleeve. The silver
V
winked in the candlelight as she contemplated it.

She’d loved Jasper Renshaw for six long, long years. It must’ve been shortly after he’d returned to England that she’d attended the party where she’d met him. He hadn’t noticed her, of course. His blue-green eyes had drifted over her head as they were introduced, and shortly afterward, he’d excused himself to flirt with Mrs. Redd, a notorious and notoriously beautiful widow. Melisande had watched from the side of the ball, sitting next to a line of elderly ladies, as he’d thrown his head back and laughed with complete abandon. His neck had been strong, his mouth opened wide with mirth. He was a captivating sight, but she probably would’ve dismissed him after that as a silly, feckless aristocrat if not for what had happened several hours later.

It was after midnight, and she’d long since grown tired of the festivities. In fact, she would’ve gone home if it wouldn’t have spoiled her friend Lady Emeline’s pleasure. Emeline had bullied her into attending, for it had been over a year since the fiasco with Timothy, and Melisande’s spirits were still low. But the noise, the heat and press of bodies, and the staring of strangers had become unbearable, and Melisande had drifted away from the ballroom. She thought she’d gone in the direction of the ladies’ retiring room, until she’d heard male voices. She should’ve turned back then, crept away down the dark corridor, but one of the male voices had risen, had seemed to be
weeping,
in fact, and curiosity had gotten the better of her. She’d peered around a corner and had witnessed . . . well, a tableau.

A young man she’d never seen before leaned against a wall at the end of the corridor. He wore a white wig, beneath which was a pale and smoothly flawless complexion, save for the ruddy color in his cheeks. He was beautiful, but his head was flung back, his eyes closed, his face the picture of despair. In one hand, he grasped a bottle of wine. Next to him was Lord Vale, but a completely different Lord Vale than the man who’d spent three hours flirting and laughing in the ballroom. This Lord Vale was silent and still and listening.

Listening to the other man weep.

“They used to come to me only in my dreams, Vale,” the young man cried. “Now they come even when I wake. I see a face in a crowd, and I imagine it a Frenchie or one of those savages, come to take my scalp. I know ’tisn’t so, but I can’t convince myself. Last sennight, I struck my valet and knocked him down just because he startled me. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if it will end. I can’t rest!”

“Hush,” Vale murmured, almost as a mother would a child. His eyes were sad, his mouth twisted down. “Hush. It’ll end. I promise you, it’ll end.”

“How do you know?”

“I was there, too, wasn’t I?” Vale answered. With one hand, he took the bottle gently from the other man’s hand. “I survived and so will you. You must be strong.”

“But do you see the demons?” the young man whispered.