The Sinner Who Seduced Me Page 10

  “Really Monsieur Rougier, you are a devil,” Iris teased archly, leaning across the space that separated the carriage seats and patting him lightly on the thigh.

  Clarissa watched with disgust as James flashed a smile to match the description. Though it was well past midnight and dark within the coach, she turned her head and looked out the carriage window to distract herself from her companions.

  They’d left the leafy boundaries of the heath and arrived somewhere in London, that much she could discern. The soft, rutted roads had been replaced by cobblestone. Lamplight provided a dim view of buildings and carriages lined up here and there, but it was far too dark for Clarissa to secure her bearings.

  Oddly enough, the feeling was becoming familiar to her. She’d not known what to expect from James after their … She hardly even knew how to think on their encounter. What had begun as the sweetest of physical reunions had ended as nothing more than a mistake.

  The wheel hit a rut in the road and the carriage pitched slightly, causing Clarissa’s leg to press against James’s. She slid to the outer wall as if she’d been burned and stole a glimpse at James. He was busily engaged at the present with Iris, colorfully describing for her all that she could expect to see that evening.

  The touch had gone unnoticed. At least by James. For that matter, their night together had produced the same effect. He’d been so tender earlier, so attentive. He’d bared his heart with his touch, his thoughts with few but loving words. However, the moment their misunderstanding had been revealed, he’d shuttered himself from her and become the man she’d met in Paris.

  They’d spoken briefly before leaving Kenwood House for the Cyprians’ Ball, James explaining to Clarissa how the night should and, more important, would play out—or they’d all live to regret it. In a cold, detached tone, he’d made it relentlessly clear that the control lay within his hands. He would brook no arguments, accept nothing less than her complete compliance.

  The driver shouted at a conveyance in his path, the colorful oaths he used to encourage the man to move out of the way drawing a giggle from Iris.

  “Honestly, Monsieur St. Michelle,” Iris said excitedly, “is this not deliciously wicked? Careening about the streets of London in the middle of the night on our way to the most decadent of events?”

  James slapped Clarissa on the thigh good-naturedly. “Would you not agree, St. Michelle?” he pressed, then drew his hand back. “Oh, I’m afraid I forgot myself for a moment. Please pardonnez-moi, monsieur.”

  Clarissa rubbed the spot where James’s hand had been, her skin stinging from the forceful gesture. “I assure you, Rougier, I thought nothing of it,” she replied, knowing she did a poor job of hiding her irritation.

  “Come now, you two,” Iris coaxed. “The whole point in going to such an event is to forget yourself, is it not?”

  Clarissa had hoped that the mere idea of the Cyprians’ Ball would be scandalous enough to satisfy Iris’s need for excitement. She was beginning to think otherwise, a fear she’d shared with James before they’d departed. He’d listened with marked detachment, then assured her that he’d prepared for all scenarios. Les Moines would have more than James in attendance, a fact that was meant to ease her concerns.

  Clarissa simply nodded at Iris and offered a flat “Oui” before turning back to the window. Knowledge of the agents’ presence had produced little peace. Not that she had any illusions of escaping at the ball. Even if she managed to elude James, where would she go? Who would be able to help her against Les Moines? With her mother across the Channel in France, there was no other choice for Clarissa than to continue with the charade.

  The carriage slowed and a pool of firelight from a multitude of torches affixed to a building lit the compartment. Clarissa listened to the two as James whispered across to Iris and she responded with a practiced titter.

  Perhaps, as James had suggested, Clarissa should have left well enough alone. If she’d not let her feelings for him get in the way, she’d be in Kenwood House, tucked up in her bed with only her pillows to keep her company. While James …

  The Argyle Rooms came into view and the carriage pulled into line, drawing to a halt as they waited for the coaches in front of them to deposit their patrons on the steps and move on.

  Clarissa breathed deeply. There was no point in thinking on what would have happened had she been capable of controlling herself. There would be no going back … or was there a chance still?

  “Mademoiselle, are you certain you wish to go in?” Clarissa asked as the carriage rolled forward again before halting directly in front of the steps.

  Iris offered James and Clarissa a wide smile, her eyes dancing with anticipation. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  A liveried servant let down the carriage steps and opened the door, offering his hand. Clarissa batted it away and jumped down. “Eh, bien. En avant,” she muttered to herself, too scared to care if anyone heard her.

  “Why are we the only ones in domino?” Iris exlaimed disapointedly, as the three stood just inside the ballroom.

  She was beginning to irritate James. “We cannot afford for you to be seen,” he answered. “Besides, it makes you all the more mysterious, non?” He adjusted his ridiculous mask yet again and looked at the girl. Her dress was Grecian in style, with a bodice that dipped nearly to her navel and an iridescent mask that covered more of her identity than the dress did her body. Clarissa’s concern that Iris might want more than mere titillation had been correct—though James could have puzzled it out for himself. The girl’s advances when she’d accosted him in his bedchamber had left no room for speculation. He rather thought they’d be lucky to leave with her virginity intact—and that would be, if the rumors concerning the Cyprians’ Ball were even half true, a hard-fought war.

  Iris smiled teasingly, clearly pleased with James’s answer, then looked to the dance floor. James turned to look at the crowd. At first glance, it appeared much like any other ball, civilized, even mundane. The orchestra played the same plodding tunes. The couples performed the familiar tired steps. But as one looked closer, what set the Cyprians’ Ball apart from the acceptable ton events began to become clear. The women were uniformly beautiful—no homely wallflowers or beefy grande dames to be found among them. But more than that, they exuded a sexual sophistication that was unique to the courtesan. Prostitutes, though able to complete the job, tended toward mechanical movements—hardly surprising considering the surly lot they served. Wives, on the other hand, from what James had been led to believe, were chaste—something to be worshipped rather than poked.

  But the courtesan? She took her art seriously. It was, after all, a means of moving up in the world for the women. Wealth, power, and a certain prestige belonged to the woman who landed the richest of those men who played the game.

  James could see the allure and had even sampled their wares, but he preferred his fun without games.

  James watched as the music ended and a few couples slipped from the dance floor, disappearing down a number of hallways that extended from the main ballroom.

  “Where are they going?” Iris asked, taking her third glass of champagne from a passing servant.

  James refused a glass and waved the man off. “You don’t want to know,” he replied dramatically, hoping that Iris would simply giggle again and let the matter lie.

  She threw back the champagne, coughing when the last of it hit her throat. “Monsieur St. Michelle, perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me?”

  Clarissa remained calm, though James could see that she was nervous. She’d hardly said a word since they’d arrived and had spent most of her time staring at the floor.

  She cleared her throat then addressed Iris. “Mademoiselle Bennett, it is enough that we are here, oui?”

  “No, it is not,” Iris replied sharply as she seductively smoothed the silken skirt of her dress. “We had a bargain, you and I. You’ll do well to remember. Now, let us join the party.”
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  She tilted her chin in the air and set sail for the dance floor, with James and Clarissa behind.

  “Dance with her,” Clarissa furiously whispered to James as she held her mask protectively to her face.

  James thought the mask did wonders for her—or perhaps it was the other way around? He couldn’t make out her violet eyes, and her delicate winged eyebrows were completely hidden from view. Those eyes, brimming with heat and vulnerability, her brow, gently furrowed as she’d struggled with her words the previous night—well, she’d undone him, that was the truth of it.

  “Why should it be me? You’re a perfectly acceptable dancer from the little that I recall,” he countered, watching as the men in attendance began to notice Iris.

  He’d not been completely blameless. Since holding her in his arms on the voyage from France, his resolve had begun to crumble. Putting Pettibone in his place at the lakeside had restored some of the strength that he’d lost to Clarissa. He hadn’t even realized it until he’d nearly throttled the man.

  He’d stormed into her room intent on showing her who was in charge. And then he’d promptly fallen to his knees and asked—nay, begged—for his heart to be broken yet again.

  “But you are accustomed to dancing the man’s part. I am not. It only makes sense,” Clarissa hissed, slowing as a man approached Iris.

  He was tall and elegantly dressed; a man with a title—not, from the looks of it, a second son. His black hair was long and tied back in a queue. Rather old-fashioned to James’s way of thinking, but Iris did not seem to mind. She startled at the feel of the man’s hand as it wound about her upper arm and pulled her in toward his chest. And then she looked up into his face and smiled, tittering again when he whispered something in her ear. He handed her his glass of champagne and she greedily guzzled it, causing the man to gently applaud.

  “I assure you, I will expire if the girl laughs one more time. Mark my words,” Clarissa said, her lip curling with disgust.

  The man gestured toward the dance floor and pulled Iris forward. She happily obliged, following the stranger onto the marble flooring, where a waltz had just begun.

  “Follow me,” James commanded, stalking around a line of potted palms and heading toward the north end of the room. To her credit, Clarissa followed closely behind and said nothing, simply turned when needed and stopped when told.

  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.