The Sinner Who Seduced Me Page 11

  Wishing he’d had more time to question the woman, James finished his eggs and sat back, savoring his coffee. A name would help, but the face was a start. And a damn sight more than he’d managed since arriving back in England.

  Bennett finished perusing the morning paper and folded it crisply in half before setting it on the table. “Well, Iris, I must say that you’re a lucky girl to not be allowed out amongst society yet. That Sutter Ball last night was awful.”

  Iris cringed at the sound of her father’s cheerful voice. “Really, Father. How could a ball be anything but grand?”

  Bennett looked to James for a show of solidarity. “Rougier, can you think of anything ‘grand’ about a ball? Honestly, I almost fell asleep while talking with Lord … Well, I can’t remember his name, which should tell you something.”

  James smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve little experience when it comes to balls, monsieur.”

  “I see you’re a lucky one as well,” Bennett replied, gesturing for the servant to bring him more coffee. “It’s ‘deuced’ boring—now, did I say that correctly? I heard one of the gardeners use the term and have been looking for the opportunity to trot it out. Tried several times last night but none of the ‘bacon-brained’ lords and ladies batted an eye.”

  Iris finished her tea and set the china cup down. “Father,” she began, holding her hand over the cup when the servant attempted to refill it. “Surely balls in England are no worse than the assemblies we attend in Halifax, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would not,” he replied resolutely. “At least in Canada my money is good for something. Here, it may get me in the door, but—”

  “Father,” Iris interrupted, “there’s no need to shout. It will simply take a bit of time, you’ll see,” she reassured him, smiling weakly.

  Bennett drained his cup and returned it to its saucer. “Not too long, I hope, my girl. You’d best be getting on with catching a suitor—hunting season has started back home, you know,” he advised, playfully pinching her cheek. “Though you’ll never manage, looking like that,” he added, belatedly noticing his daughter’s pallid appearance. “Have Daphne help you with some of those pots of rouge that your mother and you seem so fond of. St. Michelle may be the best portrait artist of his time, but you need to look lively for him.”

  Iris nodded in agreement, though the effort seemed to only rattle her aching head further.

  “Perhaps some food would do you good?” James proposed innocently, enjoying Iris’s discomfort far more than he should. “A portion of bacon and eggs? Stewed prunes?”

  Iris’s hand flew to her stomach and she swallowed hard. “No, that’s not necessary.”

  “Then I suggest you employ Daphne’s assistance with your …” Mr. Bennett paused, gesturing vaguely in the general vicinity of Iris’s ashen face “… appearance and quickly. St. Michelle sent word that he’ll require your presence directly following breakfast. I do believe he intends to begin painting the portrait today. Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  “Non, we do not want to keep St. Michelle waiting,” James agreed, finishing off the last of his coffee and standing.

  Iris squeezed her eyes shut as the servant pulled her chair back from the table, hesitating before she opened them and stood. “No, we would not want that.”

  Clarissa arranged Iris’s skirts about her and stood back, critically eyeing the scene. “Mon dieu. You look dreadful.”

  Iris surveyed the deep burgundy upholstered settee that had been chosen specifically for the portrait. “Is it the color of my dress? I thought the pale cream would complement the settee perfectly.”

  “Non, it’s not the dress—it’s you,” Clarissa said candidly, moving to smear a bit of the rouge from the girl’s cheeks.

  Iris rolled her eyes in response. “Yes, everyone seems all too eager to agree on my dreadful appearance.”

  “Well, the rouge isn’t helping. Rougier, hand me that bit of cloth, s’il vous plaît,” Clarissa asked, pointing to her table where a clean rag sat.

  Clarissa ventured to guess that she herself felt much the same as Iris looked. Though she hadn’t taken one sip of champagne last night, she wished she had—the comfort of an incomplete memory would surely be preferable to the ache in her heart and head that still lingered.

  James handed her the rag and resumed his seat near the door, not bothering to say a word.

  The worst part was that he managed it so easily. It would be one thing if he appeared to struggle with torturing her, even a little. But the man seemed made for the task. The ache worsened. But Clarissa had devised a plan for this very situation while lying in bed last night. At the first sign of her emotions threatening to get the better of her, she decided to picture herself stomping on James. More specifically, his head. The action would drive him into the ground until nothing was left—not even a hair.

  She’d slept very little. She’d read and reread the letters from her mother, a new one having been delivered by Pettibone that very day. And when that had done little to ease her mind, she’d relived every emotional occurrence involving James, from the early days of their blossoming love to the previous evening, when he’d made it clear that they’d come to an end. Each memory was followed by the swift, purposeful image of James being driven into the ground by Clarissa’s own feet, until the overwhelming desire to cry turned into a sense of satisfaction.

  She’d gone so far as to alter his facial expressions from scene to scene. More often than not he appeared angry, but occasionally terrified, and in more than one scene apologetic. Clarissa felt sure her mother would call such behavior childish. But it was preferable to winding herself about a pillow and crying until she thought she would perish.

  Clarissa set to work distractedly scrubbing Iris’s face. Childish? Absolutely, she thought guiltily. But it was progress.

  “Ow!” Iris squeaked, pulling Clarissa from her thoughts.

  “Pardonnez-moi,” Clarissa offered, tossing the rouge-soiled rag into a porcelain container near her feet. She walked to her waiting easel and took up a brush, readying to make the first strokes.

  “Monsieur St. Michelle,” Iris said.

  Clarissa dipped the brush into the paint and faced the canvas. “Mademoiselle, it is imperative that you retain the pose.” She knew Iris’s face well enough by now that, in all honesty, the girl could have sung an aria without it impeding Clarissa’s progress. But she preferred silence when working and did not care to argue the point.

  “It’s just that,” the girl continued, clearly ignoring Clarissa’s request, “well, the truth is, I remember very little from last night. I was hoping you would be willing to fill in the gaps.”

  Clarissa glared at James, then nodded toward Iris, indicating that she would not be the one to answer her. She’d learned her lesson and wasn’t about to fabricate another story just to please the girl. Besides, it was a bit lazy of James to not have had the discussion with Iris already, wasn’t it?

  The mental stomping was working. Clarissa felt more annoyance toward James, less heartache.

  James uncrossed his legs and laid his book on the table. “I find that hard to believe, Miss Bennett,” he said, eyeing her with a wicked grin. “You were, as they say, the toast of the evening. Never have I seen a woman enjoy herself more than you did at the Cyprians’ Ball.”

  He retrieved the book and began to page through it, apparently in search of where he’d left off.

  “Really?” Iris asked, a hint of natural color blooming on her skin. “Please, do tell me more.”

  James abruptly closed the book.

  Clarissa hid behind her canvas and stifled a laugh. The stomping was sheer genius, she decided. Really, why had she not thought of it before?

  “Well, what do you remember?” he countered, drumming his fingers on the volume’s heavy leather binding.

  Iris relaxed into the settee and cleared her throat. “The champagne, that I’ll never forget. And the carriage ride to the ball—sneaking out of Kenwood
House was quite thrilling! And a man—tall, dark hair,” she murmured, her voice taking on a soft quality. She looked beyond James’s shoulder, her eyes unfocused as though she was reliving the bits that her champagne-addled brain was able to remember.

  James pushed the book from his lap. It hit the oak floor with a loud thwack, startling Iris.

  “Oh,” she continued, narrowing her eyes in concentration, “and dancing. I do believe that I danced.”

  James bent to retrieve the book and returned it to the table. “Oh, oui, indeed you danced. And enjoyed three games of Pope Joan—winning every hand, I might add. In fact,” he paused, whetting the girl’s appetite for the finale, “one of the men in attendance—rumored to be none other than the Duke of Pinehurst—accused you of cheating. We had to run for our lives and very narrowly escaped. The night was everything St. Michelle promised it would be. You couldn’t have asked for more.”

  Iris was discernibly pleased. So was James, who settled back into his chair and retrieved the book for the third time.

  Clarissa picked up her brush and dipped it in the turpentine, swishing it back and forth in preparation for fresh paint.

  “Oh, but I can.”

  Clarissa peered around the canvas at Iris, noting with no small measure of displeasure that the girl’s foot was tapping. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Bennett?”

  “I was promised a night of excitement.” Iris focused on adjusting the length of her formal gloves. “And while I do believe you, I cannot recall what are clearly the most adventurous parts. Therefore, I will require a second evening.”

  James closed the volume with a sharp thud of controlled restraint. “But we had an agreement.”

  “Precisely. And if I cannot remember the experience, then it’s as if it never happened at all.”

  “It is hardly our fault that you drowned yourself in champagne,” Clarissa pointed out, pulling the brush from the pitcher and walking around the canvas to face Iris.

  “How dare you take such a tone with me, monsieur,” Iris bit back, her indignation rising. “You’ll do well to remember that you are here at my request. I could just as easily send you back to France—”

  “Vraiment, mademoiselle?” Clarissa ground out, raising her brush accusingly.

  James strode across the floor and took Clarissa by the elbow in silent warning, restraining her from any further threats. “Miss Bennett, if we were to agree to such terms, what assurances would we have that you would follow through?”

  “Ten percent of what my father’s paying you for the portrait—paid up front,” she replied, adding at the last moment, “and I’ll require two outings. Your choice, though I suggest you give it some thought.”

  Clarissa opened her mouth to vehemently protest but James squeezed her elbow, hard.

  “Done, Miss Bennett,” he replied, continuing to hold tightly to Clarissa.

  Iris gave Clarissa a superior stare then took up her pose.

  Clarissa forcibly willed the tension from her body and shrugged her shoulders. James released her elbow and she seized the opportunity, purposefully waving the turpentine-soaked brush closer to Iris as she turned to walk back to the easel.

  “Oh,” Iris whispered faintly, followed by a strangled “no.”

  Clarissa looked over her shoulder just as the girl lunged for the rag container and cast up her accounts.

  “I see. And you’re certain? Because he looks tired, non?”

  The groom cinched the girth strap on the fine leather saddle and patted the bay’s neck. “Winston here’s just come off two days in the pasture. He’ll do you just fine.”

  Clarissa eyed the horse critically, walking around to face him head-on. The gelding startled but quieted under the groom’s confident hand. “I wonder, can he see me?”

  “Do you ride much back in France, monsieur?” the man asked, gesturing for Clarissa to take two steps to her right.

  Clarissa acquiesced. “No, pourquoi?”

  The groom smiled. “Well, Winston’s eyes are here and here,” he began, slowly raising his hand in front of one and then the other. “To come at a horse straight on is dangerous, as their eyes can’t possibly see there.”

  “Oui,” Clarissa replied quietly, then reached for the reins. “A leg, if you will?”

  The groom waited for Clarissa to place her left foot in the iron then took her right foot and hoisted her onto the back of the large Thoroughbred.

  “Shall we?” James asked, turning his dappled gray around in the barn aisle.

  Clarissa awkwardly negotiated Winston toward the door and nodded.

  The groom slapped Winston on the hindquarters and smirked at James. “Enjoy your ride.”

  James chuckled low in his throat and tipped his hat to the man, then trotted after Clarissa.

  Clarissa attempted to slow Winston with a yank on the reins, succeeding in making him come to a complete stop.

  “Do not draw the reins to your chin,” James suggested as he easily caught up with her. “And an easy tug will do it. Too hard and Winston may well dump you on the ground.”

  Clarissa nudged Winston into a slow walk, continuing to clutch the reins as though her life depended on it. “You know that I deplore riding.”

  “You hate riding sidesaddle, Clarissa,” James answered as he pointed his gray toward the heath. “This is altogether different. And I needed to guarantee our privacy.”

  The only place he felt their privacy was completely secure within Kenwood House was Clarissa’s room, and he wasn’t about to set foot within the chamber again after their heated reunion.

  They reached the edge of the Kenwood House property and crossed over onto the heath, the line of willow trees demarcating the two properties. The lush green and wooded expanse afforded the necessary seclusion.

  James kneed the gray even with Winston and settled into a slow walk. “Well, aren’t you going to ask?”

  “Pray, do tell me what I’m meant to be so curious about,” Clarissa replied, continuing to fidget with the reins.

  James dropped his own and set about arranging the leather properly in her hands, looping each in its place. “To begin with, why I insisted on riding while Iris rested.”

  “I assumed you wished to torture me,” Clarissa answered dryly, her gaze fixed on Winston’s ears.

  “Hardly,” James assured her, “though you should be reprimanded for the turpentine.”

  Clarissa made a throaty sound of disagreement. “The girl deserved it. Insolent child in search of something bright and shiny, that’s our Ms. Bennett. She’s no idea what’s at stake—”

  “Precisely. She’s no idea, nor should she. Without her the game is lost—and your mother along with it,” James reminded her gravely. “We cannot forget our places, not for one moment.”

  Clarissa’s jaw clenched, the tense muscles just beneath her ear visible from where James sat. But she remained silent. No outbursts, no arguments. James hesitated, not sure how to proceed.

  “Of course you’re right. I apologize.”

  James didn’t know what Clarissa was playing at, but he felt sure it was dangerous. “Clarissa, I am deadly serious. You cannot think to—”

  “I understand, James. I should not have provoked Iris. It will not happen again,” she interrupted, turning to look at him.

  Her eyes held no fire, no anger readying to strike. Just calm, cool resignation.

  “Good. I’m glad that we understand each other,” he replied, nearly asking rather than asserting. “So you see why I agreed to the additional outings? We can hardly afford to lose Iris’s cooperation.”

  Not to mention the fact that he’d hoped to draw more Les Moines agents out with each event, though he wouldn’t share such sensitive information with her.

  James didn’t know why he’d forced the issue at that very moment. Perhaps he needed a glimpse of the Clarissa he remembered.

  She leaned over to adjust a stirrup. “There’s no need for me to understand, James. My duty is to complete the portra
it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  James ground his teeth and reached to massage his jaw. “That’s not entirely true. I’ll need your help with Iris’s excursions.”

  “What on earth for? Surely Pettibone can provide you with whatever it is that you need?”

  It was a pity that she knew Pettibone’s identity, James thought, but there was nothing that could be done about it now. At least Clarissa assumed that he and James were working closely together, which only strengthened James’s tie to Les Moines in her eyes. “Iris trusts you. We do not have time to introduce a third person into our scandalous scheme. She’d suspect something was amiss.”

  “I induced vomiting in the girl—”

  “Don’t do it again,” James interrupted, cutting Clarissa’s excuse short. “And an apology will be needed.”

  He waited for her to lose her head. Actually physically lose her head—for Clarissa, as he knew all too well, did not apologize when she believed herself to be in the right.

  “I’ll do so directly.” Her words were terse, uttered in a clipped tone. “Now, I believe a canter is in order.”

  And without a backward glance, she kicked Winston into motion and took off toward an empty field, barely holding on to her seat.

  James wondered at the sense of disappointment he felt at receiving exactly what he wanted. Then realized her dead body could hardly paint Iris’s portrait, and took off after her.

  Pettibone heard Daphne’s quick, efficient footfalls as she entered the orangery. He didn’t bother to look back at her, but instead kept his eyes fixed on the disappearing forms of Lady Clarissa and Marlowe as they rode toward the heath.

  “Yes,” he said, taking one last look and then turning toward the girl.

  Daphne smiled and bobbed a quick curtsy. “I just heard a choice bit of news from my lady—thought that you might like to know. Seems the artist and his friend have agreed to take her on the town twice more.”

  Pettibone fingered the crisp, green leaf of an orange tree standing in an ornate planter to his right, plucking it loose. “Where, precisely?”