The Sinner Who Seduced Me Read online

  “Un beau soir pour aller nager, oui?” one of the men called out, the other crewmen responding to his sally with hearty laughter as they shipped their oars.

  A lovely evening for a swim, James silently repeated the man’s words in English, grinding his teeth with the effort it took to keep from snarling a reply. He walked to the water’s edge and stepped in, the wet sand sucking at his boots as he waded through the surf to the waiting boat.

  “Merriment not from you, Marlowe?” the man asked in broken English as he offered James his hand.

  James hauled himself up into the small skiff, the boat rocking as he took a seat near the bow. “The emeralds are gone,” he growled in French, hardly having the patience for Morel’s butchering of his mother tongue.

  “Oh,” Morel replied matter-of-factly in his sailors’ patois. “They’ll likely kill you, then. It was a pleasure knowing you.”

  A second rousing chorus of laughter broke out as the men lowered their oars and began to row. Morel pounded James on the back with a beefy hand. “I am joking, of course. Dixon and his men will see to the emeralds.”

  James knew Morel was wrong. There was no way the traitorous Mr. Dixon could retrieve the emeralds—now that they were in the possession of the Corinthians. Still, James saw no benefit in answering the man either way, so he simply nodded and looked out toward the waiting ship that would take him to France.

  “Still, if I were you,” Morel suggested, “I would give some thought to explaining yourself. Your aristocratic English face will only get you so far.”

  As if on cue, Morel’s motley gang erupted in rough laughter once again.

  “How long is the crossing to France?” James asked, ignoring Morel’s comment.

  “Twelve hours. Anxious to be rid of your country?”

  James deducted twelve hours from the coming months it would take to bring down Les Moines. The sale of the emeralds had been intended to fund Napoleon’s fight. With the jewels now in safe hands, James was that much closer to slapping the hell out of the organization.

  “Something like that.”

  “Clarissa, do sit down.” Isabelle Collins, daughter of the Comte de Tulaine, the estranged wife of Robert Collins, the Marquess of Westbridge, and Clarissa’s beloved mother patted the space next to her on the gold settee.

  “Mother, please,” Clarissa groaned. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass panes of the window. Below, Parisian society strolled past 123 rue de la Fontaine, blissfully unaware of the tempest of emotion within Clarissa and Isabelle’s home. “How you can sit still is beyond me.”

  “I am hungry and thirsty. Now, do come and sit, chérie.”

  Clarissa lifted her head and turned, taking in her mother’s somber face. “We are in danger—Bernard is in danger,” she began, sitting down and taking the offered cup of tea. “I’ve been to the studio, his home. He is nowhere to be found.”

  “Not even at the tavern?” Isabelle asked in a whisper.

  Clarissa reached for a fourth sugar cube and pitched it into the cup. “No,” she replied grimly, “not even the tavern.”

  “I feel sure Monsieur St. Michelle would not want to involve you further.” Isabelle patted Clarissa’s arm reassuringly, though her darkened eyes betrayed her concern.

  Clarissa returned her cup to the silver tray with a snap, the sweetened brew sloshing over the sides and onto the plate of biscuits. “But I am involved—we are involved, Mother. Those horrible men threatened both of us. I’ve no idea how, but they knew I was there, as if they’d been watching Bernard’s studio.”

  Isabelle traced the rim of her delicate cup with the tip of her forefinger, frowning in thought. “Chérie, could they not have heard your footsteps?”

  “Even so, how did they know of you?” Clarissa countered.

  “What young woman does not possess a mother?”

  Unable to sit still, Clarissa rose from the settee and began to pace the plush carpet. Her muslin skirts swirled about her ankles, echoing her agitation. “Mother, this is all too coincidental. I cannot believe their knowledge can be explained so easily.”

  Isabelle gently set her cup and saucer on the tray, then cleared her throat. “Clarissa, chérie, there is no need to be so dramatic.”

  “On the contrary—this is hardly my emotions at play,” Clarissa countered, clasping her hands behind her back as she stalked the length of the room and back.

  She was afraid. Deep within her bones, she was terrified, and for good reason. Her mother’s response, however, was hardly surprising. Before they had left London to live in France, Isabelle could not have been a more doting mother, loving wife, and caring friend. Her beauty and charm were matched only by the love she lavished on all those fortunate enough to be in her life.

  And then her husband’s flagrant affair came to light. The other woman was never identified, nor would Clarissa’s father deny or confirm, but the damage was done all the same. Isabelle shut tight her heart and escaped into herself, choosing existence over emotion, the safety of distance over the danger of involvement.

  Her father’s betrayal had destroyed Clarissa as well, though her response could not have been more different from her mother’s. She was enraged. She was embittered. She craved revenge.

  For Clarissa, the betrayal was twofold, with the most important men in her life disappointing her in the worst way. For just as her father had set light to the happiness and security of her well-fashioned world, James had seen fit to burn it to the ground. James Marlowe, youngest son of the Baron of Richmond, the love of Clarissa’s life, had destroyed her world as surely as her father had set fire to Isabelle’s.

  “My dear,” Isabelle said in a controlled tone, interrupting Clarissa’s thoughts. “Let us not quarrel yet again on this point.”

  Clarissa stopped pacing and moved quickly to her mother, dropping to her knees. “Maman, we are different, you and I—this you know all too well. You find weakness in love. I find my strength. I love Bernard, for he’s been both mentor and dear friend to me here in Paris. I owe him far more than I can ever repay. Therefore I must ensure his safety. I simply could not do anything else. Can you understand?”

  Isabelle took Clarissa’s hand and kissed it, holding it to her cheek as though it were the greatest of treasures. “I do, chérie, I do. But what is to be done? It seems that St. Michelle does not want your help. And do not forget: You are one woman against three ruffians. Hardly enviable odds.”

  “True enough,” Clarissa agreed, “though perhaps not insurmountable.”

  If there was one thing James had learned from his previous trips to Paris it was this: Expect the unexpected. Tout et Plus was just that. A brothel located in the heart of Montmarte, the establishment went far beyond any house of ill repute within the confines of London—or all of England, James would have ventured to guess.

  Beautiful women, in a dazzling variety of luscious shapes, coloring, and sizes, strolled about the main dining area while even more danced upon the stage near the front, their varying degrees of undress the perfect accompaniment to their provocative show. Low candlelight and miles of sapphire velvet draped across every available surface made one feel as if in a heated dream, while the slow, rhythmic music from the group of musicians near the dancers put one’s mind in the mood for activities best undertaken behind closed doors.

  A petite woman with long, chestnut curls, carrying a shepherd’s crook, stepped into James’s line of vision. She wore a white bonnet festooned with satin pansies, silk stockings, garters, and nothing else. Her backside was so round and firm, James could have bit into it right then and there. He scrubbed his hand over his chin and looked at the Les Moines agent sitting next to him. “This is a test, is it not?”

  The man, who’d only given his last name of “Durand” when asked, continued to stare at the stage, emitting a low growl in response.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” James muttered, tossing back his brandy in one swallow. He’d assumed the lost emeralds would cost him s
ome ground within Les Moines, and they had. But even worse, he’d yet to meet anyone beyond Durand’s ranking, which, as best James could tell, fell somewhere within the middle of the hierarchy. Being assigned such operatives meant he was further along than the likes of Morel, but still nowhere near trusted enough to meet face-to-face with the ringleader.

  Over the last two days he’d been ordered to appear at a series of bars, parks, and now Tout et Plus. Each time, a different operative had interrogated him regarding the loss of the emeralds—to catch him in a lie, no doubt. It was hardly an issue for James, lying was as natural to him as breathing at this point in his career, but it was supremely frustrating. The emeralds had been nonnegotiable, that he knew, but Les Moines were proving to be even more suspicious and prepared than the Corinthians had originally thought.

  James suspected that a grand gesture was in order. He simply wasn’t sure what would be grand enough in the eyes of Les Moines.

  “And the last emerald?” Durand asked, his dull gaze never leaving the stage.

  James looked at the man’s extraordinarily ordinary face once again. “To the best of my knowledge the Corinthians are in possession of it—unless Dixon was successful on your behalf?”

  Durand reached for an ornate snuffbox on the table, opened it, and raised a pinch to his hooked nose. “That is of no consequence to you.”

  The shepherdess began to sway back and forth to the music, arching her back ever so slightly as she did so.

  “All right, Durand. Let us get to the point. What must I do to make up for the loss of the emeralds?”

  “Finally, a pertinent question,” Durand replied, tossing the snuffbox onto the table.

  James was known for many things. Patience was not one of them. He’d never cared for verbal sparring, and the past hour spent in Durand’s company had not induced him to change his mind. Still, he bided his time and busied himself with thoughts of the shepherdess as he waited for the man to continue.

  “There is a rich Canadian with dreams of rising in the ranks of the British aristocracy,” Durand began, his eyes settling once again on the dancing girls. “He wishes to have his daughter’s portrait painted by a particular Parisian artist—apparently this is a mark of some importance, yes?”

  James had never made it his business to study the whims of London society, but he’d spent enough time with the ton to know that the right assets could greatly enhance one’s social position, and thus a daughter’s desirability on the marriage mart.

  “Yes,” he said noncommittally, gesturing for Durand to continue.

  “This Canadian, he has more money than sense. If we secure the services of the artist, he will pay all that we need—and more.”

  James focused his gaze on the dancers and waited, not wanting to appear overly eager. “And where do I fit in all of this?”

  “The Canadian is too busy with his work to travel further. He insists that the artist come to him in London.”

  James looked at Durand once again. “Why?” he asked.

  “His daughter is readying for her presentation before the English court,” Durand answered with a sneer of disapproval. “And with the money in his possession, we cannot force the issue.”

  “So the artist must go to the Canadian,” James said simply.

  Durand waved away an offer of more drink from a buxom woman wearing fairy wings. “That is where you fit in.”

  “Convincing the artist to sail for London? Really, Durand, is that all?” James was sure there had to be something more to the assignment.

  “You cannot possibly be as stupid as you look.” Durand replied, growling as the fairy attempted to fill his glass a second time. “You will accompany the artist to London and make sure that he completes the portrait and the Canadian pays what he has promised. And if you do not,” Durand turned and looked directly at James, “you will die.”

  “Fair enough,” James replied honestly. After all, he and Durand were more alike than not. Both operated in a world where life and death were merely currency to be traded. Though James had no idea how he might manage to steal the money before it fell into Les Moines’s hands and escape with his head intact, he wouldn’t let that detail keep him awake at night.

  “Now,” Durand said, standing abruptly, “you will find the shepherdess upstairs. Third door on the right. This building was once a monastery; ironic, no?”

  The fairy appeared again, but this time Durand allowed her to approach. He kissed her outstretched hand then slung her over his shoulder and slapped her bare bum. “Do not keep her waiting or she’ll use the crook,” he warned before disappearing down a long corridor.

  Death was, without a doubt, not worth losing sleep over, James reflected. As a younger man, he’d thought differently; the love of one woman and her happiness had been more important to him than anything else could ever be. But she’d cast him out, claiming he knew little of true love. And in time, he’d come to agree.

  No, death was hardly worth lost sleep. But a shepherdess? Well, that was an entirely different matter. And James intended to show her how very little like a monk he really was.

  Clarissa looked to the heavens and offered up a small prayer of thanks for her mother’s predictability. It was Wednesday, which meant that Isabelle was at the Musée Napoleon with her childhood friend Madeline Moreau. The two women would stroll through the Greek antiquities before proceeding to the sculptures, where they would linger for a time before making their way to a café for refreshments.

  Isabelle had penned a note to Madeline, telling her she could not come, but Clarissa had convinced her to recant and keep to their regular Wednesday schedule.

  She had given the performance of a lifetime, Clarissa thought, as she hurried toward Bernard’s studio, her petite maid, Sophia, struggling to keep up. She’d promised her mother she would not set foot outside their home the entire day. Isabelle was firmly convinced that Bernard’s trouble was better handled by the artist himself. She had kissed Clarissa on first one cheek, then the other, and commended her for making such a sound choice.

  Of course, the moment her mother had left for the museum, Clarissa had called for Sophia. Within the hour, she was dressed in a pale violet walking gown, her hair upswept in a sensible yet fetching style, and a parasol with a particularly sharp point was in her gloved hands.

  She nervously twirled the parasol now. Her mother had been right when she’d suggested that Clarissa’s emotions played a large part in her daughter’s life. As far as she was concerned, this was hardly a fact to deny, though it did have a habit of landing her in interesting situations.

  “Interesting?” Clarissa said out loud. No, not interesting, she reflected. Perhaps “challenging” was a more appropriate description. Be that as it may, she thought with conviction, she was not about to close herself off from involvement or attachment with other people as her mother had done. She’d feel the weight of the world, even if it meant that in the end it would crush her.

  She turned onto rue Marcadet and at last could see the street entrance of the slim row house where Bernard’s atelier was located. One of the neckless twin bodyguards stood outside the door, his vacant gaze fastened somewhere beyond Clarissa’s shoulder. A cold tendril of fear wrapped itself about her spine.

  She stopped abruptly and turned to face Sophia. “Here,” she began earnestly, reaching into her reticule and retrieving a handful of coins. “Wait for me at the café.”

  Sophia nodded obediently and took the proffered coins, hurrying across the street and into the small shop.

  Clarissa lifted the hem of her skirt and ran, coming to a skidding halt in front of one twin. His bulk blocked the door, preventing her entry.

  She pointed her parasol at the giant’s chest. “Move,” she demanded, her voice brisk and commanding.

  The bulky twin easily twisted the makeshift weapon from Clarissa’s hold, and with a quick snap broke it in two.

  “Impressive. You’re capable of breaking a parasol. Congratulations.” U
ndaunted by the show of strength, Clarissa fixed him with an intimidating, icy stare. “Let me pass. Now.”

  He only smiled, then stepped aside to let her by. “It is your funeral, mademoiselle.”

  Clarissa bit the inside of her cheek and brushed past him, turning the familiar heavy door handle with one hand and pushing with the other. She paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs. She was committed to her course now. Even if she wanted to change her mind—which she didn’t—she could hardly turn back. The giant’s cold smile implied that he looked forward with anticipation to her confronting whatever was waiting for her upstairs. And just as likely, he would enjoy the prospect of crushing her in much the same way he’d destroyed the parasol. She assumed the other henchman waited upstairs with the man she’d attacked three days before.

  And there was Bernard.

  Clarissa tucked a few stray hairs into place, licked her lips, and squared her shoulders before ascending the stairs as though she were attending the ball of the season. There was no question that she would be defeated. But she would not, under any circumstances, be outclassed.

  “Is he dead?” James asked, eyeing the painter collapsed in the corner. Upon meeting the indelicate twins, he’d insisted that he visit the artist alone. Durand had refused and that had been that.

  There was some satisfaction in being right, he thought to himself as the twin rolled the man over with his foot. But not at the moment.

  “He’s breathing, but his arm doesn’t look right.”

  James crossed the room and looked down at St. Michelle. “You broke it, you imbecile.”

  The twin cocked his head to the side and looked again. “At least he’s not dead,” he offered, starting at the sound of someone on the stairs.

  “Oh, lovely, your brother. Perhaps he can break the other arm for us, then?” James said angrily, kicking at an upended table and splintering one of its slim legs.

  He stalked to the windows and surveyed the district below. The situation had quickly gone from bad to worse. When James arrived at the artist’s studio, St. Michelle, drunk as James had ever seen a man, had flatly refused to take the job in London. James countered, St. Michelle balked. James threatened, St. Michelle spewed nonsense concerning his rights as an artist.