The Sinner Who Seduced Me (10 page)

James tore off a small bite of crunchy bread crust and chewed slowly. “Yes,” he replied, swallowing. “And the mother?”

The clanging of pots at the long trestle tables across the kitchen signaled the beginning of dinner preparations. James knew he had little time before his absence would be noticed by more than just Clarissa.

“Safe—for now. Of course, that could change, depending on how long it takes,” the footman answered in flawless English. He dropped his bread onto the pewter plate in front of him. “With the girl in England, there’s hardly a need to keep the mother alive for long.”

“Durand understands what’s at stake if she comes to any harm.” James took another bite, not wanting to appear too eager. “And we are speaking of a portrait, after all. It will take some time to complete.”

The man frowned slightly and brushed at his coat. “It’s not my job to know such things. She’s to hurry or there’ll be trouble. Tell her.” He placed the flat of both palms on the table and stood, shoving the chair back and out of his way. He stopped and pulled what appeared to be a missive from his breast pocket. “From the girl’s mother,” he offered in explanation, dropping the travel-stained paper on the table then walking from the room.

James retrieved the letter just as a scullery maid approached and set to clearing the table.

From the moment James had recognized Clarissa in St. Michelle’s studio, he’d known that timing would be everything. Successfully completing his mission and retrieving the money meant for Les Moines was equally as important as securing the safety of Clarissa and her mother. He felt sure his superior, Carmichael, would agree.

But how could James secure the safety of two women in two different countries at precisely the same time?

The scullery maid very nearly dropped a piece of crockery in his lap, huffing with disgust as she bent awkwardly to avoid him. James took the female servant’s silent suggestion that he leave and stood, giving her a friendly smile as he did so. She looked to refuse him the nicety then thought otherwise, her lips curving in a genuine, friendly smile before she turned her back and continued clearing the table.

James strode from the room and turned down the hall toward the servants’ stairs, his thoughts once again occupied with Clarissa and the role they played. When he’d first accepted the Corinthian assignment, he’d known it would be challenging. And now? There was no point in telling Clarissa that her mother was in far more serious danger than she’d thought. The weight of such knowledge could only do her work harm—and her
heart. The mother/daughter bond had obviously grown stronger over the last five years.

He mounted the narrow stairs, shaking his head with disbelief. Practically speaking, he knew Clarissa wanted to return to Paris as quickly as she could, but her artistic talent could get in the way of efforts to hurry. He’d never seen her accept anything less than the best from herself; James only hoped her skill was up to the challenge of producing quality under pressure.

And that he would be as well.

Pettibone watched the English bastard stride down the hall toward the stairs. Durand, his father and employer, had assured him when reassigning the job to Marlowe that the turncoat deserved the opportunity to prove himself more than Pettibone did. After all, the lying Englishman had deceived the Corinthians into believing he had perished—there was nowhere for the man to turn. The time was ripe for Marlowe’s testing. And so he’d bowed to his father’s wishes yet again, though something inside of him had snapped.

Pettibone believed such business should be left to the French, not the English. Had he not perfected his crude English accent? Learned to act the British buffoon until it was second nature—a fact that ate at his heart until he couldn’t breathe. He’d done all that his father had asked of him and more. It had galled him to have the man reconfirm how little faith he had in his son’s abilities. But the fact that the agent was English? Pettibone tasted the bitterness of the blow yet again as he moved toward the stairs. He’d suffered long enough in meaningless roles such as his current one, relegated to waiting hand and foot, like a common slave, while agents with far less skill undertook the worthwhile assignments.

“You’ll not get anywhere at that pace,” a cheery voice chided from behind. Pettibone turned to find Daphne,
Miss Bennett’s maid, standing behind him, a warm apple turnover in her hand.

He smiled at the woman. Not because he wanted to—God forbid. Much to his chagrin, she’d been pestering him for weeks. She tore a small bite from the pathetic pastry and popped it into her mouth.

“I was waiting for you,” he replied charmingly, realizing as he watched the lazy cow chew her cud that she could be of some use.

The woman’s eyes brightened and she swallowed quickly, wiping plump sticky fingers across her apron. “Is that so?”

There were a number of Les Moines agents within the walls of Kenwood House, but Pettibone thought Daphne might be exactly what his plan needed.

“It is. Walk with me,” he urged, offering her his arm. She looked about for somewhere to set the turnover, settling on her pocket before taking his arm.

Pettibone sighed with disgust at the greasy print she’d already managed to leave on his immaculate sleeve.

It would not be easy nor without trouble, but he’d prove to his father once and for all that he was prepared to take his rightful place within the organization—even if it meant losing Bennett’s money.

Clarissa had nearly completed the second sketch when James arrived. He knocked politely on the door just as a personal servant would and waited for her to admit him.

“
Entrez,
” Clarissa said firmly, ignoring James’s amused look.

He shut the door securely and walked to her, his gaze turning to the two sketches of Iris. “The first one not quite to your liking?”

She picked up the ripped sheets and balled them in her hands. “Oh, the sketch was perfectly acceptable. It is the model that’s the problem.”

“Come now,” James began, taking the ruined pages from her and setting them on the drawing table. “The girl is just that—a girl. What could she have possibly done to cause you problems?”

Clarissa turned away, stalking to the window before halting abruptly, spinning on her heel to return. Her index finger pointed accusingly, hovering near his chest. “I’ll tell you what
that
girl did,” she began, poking James for emphasis. “That
girl
is taking this portrait no more seriously than tea with the local vicar. She all but called into question my artistic ability.”

“Well, in her defense, the only reason you’re here … wait, let me correct myself. The only reason St. Michelle is here has everything to do with the transient nature of the ton’s likes and dislikes. Society tells her she must be painted by St. Michelle, and so her father secures you, despite the difficulties such a demand presents. The most ridiculous fact in all of this is that the painting will, in all likelihood, secure a more desirable connection. That’s hardly her fault.”

Clarissa considered his words, knowing he spoke the truth. “That’s all well and good,” she replied, poking him again in the chest. “But what of my abilities as a painter? One does not secure the services of the most lauded artist of one’s time only to question the—”

“Do stop poking me,” James requested, closing hard fingers over Clarissa’s hand and lowering it to her side. “Just what, precisely, did she say or do to insult you?”

“She altered the sketch!” Clarissa snapped. There. She had him!

James ran both hands through his hair as if readying to pull each strand from his scalp. “And when you say ‘altered,’ is this something similar to when I suggested that your sketch of the Serpentine might require a bit more perspective?”

Clarissa remembered the incident as if it had happened
only yesterday. She’d reacted abominably to James’s words that day; her sensitivity when it came to both her work and her burgeoning love for him had combined to create one of her more dramatic outbursts.

She’d always hated to be proven wrong. But even more than that, she’d hated that he saw it before she did. He’d yelled in response, claiming his words were in no way meant to harm. And then he’d tipped her head back and kissed her hard and thoroughly, the embrace leading to making love then and there, in her studio.

Clarissa’s nipples tingled at the memory, the damp heat gathering between her legs not as unwelcome as she would have liked.

“Clarissa?” James pressed, stirring her from the hazy memory of passion.

“No!” She folded her arms across her bound chest. “Not in the least. No, she touched the sketch—smeared the charcoal, to be exact.”

“Contact, then?” he asked, hardly as shocked as he should be.

Annoyed at his refusal to recognize the level of intrusion, yet beginning to see some humor in the situation. Clarissa poked him in the chest yet again. “Precisely.”

He clasped her fingers once again, only this time he pressed them against his coat, trapping them. “I’ll ask the girl to behave; will that help?”

She could feel his heartbeat beneath her hand. “You’d do that for me?” she asked, suddenly embarrassed by her demands.

“It’s my job,” he replied simply, squeezing her hand before releasing her. “Now, is there anything else?”

Clarissa turned back to her table before any hint of disappointment registered on her face. Of course it was his job—she was a means to an end, nothing more. She’d nearly given in to the heat that his closeness had inspired and … what? Almost kissed him as she’d
wanted to since he’d held her close on the ship? Or should she have told him that the chit’s openly declared interest toward him was making her act like a lunatic?

Oh,
that
was the issue at hand.
Oh, Lord
. Clarissa nearly burst into tears at the realization. “Yes, actually: Miss Bennett is intent on seducing you.”

James mussed his hair, actually succeeding in pulling a strand or two from his head this time. “She’s nothing more than a child. And it’s not as if she will seduce me against my will.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Clarissa managed a smile, turning her attention back to the sketch.

“Clarissa, about last night,” James began, drawing her attention to him. “I hope you understand why I removed your clothing.”

In all honesty, Clarissa had wakened with very little memory of the evening before. There were a few spotty images of James’s face and the feel of his hands on her as he’d undressed her, but that was all. She stared hard at the sketch and the heated memory of his lips on hers flooded her, but she could not say whether this was indeed a memory or simply a figment of her imagination. “I still had my breeches on this morning, James. Perhaps you’re mistaken in what transpired?” she said with a shrug, attempting to keep the tone light.

“It was necessary to remove the bindings, Clarissa. As for the boots, I could hardly let you sleep—”

“James, I was only teasing. I’d already arrived at the very same conclusion, I assure you. I hardly suspected you of anything untoward.”

He looked far too relieved as he nodded in understanding, piquing Clarissa’s curiosity.

“Though I do wonder,” she continued, reaching out to smudge a sharp edge in the sketch, “whether I may have done something—or perhaps said something—that I shouldn’t have?”

James folded his arms across his chest and sat on the edge of the table. “Why do you ask?”

“I was upset.”

“Were you, now?” James queried, looking out the window at the rolling green acres of Kenwood’s park.

“You know very well that I was. Why on earth would I have consumed the brandy otherwise?” Clarissa countered, scratching at the sketch with her fingernail. “I was angry with Mr. Bennett for his foolhardy desire to please his daughter at any cost. And for my mother’s imprisonment. And with you for bringing me here—for being involved at all.”

“So you remember nothing of last night?” he asked quietly, his gaze taking in the sketch with concern.

“Nothing.”

He pushed himself off the table and walked toward the door. “Clarissa, you neither did nor said anything that would change the outcome of our allotted time together. Words spoken under the influence of spirits are nothing more than the meanderings of our overtired minds.”

Clarissa sighed with relief, though there was something in his claim that made her uneasy.

“And I believe this will bring you some comfort,” he added, turning back toward her as he pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it over.

She instantly recognized her mother’s delicate handwriting, the sight of it making her heart soar with relief. “Thank you,” she offered, hardly able to contain herself.

James nodded and turned around to go.

“And next time, James,” she paused and waited for him to look at her.

He stopped just in front of the door and turned, “Yes?”

“Do relieve me of the breeches. I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

He said nothing in return, only smiled and opened the door to step into the hall, closing the heavy portal quietly behind him.

It was well past midnight. James lay with his arms folded beneath his head and studied the silence that surrounded him.