To Seduce a Sinner

  They climbed the steps in tandem, his hand pinching the back of her neck painfully. At the top of the stairs, Melisande turned and her heart nearly stopped. Suchlike was just coming out of her room.

  “My lady?” Suchlike said in a confused voice. She looked from Melisande to Mr. Horn.

  Melisande spoke rapidly before her captor could speak. “What are you doing here, girl? I told you to have my riding habit sponged and pressed by noon.”

  Suchlike’s eyes widened. Melisande had never spoken to her so harshly before. And then things got worse. Behind the maid, Mouse poked his nose out of the room and scrambled into the hall. He raced toward Melisande and Mr. Horn, barking madly.

  Melisande felt Mr. Horn move as if to pull the pistol from her side. Mouse was at her feet now, and she acted quickly, kicking poor Mouse away. The dog yelped in pain and confusion and sprawled onto his back.

  Melisande looked at Suchlike. “Take this dog with you to the kitchens. Do it now. And make sure you ready my riding habit, or I’ll dismiss you this afternoon.”

  Suchlike had never liked Mouse, but she scrambled forward and hastily scooped the terrier into her arms. She ran past Melisande and Mr. Horn, her eyes filled with tears.

  Melisande exhaled when the maid was out of sight.

  “Very nice,” Mr. Horn said. “Now where is Vale’s bedroom?”

  Melisande pointed to the room, and Mr. Horn dragged her toward it. She had another leap of fear as he opened the door. What if Mr. Pynch was inside? She had no idea where the manservant was.

  But the room was empty.

  Mr. Horn hauled her toward the dresser and began throwing Vale’s neatly folded neck cloths to the ground.

  “He was there when they tortured me. They tied him to a stake and held his head so he had to watch. I almost felt more sorry for him than for me.” He stopped suddenly and inhaled. “I can still see those blue eyes of his filling with grief while they burned my chest. He knows what it was like. He knows what they did to me. He knows it took the British army two hellish weeks to deign to ransom us.”

  “You blame Jasper for your wounds,” Melisande whispered.

  “Don’t be a witless fool,” he snapped. “Vale could no more help what was done to him than we could help what was done to us. What I blame him for is his betrayal. He of all people should understand why I did what I did.”

  Having emptied the chest of drawers, he dragged her to the wardrobe. “He knows what it was like. He was there. How dare he judge me? How dare he?”

  Melisande saw that his eyes were ice-cold and determined, and the sight froze her with terror. Mr. Horn was cornered, and it was only a matter of time until he found that she’d lied.

  BY THE TIME Jasper made it home, his heart was nearly pounding through his chest with fear. He flung his horse’s reins to a boy and leapt the steps without waiting for Pynch. He threw open his front doors and went in, only to skid to a stop.

  Melisande’s maid was clutching Mouse and weeping in the hall. Surrounding her were Oaks and two footmen.

  Oaks turned at Jasper’s entrance, his face drawn and lined. “My lord! We think Lady Vale is in trouble.”

  “Where is she?” Jasper demanded.

  “Upstairs,” the maid gasped. Mouse wriggled hard in her arms, trying to get down. “There’s a man with her, and oh, my lord, I think he has a gun.”

  Jasper’s blood froze in his veins, painful ice crystallizing. No. Christ, no.

  “Where did you see them, Sally?” Pynch said from beside Jasper.

  “At the top of the stairs,” Suchlike said. “Outside your rooms, my lord.”

  Mouse finally gave such a desperate lurch that she gasped and dropped him to the floor. The dog ran to Jasper and barked once before scampering toward the stairs. He jumped to the first step and barked again.

  “Stay here,” Jasper said to the servants. “If he sees too many . . .” He trailed off, not wanting to say aloud the awful possibility.

  He started for the stairs.

  “My lord,” Pynch called.

  Jasper looked over his shoulder.

  The valet was proffering two pistols. Pynch met his eyes. He knew damn well how Jasper felt about guns. Still, he held them out. “Don’t go up unarmed.”

  Jasper snatched the weapons without a word and whirled to the stairs. Mouse barked and ran up the stairs ahead of him, panting with excitement. They made the first landing and continued to the second story, where the master bedrooms were. Jasper paused on the top step to listen. Mouse stood by his ankle, patiently watching him. Jasper could hear the maid, still sobbing faintly down below, and the murmur of a deeper voice, probably Pynch comforting her. Other than that, all was silent. He refused to think what the silence might mean.

  He crept to his door on the balls of his feet, Mouse silently trailing him. The door was partly open, and he crouched so as to make himself less of a target as he pushed it open.

  Nothing happened.

  Jasper took a breath and looked at the dog. Mouse was watching him, completely uninterested in what might be in the room. Jasper swore under his breath and entered the room. Matthew had obviously been here. Jasper’s clothes were on the floor, his linens ripped from the bed he never used. He crossed and looked in the small dressing room, but although it had been torn apart, no one was there now. When he came back into his bedroom, Mouse was sniffing at one of the pillows on the floor. Jasper looked and nearly fell to his knees.

  The pillow had a small streak of blood.

  He closed his eyes. No. No, she wasn’t hurt; she wasn’t dead. He couldn’t believe otherwise—and remain sane. He opened his eyes and lifted the pistols to the ready. Then he went through the rest of the rooms on that floor. After fifteen minutes, he was panting and desperate. Mouse had followed him to each room, sniffing under the beds and in the corners, but he’d not seemed that interested in any of them.

  Jasper mounted the stairs to the next floor, where the servants’ bedrooms were, under the eaves. There was no reason for Matthew to have taken Melisande up here. Perhaps he’d gone down the back way and escaped past the footmen in the kitchen. But if so, someone should’ve heard him. There should’ve been an outcry. Dammit! Where was Horn? Where had he taken Melisande?

  They’d just made the uppermost floor when Mouse suddenly stiffened and barked. He raced to the end of the narrow, uncarpeted hallway and scratched at a door. Jasper followed the dog and carefully opened the door. A flight of wooden stairs led to the roof. There was a narrow parapet up there, but it was mostly ornamental, and Jasper had never been up there himself.

  Mouse shouldered past him and raced up the steep stairs, his little muscled body jumping from step to step. He reached the top and stuck his nose to the crack of a small half-door, whining.

  Jasper gripped his pistols and mounted the stairs quietly. At the top, he nudged aside the little dog with his boot and stared down at him sternly.

  “Stay here.”

  Mouse laid back his ears in submission but didn’t sit.

  “Stay here,” Jasper commanded. “Or so help me, I’ll lock you in one of the rooms.”

  The dog had no way of understanding the words, but he certainly understood the tone. He tucked his rump down and sat. Jasper turned to the door. He opened it and slipped out.

  The skies had fulfilled the promise of rain. It dripped down, cold, gray, and dispirited on his roof. The door was only meant to provide access to the roof for repairs and cleaning. In front of it was a small square of level tiles, barely wide enough for a man to stand on, while all around was the slope of the roof. Jasper slowly straightened, feeling the wind blow raindrops against his neck. He faced the back garden. To his left was empty roof, to his right more empty roof. Jasper peered over the spine of the rooftop.

  Dear God. Matthew held Melisande bent over the low stone parapet in front of the house. The parapet barely came to knee height and would in no way prevent her from falling. Only Matthew’s arm kept her from smashing her brains a
gainst the cobblestones far below. Jasper remembered her fear of heights and knew his darling wife must be completely terrified.

  “No farther!” Matthew cried. He wore neither hat nor wig, and the rain had darkened and flattened his short reddish-blond hair to his skull. His blue eyes glittered with desperation. “No farther or I drop her over the edge!”

  Jasper met Melisande’s beautiful brown eyes. Her hair had come partially down, and long wet strands clung to her cheeks. Her hands clutched at Matthew’s arm, for she had no other purchase. She looked back at him and a horrible thing happened.

  She smiled.

  Sweet, brave girl. Jasper averted his eyes and stared at Matthew. He raised the pistol in his right hand and held it steady. “Drop her and I’ll blow your goddamned head off.”

  Matthew chuckled softly, and Melisande wobbled in his grasp. “Back away, Vale. Do it now.”

  “And then what?”

  Matthew stared back stonily. “You’ve destroyed me. I have no life left, no future, no hope. I cannot flee to France without my mother, and if I stay, they’ll hang me for selling secrets to the French. My mother will be disgraced; the crown will take all my assets and throw her into the street.”

  “Is this suicide, then?”

  “And if it is?”

  “Let Melisande go,” Jasper said evenly. “She had nothing to do with what’s happened. I’ll put down my pistol if you let her go.”

  “No!” Melisande cried, but neither man paid her any heed.

  “I’ve lost my life,” Matthew said. “Why shouldn’t I destroy your life as you’ve destroyed mine?”

  He twisted a bit, and Jasper threw himself at the ridge of the roof. “Don’t! I’ll give you the letter.”

  Matthew hesitated. “I’ve looked. You don’t have it.”

  “It’s not in my house. I have it hidden elsewhere.” All lies, of course, but Jasper put all the sincerity at his command into his voice. If he could just buy some time and get Melisande off the parapet.

  “Do you?” Matthew looked warily hopeful.

  “Yes.” Jasper had slowly straddled the roof, and now he brought his other leg over as well, crouching at the top. Melisande and Matthew were only ten feet or so away. “Back away from the edge and I’ll bring it to you.”

  “No. We stay here until you bring the letter.”

  Matthew sounded reasonable, but he’d already killed one person today. Jasper couldn’t leave him alone with Melisande.

  “I’ll bring the letter,” Jasper bargained. He inched forward again. “I’ll give you the letter and forget the whole thing. Just let me have my wife first. She means more to me than any revenge for Spinner’s Falls.”

  Matthew started shaking, and Jasper rose in fear. Was the man having some kind of fit?

  But dry laughter spilled from Matthew’s throat. “Spinner’s Falls? Oh, God, do you think me the Spinner’s Falls traitor? All this and you don’t even know, do you? I never betrayed us at Spinner’s Falls. It was afterward—after the British army left us to be tortured for two damned weeks—that I sold secrets to the French. Why shouldn’t I? I had my loyalty carved out of my chest.”

  “But you shot Hasselthorpe, you must have.”

  “Not I, Vale. Someone else shot him.”

  “Who?”

  “Why would I know? Hasselthorpe obviously knows something about Spinner’s Falls that someone doesn’t want him to tell.”

  Jasper blinked raindrops from his eyes. “Then you had nothing to do with—”

  “God, Vale,” Matthew whispered, despair in his face. “You’ve destroyed my life. I believed that you were the only one who understood me. Why have you betrayed me? Why?”

  And Jasper watched with horror as Matthew raised his pistol and aimed it at Melisande’s head. He was too far away. He’d never get to her in time. Christ. He had no choice. Jasper fired his own pistol and shot Matthew’s hand. He saw Melisande flinch as blood splattered her hair. Saw Matthew drop the pistol with a shout of pain.

  Saw Matthew shove Melisande over the edge of the parapet.

  Jasper fired the second pistol, and Matthew’s head jerked violently back. Then Jasper was scrambling on the slippery tiles, a scream filling his head. He shoved Matthew’s corpse to the side and looked over the parapet, expecting to see Melisande’s body broken below. Instead, he saw her face, three feet down, looking back up at him.

  He gasped and the screaming stopped. Only then did he realize that the sound had been real and that he’d been the one making it. He stretched his hand down. She was grasping an ornamental ridge of stone.

  “Take my hand,” he rasped, his throat raw.

  She blinked, looking dazed. He remembered that day, so long ago, in front of Lady Eddings’s town house just before they were married. She’d refused his hand to help her down from his carriage.

  He leaned farther out. “Melisande. Trust me. Take my hand now.”

  She gasped, her precious lips parting, and let go of the ledge with one hand. He lunged and grasped her wrist. Then he leaned backward and used his weight to haul her up and to safety.

  She came over the parapet and fell limply into his arms. He wrapped his body about hers and held her. Simply held her, inhaling the scent of oranges in her hair, feeling her breath on his cheek. It was a while before he realized that he was shaking.

  Finally, she stirred. “I thought you hated guns.”

  He pulled back and looked at her face. She had a bruise on one cheek, and there was gore splattered in her hair, but she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  He had to clear his throat before he spoke. “I do hate guns. I loathe them desperately.”

  Her lovely brows knit. “Then how . . . ?”

  “I love you,” he said. “Don’t you know that? I would crawl through the flames of hell on my knees for you. Firing a goddamn gun is nothing compared to you, my dearest wife.”

  He brushed her face, watching her eyes widen, and he bent to kiss her, repeating as he did, “I love you, Melisande.”

  Chapter Twenty

  So the little kitchen boy was brought trembling before the king. It wasn’t long before he confessed. Three times, Jack, the princess’s fool, had paid him to have a turn at stirring the pot of soup—the last time this very night. Well! The courtiers gasped, Princess Surcease looked thoughtful, and the king roared with rage. The guards dragged Jack to kneel before the king, and one placed a sword against the fool’s throat.

  “Speak!” cried the king. “Speak and tell us from whom you stole the rings!” For naturally no one believed the short, twisted fool could’ve won the rings himself. “Speak! Or I will have your head cut from your body!” . . .

  —from LAUGHING JACK

  One month later . . .

  Sally Suchlike hesitated outside her mistress’s bedroom. It was late morning, but still one never knew, and she’d hate to go in if her mistress was not alone. She twisted her hands and stared at the little statue of the nasty goat man and the naked lady while she tried to decide, but of course the statue made her mind drift. The goat man did look so like Mr. Pynch and she wondered, as always, if his rather gigantic—

  A man cleared his throat directly behind her.

  Sally shrieked and whirled around. Mr. Pynch was standing so close she could feel the heat of his chest.

  The valet raised one eyebrow slowly, which made him look more like the goat man than ever. “What are you doing, loitering in the hallway, Miss Suchlike?”

  She tossed her head. “I was thinking on whether I should go into the mistress’s room or not.”

  “And why wouldn’t you?”

  She pretended shock. “She might not be alone, that’s why not.”

  Mr. Pynch lifted his upper lip in a faint sneer. “I find that hard to believe. Lord Vale always sleeps alone.”

  “Is that so?” Sally put her hands on her hips, feeling excitement heat her lower belly. “Well, why don’t you just go and see if your master is in his bed alone, be
cause I wager he’s not in his room at all.”

  The valet didn’t deign to reply. He just gave her a glance that swept her from head to toe and entered Lord Vale’s bedroom.

  Sally blew out a breath and fanned her cheeks, trying to cool down as she waited.

  She didn’t have long. Mr. Pynch reemerged from the master’s bedroom and closed the door quietly behind him. He stalked to where she stood and loomed over her until Sally backed against the wall.

  Then Mr. Pynch lowered his head to breathe into her ear, “The room is empty. Do you accept the usual forfeit?”

  Sally gulped, because her stays seemed a mite too tight. “Y-yes.”

  Mr. Pynch swooped down and captured her lips with his own.

  The silence in the hallway was broken only by Mr. Pynch’s deepened breathing and Sally’s sigh.

  Then Mr. Pynch lifted his head. “Why do you find that statue so fascinating? Every time I catch you in the hall, you’re staring at it.”

  Sally blushed because Mr. Pynch was nibbling along her neck. “I think it looks like you. The little goat man.”

  Mr. Pynch raised his head and glanced over his shoulder. Then he looked back at Sally, one brow raised regally. “Indeed.”

  “Mmm,” Sally said. “And I’ve been wondering . . .”

  “Yes?”

  He nibbled at her shoulder, which made it rather hard to concentrate.

  Sally tried valiantly anyway. “I’ve been wondering if you’re like the little goat man all over.”

  Mr. Pynch stilled against her shoulder, and for a moment, Sally thought that perhaps she’d been too impertinent.

  Then he raised his head, and she saw the gleam in his eye. “Why, Miss Suchlike, I’d be happy to help answer your questions, but I think there is one thing we must do first.”

  “And what’s that?” she asked breathlessly.

  His face lost all trace of teasing. He suddenly became quite serious, his blue eyes gazing down at her almost hesitantly.