The Den Of Iniquity

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‘I know.’ Sophie’s shoulders fell in defeat. ‘But there’s no dissuading him.’

‘He’s wonderful.’ Vivienne took a restorative breath and asserted each word. ‘He is a wonderful brother.’

‘Do you think he could be more? I mean if you could just imagine.’ Emotion riddled Sophie’s words. ‘We would be sisters in truth. I’m so torn between protecting my dearest friend and encouraging my loyal brother.’

‘I know. I’m sorry, but I cannot command my heart to feel a certain way and expect results. If that were true so many things would be easier. I would have my life sorted and be happier by half.’ They still held hands and Vivienne gave Sophie’s a squeeze of comfort for of late she didn’t know what she was capable of feeling other than the emptiness left in her life by her mother’s death.

Sophie embraced her and then pulled back with a slight shrug. ‘I understand. I do.’

‘I know you do. We are sisters in every other way. Just don’t encourage Crispin, please. I fear the moment when it must be confronted. I would never wish to hurt his feelings.’ She whispered the words, afraid to evoke the reality by saying them aloud.

‘Do not worry.’ Sophie viewed her with sympathy in her eyes. ‘Crispin is the most valiant gentleman I know. He will accept the news when the time comes. He will do what’s right.’

Chapter Six (#ulink_554bef4c-8170-5ff8-8e15-c675941505aa)

Dinner at the Chutterlys’ proved pleasant. As a small gathering it offered an ideal opportunity to reintroduce Vivienne to the brisk round of social functions sure to proceed as the season gained momentum. The three friends shared the carriage ride home, replete from a fine meal and congenial evening.

‘Crispin, what I mentioned earlier couldn’t be truer.’ Vivienne watched as he slitted his eyes, his head leaning against the opposite bolster. ‘You are incorrigible.’

‘One look at you across the room and I knew you were up to no good,’ Sophie confirmed.

‘Me? I’m taken aback. I thought you’d appreciate an introduction to Lord Dander.’ He laid his palm across the breast of his coat. ‘It was well done of both of you not to mention his singed eyebrows.’

They shared another laugh and the carriage rolled to a stop shortly after.

‘Shall I accompany you, Vivienne? It’s late and I’m not comfortable with you travelling home alone.’ He flipped his pocket watch open and held it near the brass lantern fixed to the wall. ‘It is late. Half ten. Lord Huntley may be concerned. I should see you home.’

She heard Sophie’s sharp intake of breath though her friend provided no rescue. ‘No, thank you. My stepfather turns in early. Our house is rather quiet these days and I have the family carriage and an additional footman to ride with the driver. Besides, he scarcely knows when I come and go these days.’ She didn’t add that his disinterest was a blessing. ‘As usual you are very thoughtful.’ She smiled, an ache in her chest abloom. Someday her refusal would break Crispin’s heart. She didn’t want to be the cause of his pain.

‘Very well.’ He looked to Sophie who nodded her head in agreement. ‘I have enjoyed this evening, ladies.’ He disembarked and waited outside to hand them down.

‘I’m sorry, Sophie,’ Vivienne whispered across the coach. There wasn’t time to say more, still her dearest friend understood without further explanation.

Vivienne travelled two blocks before she knocked on the ceiling and gave the driver an alternative direction. Under the guise that she intended to see a show on Drury Lane, she allowed the carriage to take her within walking distance of the Underworld. She pulled her wrap around her shoulders, tucked her chin, and fixed her eyes on her slippers as she moved briskly across the cobbles towards St James Square. A solitary lamplighter passed her with a nod while a few couples hurried on their way to unknown destinations, the streets somewhat isolated.

How foolish of her to take the risk. Despite the better neighbourhood, crime lurked in all corners of London and perhaps the affluent show goers offered temptation to thieves and pickpockets rather than a deterrent. A skitter of apprehension akin to reckless disquiet chided her decision to seek out the gaming hell. So much more than simple curiosity prompted the choice. She’d become buried in grief, lost beneath her solemnity and this, wildly throwing caution to the wind and daring to breach a forbidden world, caused her to feel vibrant and alive. Her pulse raced with the idea of it all.

She approached the building, quiet as it stood yesterday morning, but when she reached the stoop she sensed a current of energy emanating from the hell’s interior. It thrived with activity and her pulse kicked up in tempo, her heart quickening as she climbed the stairs. Her hair fell over her shoulders as she straightened her posture and dropped the knocker.

Nothing happened.

Again she tried—convinced behind the panel an entire other world lived, thrived, with Mr Sinclair at the centre, overseer of goings-on and sorely in need of reform. A woman’s laughter reached through the glass of the downstairs window but when she leaned to peer inside nothing could be seen for the thick velvet drapery pulled tight.

‘You can’t enter through the front, Miss V.’

Startled she turned to see Thomas at the foot of the stoop, a pair of dice tossed without care from one hand, his smile as broad as his shoulders.

‘I knew you would come back. I told him so.’

‘Told who, Thomas?’ She descended the steps to return to street level.

‘Shhh. You must call me Ace.’ He glanced left and right as if someone might hear his correction.

‘If no one will answer the front door, how will I get inside?’ She resisted the urge to push back the too-long hair covering his brow, aware the streetwise character he strove to portray would resent the endearing gesture.

‘Go round the side.’ He slanted his head towards the right. ‘This way.’

True to his word Thomas led her around the building and rapped on a tall wooden door, which opened on silent hinges within seconds. She followed him down a long narrow hallway towards another door painted black; though a glow of yellow-white candlelight illuminated its outline. Her heart hammered with an exhilarating combination of apprehension and anticipation. She need only take a few more steps and she would enter the hell, a place forbidden to women of her station. With a glance aside she whispered gratitude to Thomas, only to discover he was gone, the scamp having shown her the way and hied to street level.

She couldn’t go back. Not after reaching this point and besides, Mr Sinclair waited behind that door and she meant to reform him. By some stretch of the imagination she believed she’d make him a better man by ameliorating the error of his ways. Powered by this wild urge, unexplainable but incredibly strong, the cause propelled her feet forward, the need to see him as alive in her as the thrum of the pulse in her ears.

‘Dammit to hell.’ Sinclair looked over the sea of gentleman and lady-birds littering the lower level, his anger palpable. He’d received credible information as to Pimms’ whereabouts only to discover he’d wasted his time—and too much of his life chasing shadows all over London. But he couldn’t let go, wouldn’t abandon his vow. Once he found the final man responsible for his misery he’d claim a better existence. This lie served its purpose and eased his temper a notch.

Daisies? The unbidden remembrance drifted into mind with curious amusement. Why had she brought him daisies? He almost smiled. Vivienne was light in the darkness. Too bad her jade-green gaze didn’t figure into his collection of misaligned emotions. Lost in regret he settled his focus on Mirabel who warmed the lap of a faceless lord, a tall pile of chips on the felt before him. She did her job well, distracting the entitled who ignored their cards in preference to a lewd fondle, often effective in donating their superfluous wealth to the Underworld, his charity of choice. Tonight Mirabel looked tired or mayhap distracted, her painted lips and rouged cheeks a mask to the lost woman inside.

With mundane predictability he watched the lord slide his hand into her bodice, squeezing Mirabel’s breast without finesse. Her smile widened with pleasurable surprise, until her expression transformed into alarm or something worse, eyes narrowed in a venomous glare. He followed her line of vision across the room through cigar smoke and low lighting to where two gentlemen, one notorious for wasting his seed as carelessly as he wasted his money, left the piquet table in favour of a more tempting distraction.

‘Bloody hell.’

He bolted from his office and down the side stairs, Ransom barking a loud objection as he passed the dog in the dimly lit hall. Opening the hidden panel in the wall, he reached through, gripped Vivienne by the shoulder and dragged her backward with no explanation.

‘What are you doing here?’

He locked the panel before he carried, dragged, shuttled her up the stairs and into his office where he performed the same routine, door closed tight. Then he pinned her to the panel, furious at what might have happened, at his disordered emotions and maddening reaction to seeing her nearly accosted within these walls.

‘Christ, what are you thinking?’ He growled the words fully aware he overreacted but unable to stop.

Her eyes went wide, glittering with tears? Or challenge? There was no way to tell. With her skin flushed pink and hair pulled back in a wide bandeau, she looked as defiant and determined as a warrior.

She looked beautiful.

She was dressed in fine evening clothes, a gown of silk and satin, the perfect reminder she remained out of reach, despite his blood heating at the sight of her. He stepped away exhaling a breath to expend a measure of fury. Desire pulsed, his muscles hard, most especially the one in his trousers. What the hell was wrong with him? He threaded his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face where it fell in his rush to reach her. He drew another breath. He wouldn’t invite forbidden temptation in his life. This was madness.

‘Why are you here?’ He said each word slowly, the deliberate question bringing him a sense of order.

‘I wanted to find you.’

Her statement almost sounded a question. Did his reaction frighten her? The honest confession lit a flame of curiosity. He was accustomed to beating information out of thugs and snitches whenever he needed an answer. His eyes roved over her person. Long silken tresses reached her waist, a tiny waist at that, but not without the lush curves of a full-grown woman. She breathed deep, the motion giving rise to the swell of her breasts, smooth and pale where they tested the neckline of her fancy gown. His eyes refused to move on, memorizing every detail, the soft promise of delicate skin, how her pulse jumped at the hollow of her neck. At one time she’d been covered with a shawl, but now it circled her throat, thrust back when he’d hauled her through the panel. The wrap framed her cleavage. His blood ran white-hot.

She didn’t move when he stepped closer. His expression smoothed with the passing minute.

‘But why?’ He stood so close he could smell her and dammit to hell, Ace spoke the truth. She smelled divine. Some mixture of exotic florals that reminded him of a garden on the verge of bloom, the transient existence of innocence and ignorance before the world ruined and destroyed them. He breathed her in, a temporary potion and enchanted elixir, and his cock grew harder still. Somehow the scent tempted him on the most carnal level. ‘You placed yourself in danger.’ He leaned a little closer, drawn by an invisible thread, his voice a husky rasp. ‘Why?’

‘You said if I ever needed anything…’

Her eyes darted to his mouth. Did she fear he would pelt her with recrimination?

The thread of curiosity wound him closer still and he braced a hand against the door where she remained, back flat on the panel, his hand in kind, a few strands of black silk caught under his palm. His lips hovered over hers, that little cupid mouth, pink lips, heart-shaped face, wide beguiling green eyes. His heart pounded in his chest as if it demanded to be let free.

‘What is it you need, Vivienne?’

It was the first time he’d said her name, the syllables molten velvet, a caress disguised by letters and sounds. She swallowed, aware the slightest movement would close the infinitesimal distance between their mouths, his full lips near enough to feel every breath, sense the smallest sway.

‘I didn’t mean to anger you, Sin.’ She tried his name on her tongue, liking the sound of it, and a lick of excitement fuelled her courage. Control. This was power and control. Still he didn’t move away and a frisson of tension danced between them, the hum of unspoken words and forbidden suggestion.

‘Don’t call me that.’ He shook his head and his nose almost brushed hers.

‘Shall I call you Max then?’ A flicker of emotion lit his eyes. He blinked twice, long dark lashes framed eyes blacker than ink. A nerve ticked at the corner of his temple and for the first time she noticed the cut that sliced above his brow.

‘You’ve been hurt.’ Dismay caused her words to come out hushed. She snaked her hand between their bodies, careful not to touch though the urge was strong, and smoothed her fingers over the wound. He bristled but didn’t pull away. ‘What dreadful man did this to you?’

Her question must have amused. His mouth curled in a sly half-smile. ‘Why the daisies?’

Flustered by his change of subject and avoidance of the question, she inhaled a sharp breath and regretted the action. Warmth flooded her core. He smelled of brandy and leather and some woodsy cologne that spoke to the absolute virility of the man. He leaned over her, caged on one side by his muscular arm. Could he sense her fluster? Perspiration dotted her skin. ‘Flowers are pleasant.’ So was this. Dear heavens, so was this. Her heart exploded in applause to that conclusion.

‘I’ve indulged in many pleasurable things, yet never flowers.’ His gravelly tenor caused her pulse to leap.

‘All the more reason you should have them.’ Were she to move the tiniest space her mouth would touch his.

‘Do you bring bouquets to people all over London?’

He toyed with her now, but she truly didn’t mind. Inside her body, sensations bounced against her ribs as if they played a harmony.

‘Only those in need of reform.’ Had she said the words aloud?

His bark of laugher jarred her, but it was glorious, to be so close to his potent masculinity and see the sparkle of amusement in his obsidian eyes.

‘I can’t be reformed.’ He adopted a sympathetic tone as if he apologized and at the same time mourned the truth of his words.

He touched a lock of her hair with his free hand, winding the length around his finger and stroking it against her cheek. It was a terribly intimate gesture and her whole body revelled in that one velvet caress.

‘That’s not true.’ Her brows furrowed in dispute. ‘Of course—’

‘I’m a bastard.’

His eyes searched her face but she shared no reaction and when he saw none he leaned that much closer. She inhaled, wanting his scent inside her.

‘I’m a bastard and nothing can change the circumstance of my birth. I’m formed this way. There’ll be no reforming.’

The tension in his words was near overwhelming, the admission rife with too many emotions to label, yet no matter how he fought against it she could never allow him to believe it true.

‘I think—’

He captured her mouth in a demanding kiss that brought them against the door with its force. Good thing too. She melted beneath him, her legs of no use for support, her hands grasping the collar of his coat in desperate preservation.

He angled his head, fitting his mouth to hers in perfect position while his hand sunk into her hair, his fingers scraping across her scalp with tingling possession.

Dear Lord she must be dying. Leaving the earth and transcending to some other level of feeling, every cell of her body alive and drenched in invigorating sensation. His lips were strong, hot, powerful against hers and she arched into his body, opened her mouth to him and dropped her head back to rest against the curtain with a gasp of pleasure.

He took advantage.

He slid his tongue into her mouth, the first touch a mixture of liquid heat and wicked sin. She uncurled her fingers flat against his chest, the rapid rise and fall of his breath a reminder he was as affected as she. Somewhere in her dissolving better sense, a voice reminded she should fight against the liberties he sought, but whoever committed those rules of etiquette to feminine moral conduct had never been kissed by Maxwell Sinclair, bastard proprietor of London’s Underworld. How could she resist?

She was no fool, not so lost in the moment to neglect consuming passion. Drawing on scarce knowledge and innate instinct she rubbed her tongue against his and he groaned into her, the reaction an exhilarating rush of power. She relaxed in his arms, a pulse of rare courage and heady control coursing through her veins.

He changed too. Sometime during their kiss his posture eased, his tight hold turned into tender embrace and when he stepped back, he took her with him until he sat on the corner of his desk, his legs spread in a vee with her deposited between them.

Still the kiss continued. His hands framed her face to lock her to him. His teeth nipped, tongue rubbed and teased, all to lure her against his body, her breath high and fast, her weak legs threatening mutiny. A wave of light-headedness caused her to sway.

At last he pulled back and she used his shoulders for support, her hands set firm atop solid muscle.

‘Vivi.’ He spoke the word with aching tenderness and exhaled deeply. For a brief moment when she looked into his eyes she saw a different man.

Then it was gone. He straightened his posture and pulled in another long breath as if he braced for something. She watched with dubious concern.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_576969fb-9cdb-5f67-b000-863f2a3c1407)

He waited for the slap. Vivienne. Beautiful, delicate, aristocratic Vivienne. He’d kissed her hard, deep. He’d thrust his tongue into her mouth and rubbed with erotic suggestion like any one of the faceless cads he despised on the gaming floor. He could taste her still. The lingering sweetness, fresh as renewal, her sensual reaction nearly his undoing, and he blinked hard at the sudden conclusion he was losing his mind.

Dammit to hell.

He’d pulled her to the desk because another moment near the door and he would have pressed against her, the desire to touch her skin, feel the weight of her breasts and the curve of her arse chasing away all reason with overwhelming persistence.

He assessed her expression. She too appeared confused, but no strike was forthcoming.

‘Thank you.’ The two words whispered past before she straightened and stepped away.

‘What?’ He shook his head in an attempt to understand. No one thanked him for his kisses. Most women asked for more or took what they wanted, primarily money because they’d never get anything else. Certainly not sincere emotion. He guarded that well.

She appeared shy all of a sudden. ‘I was taught to default to manners when other words escape me.’

In that she was correct. There was no way to describe the intensity of their kiss. ‘You’re welcome.’ He stood and rounded the desk. He needed to put something between them. Furniture, a stone wall, the Thames…or he would pull her into his arms and start their kiss all over again.

‘I should go.’ Her eyes settled on the window of the far wall where the curtains remained open, a voyeur’s opportunity to observe his world. He said nothing and waited, privately pleased when she walked towards the glass to watch the activity below.

‘Go ahead. No one can see you.’ She threw a sharp glance over her shoulder, eyes full of questions, and he promptly explained. ‘The window offers a view of the floor downstairs, but only you and I have the privilege. Once below, the panel appears nothing more than a mural.’

Pleased with the novel consideration her expression altered. She laid one hand on the large pane as if she wished to absorb the energy from downstairs, and he liked her there, a part of the room. A part of his life.