Sinful (Hot Regency Romance Novella) (2 page)

This was her establishment, the place where
she had finally wrested some control of her life, some hope for a
future, and she was retreating from him.

The only other time she’d been tongue-tied
with Lyan had been on their “wedding” night. After trading jibes
with him for years, after sparking argument after argument with
him, she’d found that once she’d finally admitted she loved him—and
what else would agreeing to marriage mean?—she’d suddenly been
unable to speak to him.

It happened the moment he started to undress.
As his shirt came off and his trousers fell down, she realized he
was hers. Hers to touch. Hers to pleasure and to cherish.

Hers to obey.

She didn’t marry him. They shared one night
that he said was just like a wedding night. That was the reason for
the way he glowered at her now—the reason that tension seemed to
fill her small office, pressing her further back toward the
wall.

But since she had run out on him instead of
taking vows, she did not have to obey him now.

Instead, she stiffened her spine and marched
back to her desk. When only the polished mahogany surface and
well-used blotter separated them, she asked crisply, “What is it
you want? Do you wish to see my book of accounts? You are free to
review it, if you are interested to what a satin ball gown costs
these days. If it’s the measurements of my clients that interest
you, I will not help you there. That information resides only in my
head.”

“Yes, Madame Desjardins, why don’t we begin
with your accounts?” He held out his gloved palm.

“Until I know why you wish to peruse my
private information, the keys stay where they are.” She touched her
skirt. She carried her keys in a pocket skillfully sewn into her
dress, one designed to not be bulky or ruin the line of the
smooth-flowing gown.

His dark brow lifted. “If I wanted, I could
get those keys out of your skirt and you could do nothing to stop
me. However, that is not the way I do business. I want your help,
Estelle. I need it. I am here about Lady Maryanne Bryght.”

A shudder of apprehension slid down her
spine, but she didn’t dare reveal that to him. “Lady Maryanne?” She
frowned as she spoke and tapped her lips as though dredging up
inconsequential memories. “I do believe she was a client of mine.
But why—?”

“The keys.”

Heart pounding, Estelle tried again. “Why are
you here about Lady Maryanne?”

When he didn’t answer, she seethed with
frustration. She knew exactly why he was here. Her appointment book
would reveal that Lady Maryanne had come to see her five days
before. But she had to pretend to be innocent, which meant she
should be cooperative and let him look at the book.

There was no crime in giving a dress fitting
to a young woman, after all.

Or she could attempt to distract him. Lyan’s
large body was planted behind her desk. She could attempt to slip
into the space herself and fetch her own book. She would have to
press very closely against him. In the past, that used to distract
Lyan.

No.
She simply couldn’t do it. She
couldn’t use seduction to manipulate him. It hurt to face him as an
adversary. But she’d known, when she’d left, that they would never
be anything but enemies. She had never intended to see him again.
She had behaved cruelly to him. She could not deny it. But she
could not bear making him think that she was so callous she would
use sex to distract him.

Taking a deep breath, Estelle removed her few
keys from her pocket and dropped them into his hand. “The shortest
one will work.”

“Indeed.” He opened the top drawer and pulled
out her ledger. A moment later, he planted his trouser-clad rump on
the edge of her desk and flipped open the book.

“She had an appointment for a gown, Lyan.
But, for heaven’s sake, why is that of interest to—?”

Thud.

Her book of accounts landed, closed, on her
desk. The slap of it echoed like a pistol shot and she knew she had
jumped when her feet touched the carpet again. He lifted his head
to level his gaze at her. His green eyes had narrowed, and he
looked so expressionless that she couldn’t contain a shiver. Her
shoulders jerked with it. The Lyan she remembered had never looked
so cold.

You did this to him.
You
made him
so icy and hard and angry.

The guilty thought burst into her head from
nowhere. But she pushed it away firmly. Of course not. He had been
a Bow Street Runner for years. He had pursued murderers,
kidnappers, opium smugglers. Surely she had not been the one to
take away the roguish lightheartedness she had once loved to see
sparkle in his eyes.

“You’re lying to me, Sal. That’s why I
haven’t come to see you before. I knew all you’d give me was a pack
of lies.”

“Perhaps you should explain why you are here
first, before assuming that’s all I will do.” She tipped up her
chin and spoke with the bravado she’d cultivated in the Whitechapel
stews. She had to stall for time, force her frightened wits to
invent a story. She had always anticipated some gentleman might
learn what she was doing. But she had never dreamed the man who
would confront her would be Lyan.

Estelle watched his large hands slowly
clench. How much had he changed? How much was he willing to hurt
her in revenge for how deeply she must have wounded him?

Gently, he rested his fists on top of her
ledger and leaned closer to her. Relief made her shoulders sag. Of
course he would not hurt her physically. In the past, Lyan had
beaten other men who hurt women. Injuring someone weaker was
something he could not forgive.

She stared at the way the leather of his
gloves stretched over his bent knuckles, but her foolish mind
remembered how his strong hands had proved surprisingly gentle when
they had cupped her breasts on that glorious, heart-wrenching night
ten years ago—

She shook her head, swiftly dismissing the
scalding vision. But her skin had become terribly hot beneath her
stays and shift and muslin petticoats. Her breasts had responded to
her wayward thoughts and felt plumper beneath her gown. The bodice
felt like an over-tightened vise against her suddenly sensitive
skin.

He watched her, and the silence stretched
between them. Just when she was about to break it, because she
couldn’t stand the sound of her pounding heart echoing in her ears,
he said softly, “At first, I suspected Lady Maryanne did not come
to see you. I assumed she had used your appointment as an excuse to
leave her house so early in the morning. I believed she had headed
to Gretna Green instead.”

In the stews, she had stared down any number
of men—from randy young toffs to vicious pimps looking to drag her
into their seedy flash houses. But it was not so easy to meet the
gaze of this man with cool indifference. A maelstrom of emotions
surged in her. Guilt for what she had done to him ten years ago.
And more guilt, for his assumption was correct but she could not
admit it. She had to move away again. She walked toward the
fireplace, praying her movement hid the trembling of her shoulders.
“Then you should be able to find her.”

He watched her intently—she felt the strength
of his gaze on her back.

“My dear, that appointment was five days ago.
She should have returned a happily married woman by now. I followed
her tracks along the Great North Road as far as the border, and
then she disappeared. No one in Gretna remembers her. If she was
wed over the anvil, no one will admit to performing the ceremony.
She has vanished into thin air.”

“Vanished? That’s not possible!” Estelle
jerked back from the fireplace so quickly, her hand knocked
something from the mantel. She saw a flash of white, helpless to
catch it. Dimly, she recognized it as a favorite vase as it
shattered on the tiles.

It wasn’t possible. It could not be.

She had put her hand to her mouth. It had
been a reflexive gesture of horror. But it would be a natural
response, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t tell Lyan anything, would
it?

“Yes, Sally.” His voice was deep, soft, grim.
“It is very possible.”

She had to know exactly what had happened.
There must be some mistake. Maryanne must have reached Gretna Green
and married. Surely the man Maryanne had eloped with had not—

No.
Estelle fought for composure. She
had investigated Lady Maryanne’s handsome young scholar. That was
what she did. She smoothed the course of true love for young ladies
about to be forced into loveless marriages. She had made her choice
years ago—security over love. But that did not mean she could bear
to see innocent women made into prisoners in their marriages.

Her investigation had revealed Maryanne’s
gentleman was exactly what he claimed to be: a younger son of a
now-impoverished baron and a studious, respectable, noble young
man. All accounts painted him as gentle and completely besotted
with Maryanne.

Had something gone wrong? Had something
terrible happened to that beautiful, sweet young woman?

Estelle knew she must face Lyan. It would be
natural if she knew nothing about Lady Maryanne’s elopement and was
simply shocked. “D—do you know whom she ran away with?”

She had meant to sound calm, but she could
not stop her voice from shaking.

His emerald green eyes focused on her lips,
as though he were reading words there that she had not spoken. “No,
Madame Desjardins. Do you?”

This was a nightmare. There was no one in
London—in all England—who knew her like Lyan did. If anyone could
see through a lie, it would be he. “Good heavens, why would the
girl confide such a thing to me? I was a dressmaker, not a friend.
I assure you I have no idea.”

Had she overdone it? Darn the man—he showed
no expression at all and it made her nervous.

“Are you certain she has disappeared?” she
continued. “If she eloped, would she not try to evade capture?” She
wanted to believe this was true, but she knew it wasn’t. If Lyan
was convinced the girl had vanished, he would be right.

“Yes, she would try to hide. On that, I agree
with you. However, for the staggering amount of money I offered for
information, someone would have admitted they had seen her.”

That would certainly be true. Her heart began
to thunder again. “Who gave you a staggering amount of money?” she
asked, though she could guess, of course.

“Her guardian asked me to spare no expense to
find her.”

“But how could something have happened to
her? She wasn’t alone. It is a well-travelled road...” She wasn’t
being careful of her words now, but she couldn’t stop thinking of
the happiness and hope she’d seen in Lady Maryanne’s eyes and of
how awful—how inhuman—it would be if all that hope had led only to
tragedy.

Her stomach roiled. She wanted to be sick.
But that was the last thing she wanted to do in front of Lyan.

“Some fortune hunters are not the nicest of
men,” he pointed out dryly.

That was true, but she had ensured that
Maryanne’s beloved was not a fortune hunter.

If anything she could tell Lyan would help,
she would say it now. Five days ago, she had watched Lady Maryanne
climb into a hackney. She had lent the eighteen-year-old girl a
purse filled with money to finance the journey, since, like most
girls, Maryanne had no access to money of her own.

She had sent Maryanne on her escape to true
love.

There had been no reason to assume Maryanne
had not reached Scotland, where a young couple needed no one’s
consent but their own to marry. As soon as they crossed the border,
lovers could marry anywhere, but Gretna Green was close. Since the
couple usually wanted to be joined in haste, that was where they
would usually stop. Vows were spoken over the anvil at blacksmith’s
shops, officiated by blacksmith priests.

Maryanne should have been safely wed now.
However, Estelle trusted Lyan’s intelligence and his instincts. If
he feared something had gone wrong, she knew he must be right.

Oh God. That poor, innocent girl…

What should she do? She could tell Lyan the
identity of Maryanne’s fiancé, but she was certain that young man
had been honorable. If something had happened to Maryanne, it
wouldn’t have been at his hands. If they’d encountered a
highwayman, if a criminal had been the reason for Maryanne’s
disappearance, her fiancé would likely be dead already…

No. Dear heaven, no. But blurting out the
truth of what she had done would not accomplish anything. It would
not give Trevelyan any additional useful information. The truth
would only destroy her. And she was not the sole person she had to
worry about.

She faced him, knowing she could not give him
the truth, but she had to somehow give him enough. “Lady Maryanne
came here that morning. We had another fitting. Dresses for her
wedding trousseau, for her upcoming nuptials with her guardian,
Lord Cavell.” The name sat on Estelle’s tongue with all the foul
taste of rancid meat, but she managed not to shudder as she said
it. “But by the end of the appointment, I knew she would not need
the dress. I knew she planned to go to Gretna Green and that her
fiancé was an honorable man. I do not know any more than that,
Lyan.”

“You do, Sally. Everything about you screams
to me that you’re keeping secrets. You always looked your most
defiant when you were telling me a tale. I think you knew what Lady
Maryanne planned to do. What you know may help me find her. Now,
how about we strike a bargain? You tell me everything, and I won’t
go back out and have a nice chat about our childhood with the
Duchess of St. Ives.”

What she knew wouldn’t help. If she really
believed it would, she would tell him, even without threats. But
since it wouldn’t…

“Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t destroy me,
Lyan. It may please you to see me lose everything, but I would not
be the only one to suffer. You see, I have a daughter.”