Tempting Sin Read online

  Tempting Sin

  Ann Lethbridge

  Published by Ann Lethbridge, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  TEMPTING SIN

  First edition. November 1, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Ann Lethbridge.

  ISBN: 978-0993957420

  Written by Ann Lethbridge.

  Also by Ann Lethbridge

  A Most Peculiar Season

  Lady Sybil's Vampire

  A Most Peculiar Season Sampler

  Standalone

  Remember

  Tempting Sin (Coming Soon)

  Watch for more at Ann Lethbridge’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Ann Lethbridge

  Dedication

  Tempting Sin

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dear Reader,

  Also By Ann Lethbridge

  This book is dedicated to my husband Keith, who believed I could actually write a book and have it published. It is also dedicated to my Agent Scott Egan and all the wonderful people who helped make my dream come true

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hyde Park London 1817

  “Gentlemen, are you ready?”

  A stark question for a misty Spring morning.

  Sin to friend and foe alike, Simon St. John, the seventh Earl of Travis, nodded. He sensed a similar movement from his opponent at his back. Focused on the cold of engraved silver against his palm. On of the best pistols Manton had ever made. Simon relaxed his grip.

  Distant trees loomed from the low-lying mist like gallows, arms spread wide to receive their victim. Ghostly harbingers of death. The air damp against his skin. The burning, acrid taste of London’s thousands of coal fires. The fetid stink of the river. In his ears, his heart, a mere organ without feeling in the cold empty space behind his ribs, thudded a steady rhythm.

  “One,” counted Ogden, his opponent’s second.

  Simon’s shiny black boots scattered the fog’s crystalline residue on the emerald grass.

  Yelverton. The boy’s name was Yelverton. Simon wanted to curse.

  A damned duel over what amounted to little more than a handful of guineas and a property in Kent already mortgaged to the hilt. How had it gone this far? A few vowels strewn on a battered gaming table in one of London’s grimy hells promising a run-down house and an ill-managed estate and none of it worth a man’s life at twenty paces.

  “Three!”

  Curse Yelverton for a hotheaded fool. And Ogden, whose taunts had ratcheted up the quarrel until the only option left had death lurking over their shoulders in a remote corner of Hyde Park.

  Damn it. He had no grudge against Yelverton, but if the worst happened, and it so easily could, he’d have to leave England. A second fatal duel in a year would not escape the authorities’ attention. And a sudden departure for distant shores would bring months of negotiation with a harridan of a mother to naught.

  “Seven!”

  He inhaled air as cold as he was inside.

  “Ten!” A death knell all but muffled to extinction by the thick damp air.

  He turned.

  Yelverton, his coat button to his throat, desperation etched into pinched white features stared at him across the open space. Mist eddied softly around his feet. A light breeze ruffled his dark hair.

  The expressions of the handful of watchers filled with morbid curiosity: the seconds, the doctor and the coachmen leaning against their carriages. The steaming breaths of the horses and silent men hung in the air like fog.

  How odd that two men should want to kill each other in the face of such peace.

  How odd that he would give a damn. He was, after all, the aggrieved party.

  Simon breathed in. Lifted his arm. Breathed out. He obliterated all but the feel of his weapon. Saw only the man who wanted him dead. A gossamer thread stretched from the pistol sight to the center of Yelverton’s sweating brow. The path of his bullet.

  A flash of white. The handkerchief hung suspended, then fluttered to the ground.

  Yelverton steadied his pistol arm with his other hand, his body swaying, off balance.

  Bloody hell! Was the idiot drunk?

  A spark from Yelverton’s pistol. A puff of smoke. An explosion ripped the quiet asunder. Rooks took wing with harsh cries. The bullet buzzed, hot and angry, past Simon’s ear.

  He held his gaze along his line. An easy mark, the madman didn’t even have the sense to turn sideways on. Simon fired.

  Yelverton crumpled to his knees with a strangled cry. Honor was satisfied. Yelverton’s anyway. Simon made no pretense of honor. One of the reasons they called him Sin.

  Behind him, the sound of scuffling feet and breathless sobs. Simon glanced back. Black hair flying in a tangled mess, a young woman ran full pelt across the grass toward them. A straw bonnet bounced against her shoulders, while blue skirts, held high, revealed shapely ankles. A Dresden shepherdess lacking only her crook and her sheep. The image had a smile pulling at his lips until he saw her face. No artist, no matter how good, could capture the anguish in this beauty’s expression. What in devil’s name was a woman doing here, of all places?

  A voice yelled.

  Simon whirled back to see both seconds running toward Yelverton, with expressions full of horror. Simon frowned. He knew he’d fired wide. Realization dawned with sickening certainty as his gaze took in his opponent. Still on his knees, Yelverton was pointing a second, smaller pistol at Simon.

  A killing shot, should it be on target. There was to be no honor on this field today, then. He turned his body slowly and faced the armed man square on. What would be, would be.

  Everyone converged on Yelverton. All but Simon detachedly watching the scene unfold. Yelverton’s attention shifted to the running woman. Despair twisted his features. The terrible darkness of despair filled his expression.

  In an instant of understanding, a warning half-formed on Simon’s lips. Too late. Yelverton turned the gun, placed it against his temple and fired. The crack of the shot echoed among the startled calls of the rooks.

  A chorus of shocked cries rose as Yelverton pitched face down on the grass.

  The woman’s scream carried to Simon, flat, deadened by the mist, but piercingly gut wrenching nonetheless. She dropped to her knees beside Yelverton.

  Simon squeezed his eyes shut. Relief at the reprieve? Or regret that he was the one left on his feet? He neither knew nor cared.

  Surely, he simply wanted this whole bloody mess over and done. He strode for the group around the fallen man. His second, Ian, the Marquess of Deveril stopped him partway. The Norse god of a man—huge, blond and simmering with suppressed anger—snatched Simon’s dueling pistol from his hand. He nestled it into the white satin lined case then snapped closed the silver-bound lid. “What the deuce?”

  Simon shook his head, his gaze held by the wild tangle of ebony hair, barely visible between the legs of the men around the fallen man. “Who is the woman?”

  Dev stared at him, green eyes snapping fury. “The woman?” he gritted out from between clenched teeth. “You want to know abou
t the woman? Now?”

  Viscount Ogden, his fair hair tousled, bent over her, trying to lift her away. Simon’s fists clenched. The urge to drag her free of Ogden’s touch vibrated through his body. Was she why Ogden had befriended Yelverton? It would be like him. Some twenty years Yelverton’s senior, Ogden was renowned for his elegance of style and manner among the ladies. And more than one green youth had followed him down a path to hell. But Ogden usually plucked far wealthier pigeons than this young man had been.

  Simon shouldered his way through the crowd, for what purpose he could not say, but he was aware of Dev right behind him. A good man to have at your back, the marquess. When he was sober.

  The doctor glanced up, a grim twist to his lips. “Dead, my lord.” He was addressing Ogden. The woman gave a soft moan.

  “He was drunk,” Simon said spearing Ogden with a look.

  Ogden glowered at him over the woman’s head now pressed to his shoulder. “Then you should have refused to continue, my lord.”

  Fury hazed red across his vision. “It was your task to get him to the field in good order.”

  “Sin,” Dev murmured in his ear. “We are done here.”

  The girl struggled free of Ogden’s hold. “He can’t be dead. He can’t.” She threw herself down on the grass, beside the doctor, clutching at his arm. “Do something.”

  Simon glanced at the body. A point blank shot to the right temple? From the blood and brains scattered in the grass, death had been instant.

  The doctor wrenched his arm free and stood. “Young woman, I know my business. There is nothing to be done.”

  “It’s no good, Victoria,” Ogden said softly, pulling at her shoulders. “Come away.”

  The sight of Ogden fawning over the weeping girl sickened Simon. He took in the shabby pelisse, and the beautiful, distraught face gazing at the doctor, trying to comprehend his words. Her small hands stretched towards the man in a silent plea. Anguish emanated from her in waves and touched Simon in a place he thought time had frozen out of existence.

  He drew in a sharp breath. Fought for distance. For chill disinterest.

  “What is she? His doxy?” He knew there was no wife.

  At the sound of his voice, the girl glanced around, tears rolling down pallid cheek. Grief-stricken eyes the color of bruises met his. A color so strange, so deep, a man’s soul could drown in it. If he had a soul.

  “Devil!” Her voice was a choked whisper. “You killed him!” Without warning, she leapt to her feet and clawed at his face.

  Simon caught her wrists. Her cold hands fluttered like the wings of a bird, frantic with fear. Yet beneath the fear, was the courage of anger, the need to strike out.

  He eased her away, pushed her toward Ogden. “Get her out of here.”

  Ogden caught her around the shoulders. “Damn you, Sin, for a black-hearted fiend. She’s his sister.”

  She sank to the ground, her face pressed to her brother’s chest, her sobs filling the awkward silence of men confronted by sentiment.

  Sister. Something twisted painfully in Simon’s chest. Sadness for the girl, not the brother who had risked everything on the throw of a dice. When he’d accused Simon of cheating, had he given no thought to his sister? To the consequence of such folly?

  Impulsive youth. It made Simon feel old and weary and mired in darkness. Shaking his head, he walked away. This melodrama had reached its final act.

  Dev handed him the greatcoat he’d taken off mere minutes ago and he shrugged into it.

  To his surprise, Ogden left the girl and joined him and Dev. A sneer curled his thin lips. “What will you do with her, Sin?”

  “Do?” Simon stared at the slender, fashionably-attired viscount whose gaze held a hint of triumph along with the challenge. “What the deuce should I do with her?”

  Ogden glanced at the weeping girl. He moved closer, lowered his voice. “You took it all, Sin, you and your devilish luck—his money, his house and his sister.”

  Aghast, Simon retreated a step. Yelverton had been headed along the path to ruin long before last night. Simon had unwittingly hastened the process by winning the last of the man’s fortune in a single sitting. “Not a chance, Ogden. The girl is nothing to me. He killed himself.”

  The sneer hardened. “He was all the family she had, and you brought him to ruin.”

  Patience at an end, Simon grabbed Ogden by the cravat, and brought him nose to nose. “You want her, she’s yours.” As soon as the words were spoken, he wanted to haul them back. Grind them under his heel. Not even a dog deserved Ogden for a friend.

  “She’s out on the street, then,” Ogden said. He shook his head. “Damned pity that.”

  Damn it, she was not Simon’s responsibility, though clearly Ogden had no intention of taking her in. He was always notably pockets to let and probably couldn’t afford it. Simon’s gaze drifted to the girl about to endure the horrors of abandonment.

  He did not care. Would not.

  “You as good as killed him when you took his bet,” Ogden blathered on. “You knew you would win. She is your responsibility. Have you no honor?”

  Simon’s blood ran cold. “Are you disputing my honor?” He’d like nothing better than to put a bullet through Ogden and to hell with the consequences.

  Ogden licked his lips. “Nay, you misunderstand.”

  Simon chuckled softly. “Very well then.”

  “About the girl...” Ogden hesitated.

  Simon waited in chilly silence.

  “It would be better for the sister,” Ogden finally said, “if this was reported as an unfortunate accident.”

  Simon offered him no encouragement, pulling on his gloves in preparation to leave.

  “The scandal will completely ruin any chance she might have of marriage. We can say his weapon went off while he was cleaning it. What harm would it do?”

  It wouldn’t matter whether it was reported as an accident or a suicide, the news of this morning’s duel would be all over Town by noon and Simon would be blamed. He didn’t care one way or the other and Deveril would go along with whatever he asked. “If you obtain everyone’s agreement.”

  “But you will pay for the burial?”

  Simon nodded. Ogden never had a feather to fly and Yelverton had likely left nothing but debts.

  Ogden pulled out his watch. “I will speak to the others. We need to be gone from here before the constables take a notion to notice. I’ll look after his horse and leave the hackney for Miss Yelverton.”

  A slight bow was all the reply Simon deigned to give.

  A pity about the sister, indeed. His gaze flicked to the girl, who wept while the coachmen loaded her brother’s lifeless form into the doctor’s waiting carriage. Even grief-ravaged, her beauty shone like a rare jewel. Clearly Ogden wanted her, despite his taunts. It showed in his eyes. He’d as good as pushed young Yelverton into the duel and the viscount never did anything not in his own interest.

  With her brother gone, along with his fortune, she likely had no dowry. No prospects. No woman, even if she was a lady, ought to fall into hands of a man like Ogden. A sense of unease twisted in Simon’s gut. Sympathy? Concern? Hardly likely. He had no room or reason for simpering emotion.

  She was not his responsibility. And besides, no matter the circumstances of her brother’s death, Miss Yelverton was a lady. Far too good for the likes of him.

  After speaking to the others, Ogden mounted and rode off dragging along what was clearly a rented hack.

  Dev’s long stride carried him to Simon’s side, his mouth grim. “That’s it then.” He had obviously finished the details with the doctor and provided the necessary funds to see Yelverton properly interred. Simon had given him enough bills the previous evening to cover every eventuality. “Ready to go?”

  “Almost.” He gestured to his coachman to approach. “Put the woman in my carriage and have her taken to Travis Place.” The words issued from his mouth almost before he formed them in his mind.

  The coa
chman touched his hat and moved away.

  Dev’s hazel eyes filled with concern. “You are not serious.”

  Cold as ice, Simon raised an eyebrow.

  Dev winced but ploughed on. “Damn you, Sin. She’s not your sort of female.” The man had more courage than enough. A fault Simon appreciated when so few dared speak their mind.

  “She is now.”

  Dev cursed and stomped off, knowing better than to argue, while Sin went for his horse. In the distance, the doctor’s black carriage rolled out of Hyde Park, disappearing into the teeming London metropolis where men died every day with little remark. If Ogden spoke the truth, Yelverton was the last of his line, except for his sister.

  Simon glanced at the girl—Victoria? Unresisting, she allowed his footman to help her into his carriage. She was the last thing he had expected or wanted to win when he had rolled the dice the previous evening.

  Victoria slumped against plush, blue and gold squabs and closed her eyes. The carriage’s rocking motion offered no comfort. Too late! Anger burned in her throat. Anger at Ogden for sending his message too late. Anger at the man who had gambled with a stripling still learning his way in the world. But most of all, anger at herself for not seeing. Like his father before him, Michael had been weak. Easily led astray. But she’d loved him. Loved them both. They were all she had. And now both were gone. She should have seen something was wrong when he arrived home the previous evening. Should have known.

  An image of Michael’s limp body on the blood-soaked grass, so still and so strangely empty, tore at her mind. She covered her face with her hands, trying to blot it out.

  Time after time, she had begged him to stay away from the gambling tables. He’d laughed at her fears, certain his luck would change.

  Mother would have known how to make him stop. Victoria had failed miserably. Why hadn’t she seen. Sobs filled her heart and her throat, drowning each breath. She clutched at the seat cushions, as if they would keep her from falling apart, or from drowning in sorrow.