The Trouble With Sin Page 5

  "It's not like that! I love her. Have neither of you worthless sods, any notion of deeper feeling?" Ned asked. "Any concept of tender devotion?"

  Simon chuckled. "I fear our Ned has truly been struck by cupid's dart."

  A clamor outside their chamber followed by a pounding on the door interrupted the exchange. Simon groaned, clutching his aching head. "Tell them to go away! Very. Far. Away!"

  Ned strode to the door, jerked it open, and then slammed it shut again. He turned to his comrades, grim-faced, and braced his large body against it. "It seems we have some uninvited guests."

  The pounding grew more insistent. A voice boomed, "Open up in the name of the Westminster Magistrate!"

  "Bloody hell!" Simon cried. "Can it get any worse?"

  "Open or we'll remove the door," another voice echoed the first.

  Ned stepped aside with a shrug of defeat and the door burst open.

  DeVere responded with a stream of colorful epithets, while with twin cries, Brigid and Bronaugh scrambled to hide behind the bed.

  "Repent of thy iniquity and be saved!" proclaimed a horrifyingly familiar voice.

  His sins had finally caught up with him. Simon groaned as the tiny woman marched into the center of the room in a militant manner. He made no effort to hide his nakedness when her gaze froze on him.

  He smiled. "Good morning, Mama."

  "Simon?" Lady Singleton gasped and then fell directly into a swoon.

  ***

  "Drunken debauchery and cavorting with prostitutes? The atrocity of your conduct beggars all description! Simon's father continued the harangue. "Where is your sense of decency? Of discretion?"

  "Technically speaking," Simon said, "one cannot call them prostitutes as there was no coin exchanged."

  Lord Singleton silenced his son with a cold stare. "You have publicly humiliated your family."

  "But it was only a harmless lark." Simon groaned.

  "Enough, Simon! Your entire life has been naught but a lark—a circumstance that ends here and now."

  "You're cutting me off?"

  His father glowered. "Oh no, my boy. That tack seems to have proven singularly ineffectual in curbing your debauchery. It's time for far more drastic measures."

  "What do you mean?" Simon felt a growing sense of alarm. With all the pranks he'd pulled over the years, he'd never seen this particular look in his father's eyes.

  "You have not only shamed your family, you have also utterly destroyed any chance of gaining a living by the church. Thus, it appears only one option remains."

  "But I can think of any number of alternatives," Simon argued. "Indeed, I am even now in the process of compiling a volume of my work—"

  "Your lewd and lascivious scribbles merit not the least attention in this discussion," Lord Singleton cut him off. "No offspring of mine is going to earn his bread as some ha'penny hack living in Grub Street squalor. No, my boy! You will give up your libertine leanings to earn a respectable living. Indeed, your mother has already posted a letter to your Uncle Thomas."

  Simon's mouth went instantly dry. "Uncle Thomas?"

  "Now that he is appointed Commander-in-Chief of his Majesty's North American forces, the time is nigh to purchase you a commission. Your latest escapade has made this all but a necessity."

  Simon's stomach clenched. The room began to spin. "God, no! Not the army! Anything but the army!"

  "Indeed the army! I only await Thomas' response as to which unit he would place you in."

  "Surely you cannot mean to ship me off to that godforsaken wilderness!"

  "I mean to do precisely that. You will set sail immediately for New York, where you will join one of General Thomas Gage's fine regiments."

  "But I am no soldier!" Simon cried.

  "Not now, perhaps, but you will be soon enough," his father replied icily.

  Simon stared dumbly at his father's mouth, watching it work, but barely comprehending the utterances that continued to spew forth. It was all too surreal. For years Simon had managed to elude, defy, and flout all manner of authority, making larks, laughter, and love the very heart of his existence. The army and all it represented with its rules, regulations, and regimentalism was the antithesis of all he believed in. His very soul would be crushed beneath their marching feet. Verily, to Simon, it was a fate worse than death.

  "Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp,

  Let's grimly kiss with bated breath;

  As quietly and solemnly

  As Life when it is kissing Death."

  - A Fleeting Passion by William Henry Davies

  Epilogue

  A battlefield near Saratoga, New York -1777

  He jerked awake at the sound of approaching voices, stifling first his groan and then the urge to call out. They were enemy voices. Or looters. Albeit present circumstances made them much the same. He attempted to bring his muddled thoughts into cohesion with a violent shake of his head that only created an excruciating scintillation of sparks behind his eyes.

  He recalled all now with visual flashes behind closed lids. He'd been part of a vanguard that had ridden straight into an ambush. With saber in one hand and pistol in the other, his weapons had been of little affect against an exploding cannon—a cannon the enemy wasn't supposed to possess, a fatal blunder of the recon team. He'd been struck in the temple by a jolt of molten lightning and blinded by his own blood. His horse had gone down, trapping him beneath, the horse that still held him captive with its rapidly decomposing body.

  He re-opened his eyes and looked wildly about. Dear God, how long had it been? Was it only hours, or had it been days that he'd lain here half buried? The maggots feeding on his horse indicated the latter. Now as full consciousness assailed him, so did the stench. His stomach lurched with dry heaves from the sickly sweet perfume of death that surrounded him.

  The enemy had drawn near enough that he could now hear other sounds—the crunch of boots on bone and the grunt of exertion, followed by the sickly popping sound of air escaping bloated bodies as enemy bayonets penetrated the corpses.

  They were much closer.

  Panic raced through his veins as he groped blindly for his sidearm. He didn't know how long he had until they discovered him, but there was no escape. Even if he could dig his way out, he'd lost all feeling in his legs. Perhaps he no longer had any legs and only the crushing weight of an equine carcass had prevented him from hemorrhaging to death.

  Fumbling with his left hand, he located the familiar cold metal cylinder that was the barrel of his pistol. A single shot was all he needed. He prayed to God it was still loaded, for his right hand was mangled beyond redemption and useless.

  Bloody hell! The weapon was caked with dirt and dried blood. He rubbed it against his coat in an attempt to clear away the bits of debris. He had only one chance. He couldn't afford for it to jam, and time was growing short.

  They were almost upon him.

  His fingers trembled as he cocked the hammer. He attempted to raise the pistol, but even this small exertion proved too draining of his already exhausted reserves. His hand dropped lifelessly to his side.

  Captain Simon Singleton's eyes fluttered shut to the lovely apparition of two laughing Irish nymphs. A bawdy verse came to mind, painting a ghost of a smile across parched and bloodied lips. As I draw my last breath and sigh my last sigh, I wish I was lost between dear Brigid's thighs…

  Sneak Peek: Jewel of the East (#5)

  (Simon and Salime's story)

  Chapter One

  King's Place, an elite brothel in St. James, Westminster - 1784

  "Are you quite certain, Mustafa?" Salime repeated in astonishment. The mute servant replied with a confident nod of his giant beturbaned head. With an exclamation of mixed anger and dismay, Salime resumed her fitful pacing of her chamber, kicking at the silk-tasseled cushions that littered the floor.

  This was the third time in a week that one of her clients had failed to keep his scheduled appointment. It made no sense when she'd al
ways been in such high demand. Known as the exotic and mysterious Jewel of the East, Salime was the most sought-after courtesan in all of London. She now wondered if after nearly five years of reigning supreme, her star had begun to fade.

  No, it was unthinkable! No woman in all of England could equal her skills in the erotic arts. She had taken meticulous measures to ensure no man would ever become bored with her. Just as a concubine only had one night to couch with the sultan, Salime had adopted a policy of never accepting the same gentleman into her bed twice. By offering her clients an erotic experience that would never be repeated, she also guaranteed she would never be forgotten.

  Given the exorbitant rates clients paid for Salime, she had always benefitted from preferential treatment. Until now. Change had come with Mrs. Hayes' retirement, and none of it to Salime's benefit. To her misfortune, the famous bawd had passed the baton to Salime's greatest rival, Kitty Matthews. As the number two courtesan of King's Place, Kitty made no secret of her resentment of the one she called “the heathen whore.”

  Kitty's first act of retaliation was to demand a higher percentage, raising the procuress' poundage from five shillings per guinea to ten. It was unfair in the extreme, but Salime had little choice but to remain at King's Place. In truth, life in the brothel was little different from that of the Imperial Harem, a place where rivalry for favor was a way of life. The only difference was now, thanks to Efendi, Salime had the benefit of Mustafa to defend her person, even if he could do nothing to protect her livelihood. For that, she had only herself.

  "Come, Mustafa," she ordered her eunuch. "I have need of answers."

  Snatching up a veil to conceal her face, Salime departed her private domain for the more public areas where, unlike the others who had to seek out their clients, Salime rarely had cause to appear. At the entrance to the opulent reception rooms, she accosted the first wooden-faced servant she encountered.

  "Baron Winthrop, has he not arrived? He was appointed to see me this evening but has not appeared in my chambers. Perhaps he has taken to cards or other entertainments?" she asked.

  "No, Madam Salime. He is not at cards." The servant's gaze shifted away from her face to focus somewhere over her left shoulder.

  Perhaps it was not precisely a perjury, but something was not right. She knew it in her bones. "Then you have seen Lord Winthrop?"

  The footman's gaze darted about the lavish room and then to the soaring frescoed ceiling with its massive Venetian crystal chandelier. "Aye. I seen him," he confessed.

  "That is all you have to say?" Salime placed her hands on her hips. "It seems you would make me draw the truth from you in slow agony, much like a bad tooth? Perhaps Mustafa would be a more effective tooth drawer than myself?"

  She half-turned to the giant eunuch who stood behind her with arms crossed over his massive chest. Her threat was not without effect. The footman's formerly deadpan eyes widened.

  "His lordship came as appointed, Madam Salime, but I was instructed to conduct him to Madam Kitty's chambers."

  "To Kitty?" Salime frowned. "And there he remained?"

  "To the best of me knowledge."

  Salime's frown deepened to a full-blown scowl. "And the evening last," she continued, "did you also conduct Sir Phineas Weatherby to Kitty's chamber?"

  "Those were my instructions, madam." He added apologetically, "I only follow the orders of the one what pays my wages."

  And that was Kitty.

  It would do little good to castigate the servant any further. He was not to blame for following orders. Hiding her increasing distress behind a tight smile, Salime slipped a few coins into his palm. "You will tell no one we have spoken." With gold bracelets clanging, and silver bells on her slippers jangling, Salime spun away.

  Kitty was poaching her clients! It was unconscionable. But how, when these patrons specifically requested Salime? Her mind whirled with this puzzle. Kitty was attractive enough in the common English way, but she had never come close to challenging the allure of the exotic Jewel of the East. Now there were three in one week?

  Suddenly the pieces began falling into place.

  They were small things at first, trifles hardly worth mentioning, that had disappeared from her rooms—a bracelet, a couple of silver bells, a scarf. But over the past few weeks, Salime had noticed items of her clothing had also gone missing. At first she had suspected one of the chambermaids of theft but then wondered what a simple English girl would do with a pair of Turkish trousers or a bejeweled girdle.

  How stupid she had been. The answer was now so obvious. Her adversary intended to usurp her place. It was not the first time a rival had attempted to destroy her, but she swore it would be the last.

  Armed with this resolution, Salime marched to Kitty's apartments where a burly servant guarded the entrance—a servant who wore distinctly Eastern clothing. Her certainty was increasing by the second.

  The servant's brows furrowed. "Madam Kitty is occupied with a guest."

  "Is it Lord Winthrop she entertains?"

  "I am not at liberty to say."

  "Then I will see for myself. Stand aside," Salime commanded.

  The servant puffed his chest, refusing to budge.

  "You would hinder my entrance?" Salime lifted a disdainful brow. "You may oppose me if you wish, but I warn you that Mustafa has crushed the life out of three men with his bare hands." She turned to her eunuch. "Mustafa, open the door."

  Mustafa stepped forward to place his huge paws on the smaller man's shoulders, easily lifting him into the air and depositing him none too gently several feet away. A single kick followed, splintering the door within its frame.

  Mustafa then stepped aside with a salaam and a gap-toothed smile for his mistress.

  Returning a nod of approval, Salime stalked into the apartment to a scene that stole her breath. Brass lanterns provided a low glow of light. Countless yards of silk draped from the ceiling and covered the walls. Turkish rugs and cushions littered the colorfully carpeted floor. Kitty’s chamber had been transformed into a near duplication of her own. The situation was far worse than she'd thought.

  Kitty had not stolen only her clients but her very identity!

  "How dare you interrupt us!" Kitty screeched.

  "How dare I?" Salime repeated softly. "I am not the brazen imposter." She speared her rival with a look of pure contempt, taking in the black wig that topped Kitty's head to the Turkish trousers encasing her legs.

  "Who is this woman?" Baron Winthrop bolted up from the bed with a look of outrage. His wig was askew, and his falls were open, displaying his puny specimen of manhood.

  "She is of no account." Kitty sneered.

  "She lies, my lord." Salime advanced to the pedestal bed, her bells jangling with her stiff movements. "I am Salime, perhaps better known to you as Jewel of the East. It seems we are both victims of a great fraud. If you doubt me, here is your proof." Salime snatched the wig from Kitty’s blond head, tossing it to the puzzled nobleman.

  In retaliation, Kitty grappled for the silk veil that draped across Salime's face, yanking it away.

  Salime gasped, desperately grabbing at the wispy shield that concealed her disfigurement but it was too late. It was like Topkapi Palace all over again! Her secret was revealed to the one who would not hesitate to destroy her.

  Kitty erupted in a chortle of delight. "So that's why you hide behind your veils? No wonder! Who would wish to bed such a hag? You see what I have saved you from, my lord?"

  Kitty turned back to Salime with a vicious smile. "There is no room for such hideousness at King's Place. Remove yourself at once, you heathen whore!"

  "As you wish."

  Salime snatched up her veil with an outward hauteur, though her hands shook and her head reeled. She had come to Kitty’s apartment prepared to fight, but she had failed. Once more she would be cast out onto the street. There was nothing to do now but accept her fate with quiet dignity. Her reign at King’s Place had come to an end.

  Her steps
slowed as she returned to her chamber to pack her belongings. She pondered her remaining options with a growing sense of despair. Private keeping as a gentleman's mistress was not an option for her. There was a time that she had hoped differently, but her hopes had proven futile.

  He had chosen another.

  Yet she knew she could still turn to him, the only one aside from her mute Mustafa who knew all of her secrets—the only one she could trust.

  Chapter Two

  Medford Abbey, Kent

  A sharp rap soon sounded on the door. Ludovic, Viscount DeVere glanced up from his periodical to the entrance of a liveried footman. "A message for you, my lord."

  The servant offered the wax-sealed missive on a silver salver. "It was delivered by a most…unusual…courier." The footman gave a sniff of disdain.

  "Indeed? What do you mean?" Ludovic asked in a bored drawl.

  "'Tis a behemoth blackamoor, my lord."

  "Mustafa?" Ludovic threw down his periodical and snatched up the missive. "What the devil?"

  "He awaits in the kitchen. Insufferable rude creature he be. Just stands all akimbo. Refuses even to speak."

  "The man cannot speak. He has no tongue. They took it when they castrated the poor devil."

  The footman's eyes bulged. He involuntarily crossed his legs. Ludovic broke the seal and scanned the contents with a deepening frown.

  Most honored Efendi,

  It is with the greatest humility that I appeal to he who once safeguarded my life. It is with exceeding distress that I must entreat you once more, being much in need of a friend and protector.

  Your most devoted and obedient servant,

  Salime

  Ludovic read the cryptic note once more. Salime in want of a protector? What a sticky situation that created. But given their shared history, he would never deny her aid. Beyond that, Salime had been instrumental in helping him to achieve his present state of connubial bliss. For that alone he owed her his undying gratitude.