The Darkest Sin Read Online Free

The box seemed to pulse with significance, although she couldn’t articulate why. It lay heavily in her hands and she hesitated only for an instant before prying it open. Her breath stopped in her throat as she surveyed the delicate oval of a small portrait nestled against pale rose silk. The subject was a woman of remarkable beauty, with shining dark eyes, a mobile mouth, and a luxuriance of wheat-gold hair. Rowena stared long and hard, unable to look away from the fine portrait, her mind grasping at possibilities.
    It was then she heard the footsteps, and in the next instant saw the doorknob turning, giving her a scant moment to shove the oval back in its velvet box before she slid over to stand behind the screen, both courage and plans momentarily scrambled. She concentrated on steadying and silencing her breath, unwilling for the moment to let James Lyndon Rushford know she was in his rooms. Not to ask for help. But to demand it .
    Rushford moved quietly and fluidly for a man of his size. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a thick head of hair that needed the attention of his valet. He placed a heavy tumbler of brandy on the bedside table and began shrugging off his jacket, discarding it over the end of the bed. Unraveling his cravat with one hand, large but long, elegant fingers extracted a flint from a box on a low table. The candle by the bedside flared to life.
    Rowena stilled. Rushford’s profile was etched in dark and light, a broad forehead, bold nose, wide mouth, and eyes the color of a dark and turbulent ocean. It was a face that one would not readily forget, arrogant and aggressive in its composition. His expression did not augur well, she thought, counseling herself to bide her time and keep panic at bay until the opportunity presented itself to make her presence known.
    Despite her resolve, thoughts skittered through her mind. Would he help her? Could he help her? She had read about Rushford’s exploits in the London papers, scavenged from the breakfast table of her employers, the Radcliffes, whose three charges had been hers to educate for almost a year. He had, it was reported, skillfully hunted down the Cruikshank murderer while gathering evidence to ensure that justice would be done. Rowena had been riveted by the account, convinced this was the man who had the expertise to pursue a faceless specter . Faron . She could not do it alone.
    So much had happened in twelve months, from changing her name and identity, leaving behind the kind shelter of the Watsons, to seeking employment as a governess in a small village in Wales. Without references, she had been forced to take work for modest pay and even longer hours, biding her time until she could scrounge the sovereigns she now intended to offer in return for Rushford’s aid.
    Not that the man required resources, her instincts told her. Clearly from a wealthy family, judging by the appointments of the town house and the commentaries in the broadsheets, Rushford followed his idiosyncratic pursuits for entirely different and possibly unknowable reasons. A fresh worry, she thought, listening to the steady throb of her heartbeat. Swallowing hard, she watched as Rushford began undoing the ivory buttons of his shirt, then pulling the linen from the waistband of his breeches.
    She should have expected something like this. The lateness of the hour. The deserted house. At least he had not retreated behind the screen to disrobe. Heat rose beneath her skin. Rushford’s shirt drifted to the floor, revealing a broad back whose intricate musculature reminded her of the sketches she had seen in one of Julia’s anatomy books. Hard and sculpted as though from stone, he moved to undo the placket of his breeches, half turning toward her hiding place behind the screen to disclose a beautifully delineated chest, tapered waist, and narrow hips.
    Rowena’s mouth was dry, her lips tasting of parchment, and she clenched her hands by her sides. It was the