The Darkest Sin by Caroline Richards

ale and sawdust assaulted her nose. She bent down to enter the tavern, opening the heavy door, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the interior. Wavering on the threshold would do little good. She swept up her skirts from the sticky floor and walked toward the lone man who sat in casual disarray, booted legs stretched out beneath a bench, in the far corner of the hostelry.
    Rushford did not feign surprise at her sudden appearance, but nonetheless his gaze was fixed on her with an intensity that made the tavern with its miasma of stale ale and sawdust fade away. She blinked rapidly, her eyes curiously raw. He had been expecting her.
    â€œDifficult to believe that I could be in such demand. Twice in twenty-four hours,” he said, rising to pull out a chair for her, dressed in his usual somber black suiting and white broadcloth shirt, which did nothing to mute the impact of his presence. “Although if you persist in following me, I promise to offer you advice as to how you might better remain invisible. I noticed you two blocks away from Mrs. Banks’s establishment.”
    Rowena bit back a sharp reply, hoping to muster a civil tone. She needed this man—to help her find the Frenchman. She pretended to fuss with her skirts as she sat down, the echo of her conversation with Mrs. Banks making it difficult to collect herself. She had been catapulted back into the netherworld of her abduction, reluctant though she was to cross the threshold again. When she looked up again she cleared her throat, but the words were tentative nonetheless. “I don’t expect you to understand, my lord,” she said, “to what lengths I have been driven. Please believe me when I say that I am hardly practiced in this type of endeavor.” A Frenchman. It could have been Meredith or Julia lying on Mrs. Banks’s table. She swallowed her panic, finding strength in her burgeoning anger to continue. “You might have saved us both time and effort had you listened to my appeal yesterday evening.”
    Rushford threw an arm across the back of his chair, inclining his head, as though preparing for an attenuated conversation. “I’m beginning to think that you enjoy spending an inordinate amount of time skulking about in dangerous places,” he said. “Clambering about my roofline is one thing, but that alleyway behind Mrs. Banks’s is far from safe.”
    Safety had nothing to do with anything, Rowena thought, the sharpness of a hundred emotions warring with good sense. Her instincts had been right. Faron would not give up, for whatever his twisted reasons, in tormenting her family. She had returned from the dead and she would climb mountains, swim rivers, challenge armies—rooftops and alleyways were minor encumbrances. “I was indulged as a child and young girl,” she said curtly, not trusting herself to say more. “My aunt encouraged all our interests—including physical pursuits.” Closer to the truth was that they had been raised in a man’s world, with Meredith’s example anything but that of a conventional female. They had learned nothing of flirting, of empty conversation, of hiding behind a mask of frivolity and silliness. Their existence had been comprised of books and science, of foreign languages, of riding and marksmanship.
    â€œI’m not surprised,” he said. “You demonstrate unusual courage.” It was unclear whether the observation was intended as a compliment.
    Rowena regarded Rushford warily, folding her hands neatly on the table dividing them. Keenly aware of his height and the length of his legs, she tucked her ankles beneath her chair. “Were you acquainted with her?” she asked in an abrupt change of subject. They both knew to whom she referred.
    Rushford’s eyebrows went up at her question, but he shook his head, and she chose to believe him, although why she couldn’t say. “I do not know the dead woman in