The Darkest Sin by Caroline Richards Page B

there is every possibility that there is a connection here . . . between me and the woman lying at Mrs. Banks. Which would make your involving yourself in my situation—”
    â€œAdvisable?” He completed her sentence and followed with a short laugh, his strong white teeth flashing in the dimness. “I don’t quite follow you. Why would there be a connection between you and an actress lying dead at Mrs. Banks’s?”
    â€œI do not know how to explain it.” She did not understand it all herself. She swallowed hard. “You see, it began over a year ago, at my home in Cumbria.” She attempted to keep her description spare and unemotional, aware that he could just as easily bolt from his chair and leave the tavern. A calm, rational explication . “I last recall riding my horse on the estate,” she continued, “when he stumbled, which is absolutely uncharacteristic of Dragon.” Her beautiful Arabian, headstrong and willful, but as reliable as a rocking chair. “I came off, and then I remember nothing more but awakening to darkness and remaining in this impenetrable fog for what seemed like days or perhaps even weeks.” She stopped abruptly, wondering whether it wise to continue, to tell him about the voices and the dreams, all the while fighting the urge to confide in this man who, she reminded herself with effort, was a stranger. “I remember very little except that I was found all but dead on the banks of the Birdoswald River.” She paused. “I had been left to drown.” For one fleeting second, she thought she caught a hint of what—knowledge, awareness in his eyes? But it was gone before she could name it, and he did nothing more than tilt his head to one side, as though contemplating a great mystery. “Continue with your story,” he said.
    â€œIt is not a story,” she insisted, her voice strained to the breaking point. “It’s the truth. Why else would I be entreating you to help me?” Dear God, she sounded like a bedlamite. “I do not know what more I can say to make you believe me.” She paused to clear her throat, which was thick with emotion. “I sense,” she resumed more slowly, enunciating each word and recapitulating her argument, “that there is a connection between the dead woman and my dilemma.”
    Rushford absently fingered his glass. He had beautifully formed hands, Rowena observed, the thought only adding to the rush of confusion muddling her thoughts.
    â€œThat’s a rather wild connection to make,” he corrected her flatly.
    She took a deep breath, ignoring the knots tightening in her stomach. “Please hear me out,” she said, wondering desperately if he admired her at least for standing her ground.
    Rushford managed a smile. “If it prevents you from scaling the edifice next door, I will, but let’s begin with something simpler, such as your name,” he demanded.
    She hesitated for the barest second. “Miss Rowena Woolcott.” A strange feeling of relief flooded over her, like the beneficence of a confession. The knot in her stomach loosened, and for some unknown reason she believed that she could entrust her identity to this man. “I would ask you to keep this in strictest confidence,” she said, “as knowledge of my existence could endanger those closest to me.”
    â€œYou have my word,” he said simply. “By this point in our short if unorthodox acquaintance, I understand that it is your wish to remain dead to the world.”
    Rowena bit the inside of her lip to keep her expression calm. “I realize this sounds mysterious but only because you don’t yet know all the elements at play here, not that I know myself, which is why I’ve come to you . . .” To stop herself from rambling, she clasped the tumbler on the table before asking finally, “Then you will help me?”
    His smile widened at the