Free The Darkest Sin by Caroline Richards

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    â€œI was merely demonstrating,” he said distinctly and as though their shocking embrace had never occurred, as though he had no trouble shaking off the effects of passion to instantly recall the issue at hand, “the inadvisability of following through on your plan.” He lowered his voice. “I urge you to be cautious, Miss Woolcott. Your first instinct to remain in the shadows is in all probability your best choice. And now if you will excuse me, I must return home and prepare for what you probably already know is an evening of gambling pleasure far away from Mrs. Banks’s charnel house and your unwise demands. In short, stay away from me.”
    Rowena stepped back, her balance suddenly unsteady, struggling against the flush of desire and the specter of defeat. Her heart ached as she thought of Montfort, her sister and aunt, imagining them standing by her side. She fought the longing for their arms around her, to make her feel shielded, safe, and as though nothing had changed. Losing them would be the cruelest blow of all and made this moment in a Shoreditch tavern with Rushford seem worth the humiliation. Impetuous, impulsive, and relentless she might be, but those qualities formed the steel in her spine that would finally convince Rushford he had no choice but to do her bidding. The threat of the Frenchman stiffened her resolve, fueling a dangerous logic that refused to give way.
    Rushford took her arm, the matter closed—but only for the moment. “Allow me to escort you to the street and secure you a hansom cab,” he said, moving them toward the tavern door and into the light of the alleyway. Moments later, alone in the swaying carriage, Rowena considered her prospects as the image of Rushford, lifting his hand in salute, faded away. The conveyance surged forward, the aroma of leather, vetiver, and worse still, the indelible imprint of their embrace lingering in the close air. There was no room for hesitation, she thought, blood pounding in her ears. Meredith and Julia would not pay the price for her cowardice.

Chapter 5
    A scant three hours later, Rowena looked at the reflection in the cracked glass that leaned against the pockmarked wall of a shop below her lodgings on Holburn Street. The warm afternoon sun streaked through the dirty windows, its bins filled high with a kalaidescope of velvets, silks, and lace. If one failed to examine too closely, it was simple to overlook the smudges of grease and dust that turned gold into dross, evidence of past lives lived in corsets and gowns now for sale to desultory bidders.
    â€œYou are a delight, my dear, let me assure you,” announced Mrs. Heppelwhite, the owner of the dusty establishment and Rowena’s erstwhile landlady, whose attempts at genteel tones could not entirely obscure her Cheapside roots. Widowed in her prime, she had boldly continued in her husband’s footsteps as landlord, with the addition of opening a small shop on Holburn’s street level. All too often, unable to afford their rent, lodgers paid with a collar of Valenciennes lace, an evening gown which they would never have a chance to wear again, or a rabbit muff they could no longer afford to warm their hands with on damp winter days. A keen judge of character, Mrs. Heppelwhite had sensed immediately that this one, with her fine skin and lithe elegance, was of a different cast altogether. Clearly a lady of quality, judging by her educated, dulcet tones, Miss Frances Warren, as she called herself, had fallen on hard times but was destined for better things, and perhaps an illustrious protector, thought Mrs. Heppelwhite in a flight of romantic fancy. Not that she encouraged such goings-on in the five rooms above the store on Holburn, she reminded herself with a dose of righteousness. She only let rooms to women of reputable character.
    â€œThe red velvet is perfect,” she fussed, nudging the gown with its portrait collar lower on