Free The Darkest Sin by Caroline Richards Page B

thought.
    â€œWhat else do I require to complete my ensemble, Mrs. Heppelwhite?” she asked, not sparing a second glance in the mirror for fear of what she would see.
    The landlady placed a finger on her chin, contemplating her creation, before producing from a drawer beneath the counter a sparkling necklace of paste, the gems the size of robins’ eggs. “I do believe we need something to call attention to your outstanding shoulders,” she said. The necklace against Rowena’s pale skin glowed, but the older woman quickly shook her head. “No, I was quite mistaken, my dear. No use gilding the lily and covering up that flawless skin,” Mrs. Heppelwhite murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “What of your coif, then?” she asked. “Perhaps you could dress your hair with these?” They both knew there was no maid to help with the task, but the older woman held up the necklace in any case, the paste glittering in her hands in the harsh afternoon light.
    Her hair was a dark auburn, and her most distinctive feature. Suddenly, Rowena felt heavy with exhaustion, the burden of the past year almost too much to bear. She could not waste another moment in the purgatory where she’d been cast, neither dead nor alive, destined to remain ineffective and in the shadows. She plaited the worn velvet of her skirts in her right hand, the movement an attempt to soothe her agitated thoughts.
    â€œAre you quite all right, my dear?” the landlady asked. If truth be told, she had rarely enjoyed herself as much, dressing this young woman in the once sumptuous evening gown, which, though she had not given it much thought, would net her a pretty penny. Her lodger was obviously primping for a suitor, whose intentions might not be quite honorable. But then such was life. “Is your gentleman,” she probed carefully, “difficult?”
    Difficult, echoed Rowena under her breath. She should have expected that Rushford would be an unusual sort, eccentric perhaps given his unusual interests, but nothing had prepared her for the intensity of his presence, simultaneously alarming and compelling. She could not begin to account for her physical reaction to the man, the flush of desire rather than embarrassment that had overtaken her at the tavern, the sensations at once foreign and familiar. She thought again of her nocturnal fitfulness, and most disturbing of all, the dreams.
    Impatient with herself, she said, “The difficulty, Mrs. Heppelwhite, is that my gentleman prefers women with fair coloring. Is there a solution that you may have at the ready?”
    Bloody ridiculous, men, thought Mrs. Heppelwhite, her own late husband included in the mix, who had seen fit to die inconveniently and with a mountain of debt that she had somehow managed to shoulder. Nonetheless she clucked consolingly for Miss Warren’s benefit. “Aren’t these gentlemen silly with their preferences? But pay no mind, my dear.” She eyed the thick head of hair. “Bleaching is clearly out of the question, but I do have several wigs at hand.” Never mind that they had come from old Mrs. Grenville, whose vanity had far outstripped her ability to pay her rent. “Oftentimes the ladies prefer to change their look at the whim of their gentlemen,” she rambled on, all the while congratulating herself on scraping together a small living rather than subjecting herself to the whims of so-called gentlemen.
    Leaving the young woman in front of the mirror, Mrs. Heppelwhite bustled to the mustiness of her storeroom, returning shortly brandishing Mrs. Grenville’s yellow curls in her hand like a spring bouquet. “And real human hair,” she exclaimed, promptly slipping the confection over Rowena’s head, scraping loose tendrils beneath the tight fit. In a matter of moments, Rowena’s features were transformed, her eyes a darker blue and catlike in tilt, her lips darker and fuller