Sin and the Soldier, page 1
Sin and the Soldier
Gentlemen of Pleasure, Book 3
Mary Lancaster
© Copyright 2022 by Mary Lancaster
Text by Mary Lancaster
Cover by Dar Albert
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 23
Moreno Valley, CA 92556
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition July 2022
Kindle Edition
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All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Mary Lancaster
Gentlemen of Pleasure
The Devil and the Viscount (Book 1)
Temptation and the Artist (Book 2)
Sin and the Soldier (Book 3)
Debauchery and the Earl (Book 4)
Pleasure Garden Series
Unmasking the Hero (Book 1)
Unmasking Deception (Book 2)
Unmasking Sin (Book 3)
Unmasking the Duke (Book 4)
Unmasking the Thief (Book 5)
Crime & Passion Series
Mysterious Lover
Letters to a Lover
Dangerous Lover
The Husband Dilemma Series
How to Fool a Duke
Season of Scandal Series
Pursued by the Rake
Abandoned to the Prodigal
Married to the Rogue
Unmasked by her Lover
Her Star from the East (Novella)
Imperial Season Series
Vienna Waltz
Vienna Woods
Vienna Dawn
Blackhaven Brides Series
The Wicked Baron
The Wicked Lady
The Wicked Rebel
The Wicked Husband
The Wicked Marquis
The Wicked Governess
The Wicked Spy
The Wicked Gypsy
The Wicked Wife
Wicked Christmas (A Novella)
The Wicked Waif
The Wicked Heir
The Wicked Captain
The Wicked Sister
Unmarriageable Series
The Deserted Heart
The Sinister Heart
The Vulgar Heart
The Broken Heart
The Weary Heart
The Secret Heart
Christmas Heart
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
Fed to the Lyon
De Wolfe Pack: The Series
The Wicked Wolfe
Vienna Wolfe
Also from Mary Lancaster
Madeleine
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Mary Lancaster
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About Mary Lancaster
Chapter One
When the applause erupted, Captain Lord Richard Gorse rose to his feet with everyone else.
Not because the harpist had astonished him with the power and flawless delight of her playing—he had listened to her far too often for these things to surprise him—but because tonight, he actually intended to speak to her. And with one arm and a game leg, he needed a head start on the rest of the crowd. It wasn’t as if he could actually clap to show his appreciation.
The harpist, whose name he didn’t know—it hadn’t even been on the handbills advertising this rare evening concert at Renwick’s Hotel—rose from her chair and curtseyed gracefully. She smiled, transforming her face from fine, almost severe beauty, to dazzling loveliness, and her gaze rested on Richard as it sometimes did. Occasionally, he allowed himself to imagine that it gave her courage or even pleasure to see his familiar figure among her audience. More likely, she was wary of the constant presence of a stranger and regarded him as a potential threat.
He might have imagined her faint nod of recognition before her gaze passed on. But he did not imagine the way she froze a moment later. For a tiny instant, her eyes were fixed and steady, appalled to the point of downright fear. And then they moved on, her smile reanimated.
Richard turned with inappropriate wrath to see who had caused her discomfort. Of course, he could not tell for sure, but the back of a male head was darting among the audience as though escaping. Perhaps he had been as disconcerted as the harpist. No doubt there was a tale to tell. A tale that didn’t include Richard and never would.
But he could, at least, do her some good in return for the help she had so unconsciously given him. So, he stayed no longer to worship at the harpist’s feet, but limped off at speed down the aisle, the tapping of his cane inaudible in the continuing roar of appreciation.
Like all decent soldiers, Richard had reconnoitered the terrain and knew the only way out of the room behind the stage.
*
He had found her.
Natalie knew she should never have agreed to this series of evening concerts at the hotel.
The afternoon concerts in the pleasure gardens were one thing, much more muted in terms of publicity. As it was, the only way she would agree to play in the hotel of an evening was if her name was kept out of it. Bill Renwick and the hotel manager had both pleaded with her, but she had been adamant, and in the end, the advertising bills had declaimed only, An evening with our delightful harpist and orchestra.
And everything had felt soothingly familiar. She played the same instrument, accompanied in various pieces by the orchestra she was used to. The injured soldier with the haunted face sat in the front row, to her left. She had received a welcome reception on her entrance and rapturous applause at her bow.
It had been a relief. Her only regret had been that the soldier did not appear as soothed as normal by her playing, but then she had only allowed herself a brief glance at him before her gaze had moved on. And that was when she had seen Gerald.
How? How had he found her after more than two years, in the middle of nowhere?
Well, Renwick’s Hotel was not nowhere. It was on the edges of London, though, nowhere near the fashionable or theatrical quarters. It stood on the grounds of Maida Pleasure Gardens, which were more known for vulgar entertainments than refined arts. And yet, there Gerald was in the audience. He did not even look surprised, damn his soul. He just smiled, as though pleased with her performance.
What a pity it would be her last. She had grown comfortable here, made a life and a modest living around her music. She had made friends among the orchestra and the garden staff. Even Bill Renwick himself, the owner of the gardens and the hotel, had become almost a friend. Certainly, he had felt like security, protection.
Well, no longer.
Somehow, she got off the stage. She knew she should linger, to congratulate the orchestra, to discuss the performance with them as usual, over a cup of tea or a glass of wine, if Renwick was feeling generous. But she had one aim—to get to her cottage before Gerald could follow her.
He might have found the cottage already. Nausea almost overwhelmed her. She all but bolted across the room toward the door. And then it opened, and Gerald walked in.
He closed it behind him, smiling.
“Natalie,” he said fondly. “At last.”
She stilled, like a deer before it bolts, only she had nowhere to bolt to. No covering forest. Except, behind her came the hum and shuffle of the orchestra exiting the stage.
“Beautiful
“Thank you,” she replied into the buzz of agreement. She turned toward them with relief. They could be her shield, even if just for a few moments. “I am happy to return the compliment, gentlemen. Especially in the last movement, the music soared.”
The compliments descended inevitably into more technical discussion, where Natalie was happy to wallow indefinitely. From the corner of her eye, though, she saw that Gerald was not deterred. Indeed, leaning one shoulder against the wall, he looked both amused and as patient as a spider in the center of its web, while the talk went on and the musicians put away their instruments.
And then, Gerald’s voice said behind her. “Perhaps you would join me in a glass of wine, Natalie?”
Her flesh crawled with as much fear as hatred. But at least the fear made her angry. She did not have to speak to him. She certainly did not have to drink with him.
She cast him a look of contempt that she hoped cut him. “That is not possible.”
“You have a previous engagement, perhaps?” Gerald mocked.
She lifted her chin. “I do.”
“I shall not keep you long from your…engagement,” Gerald said. “But we need a brief discussion.”
“No,” she said tightly. She was damned if she would make it easy for him. “We have had our last discussion. If you will excuse me—”
“I’m afraid I must insist,” Gerald said with just that playful tone she most hated covering the implacable instruction that still made her want to cringe or flee or both.
“I’m afraid you left your manners elsewhere,” said a voice she had never heard before. Deep, clipped, unignorable. “The lady has spoken.”
Almost bemused by the offer of rescue, impossible as it would inevitably be, she turned her head and beheld the injured soldier. There was nothing haunted about his scarred yet handsome face now. It merely commanded. He may not have been in uniform, but he was every inch the officer whom no soldier would dare to disobey, overlaid, perhaps, with the supercilious aristocrat.
“She has spoken, yes, but not to you, sir,” Gerald pointed out, still amused.
The soldier’s expression never wavered. He merely transferred his wintry gaze to her and bowed. “May I escort you, ma’am?”
The choice, it seemed, was still the same. Compliance or defiance, and she had long since decided on the latter, whatever trouble it brought in its wake. And the trouble would be hers, not the soldier’s.
“Thank you, sir,” she said clearly, and, leaving space between them for him to maneuver his walking stick, she laid her hand lightly on his sleeve.
As he turned, he flicked a look in the direction of the orchestra members. That, too, looked like a command, and as she and the soldier began to walk to the door, several musicians fell in behind them.
“Are you a musician, too?” the first violinist asked, apparently addressing Gerald.
“How is it you know our Miss Natalie?” asked another.
“I have to leave here,” she said intensely to the soldier. “And he must not see me.”
“Then trust me.” He left her to close the door, and turned sharp left, away from the front door, though there was another at the back of the foyer into the gardens.
Bill Renwick was strolling to intercept them, one of his sons at his side bearing a tray of champagne and glasses. Oh, the devil! Now he chooses such generosity?
“For the orchestra,” the soldier said to Bill in the same, clipped, quiet tones. “The lady will join you later, when you have discreetly ejected your uninvited guest.”
Bill’s gaze flew to hers in both astonishment and dismay. She nodded once and swept onward on the arm of the soldier, whose pace was surprisingly rapid considering its unevenness. He pushed open a door with his shoulder, and she found herself on a clean, narrow staircase, no doubt one for staff use. Although somewhat gloomy, it was lit to some degree from wall sconces, so it was only when they emerged, at last, into a more brightly lit passage that she thought to wonder where on earth he was taking her.
These were the rooms where well-to-do guests stayed, usually for a mere night or two to break their journey or to take care of business in town, although, according to rumor, the rooms were also taken for less moral purposes. Some gentlemen entertained their mistresses here.
She dropped his arm in sudden, almost baffled suspicion. Had she jumped from the frying pan into the proverbial fire? He found a key in his coat pocket and slid it into the lock of the nearest door, which he opened to reveal what looked like a sitting room and stood aside for her to enter.
Now, belatedly, she stepped back, ready to bolt.
“I’m no threat to you, ma’am,” he said impatiently. “Take your chances elsewhere by all means, but you seemed to need a little extra help.”
She stared into his hard, wintry blue eyes which seemed to be merely a reflection of his abrupt and testy voice. She took a deep breath and brushed past him into the room.
It was quite an elegant, comfortable apartment. The red and gold military coat she had seen him wear often before, hung carelessly over the back of a chair. A book lay on the sofa. In the wall opposite, another closed door led, presumably, to his bedchamber.
“Please, sit.” He had followed her in, spun, and turned the key in the lock with one surprisingly deft movement before he limped past her further into the room. That he left the key in the lock was some comfort to her. She took a few paces and sat on the edge of the sofa.
Her host tossed his walking stick onto the armchair at right angles to the sofa, then moved to a cabinet where he lifted a decanter and poured two measures of what looked like brandy. Carrying them both in his one hand, he placed them on the table before the sofa and pushed one toward her.
“For medicinal purposes,” he murmured, and moving the stick to the floor, propped up against the chair arm, he sat. “It’s not quite champagne, but you seem to have had a shock.”
“I have,” she admitted, snatching up the glass. “And I thank you for your help.” She took a sizeable gulp of brandy, which snatched at her breath but at least shocked her brain back into clear thought. “I have to go home without him seeing.” Her eyes flew to the soldier’s. “What if he knows where I live already? He could have taken everything. Again.”
“Then you have recourse to a magistrate. Not to mention Bill Renwick. I understand he takes a dim view of anyone else thieving on the premises. Who is this man who has cut up your peace?”
A small sound broke from her, as much sob as laughter. “That’s exactly what he has done. A hard-fought peace. Like yours, I imagine.”
He looked unexpectedly rattled by that, taking a hasty drink from his glass.
“His name is Gerald Monck,” she said. “And I am engaged to marry him.”
He paused and then leaned forward to set his glass back down on the table. For a long moment, he did not look at her, then slowly, he lifted his gaze to her face. “You’ll forgive me for remarking that you do not appear to be a willing bride.”
“I am not.”
“Then you shall not marry him.”
She could not help smiling at that. “You sound so sure, I could almost believe you.”
“The law requires agreement from both parties.”
“You are a soldier, are you not? An officer?”
He blinked. “Sort of.”
Sort of? “You are used to fighting by certain rules, by a code of honor. Gerald is not. One never knows how low he will go until he gets there.”
“My dear lady, we can all fight dirty. If I am to help you, I suspect your confidence will be necessary. For now, what is the most important thing I can do for you?”
He asked so simply, so casually, that she was taken unawares. It almost seemed natural to rely on him, a stranger with whom she had never even spoken before tonight. A troubled, haunted man who turned up frequently to her afternoon recitals in the pleasure garden.
She could not even remember when she had first noticed him there—more than a year ago, perhaps nearer two. In recent months, he had always sat in the same place, at the left-hand end of the front row, no doubt for ease of escape. But she had noticed him before then, the one-armed cavalry officer whose face betrayed pain and suffering way beyond her own, and yet who watched and listened with such intensity it almost disconcerted her. Until she had noticed that as she played, the lines of his suffering seemed to ease. His eyes seemed less haunted when she had finished. In some, insubstantial, unmeasurable way, he had given her purpose and confidence, and she had taken her own comfort in whatever she had managed to give him. And if the odd romantic fantasy crept into her mind—well, a girl could dream. It was, by far, the safest form of romance.
