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THE SINNING HOUR

An Unmasked Novel

Coming June 2012

New description to come soon!

Read Chapter One

London, September 1850

Simon noticed the stench of her before anything else.

His head was bent over the ledgers, his eyes aching from yet another long night with too little sleep. In retrospect, he considered that perhaps he should have exerted more caution when answering the familiar knock of his housekeeper. Perhaps he should have moved years ago to some quaint holiday resort near the sea, where the ocean’s spray drenched the air and succeeded in cloaking the foul odor of humanity. Regardless, this was his state—exhausted, unsuspecting, foolishly believing himself safe in his own house—when the study door opened and a sudden, chilling awareness settled over his skin.

The heavy rose fragrance of his housekeeper, Mrs. Dunworth, swept in first, a scent he could have recognized beneath every layer of sweat, dust, and polish she accumulated throughout the day. It was an aroma to which he'd grown accustomed over time, one he now equated with obedience and efficiency.

Something unexpected soon followed, however—something new. It found him on the opposite end of the long, dark room, sneaking through the air before he could identify the tapping across the threshold as two sets of footsteps rather than one.

Simon ceased breathing, then inhaled again, letting the rancid smell invade his nostrils. A casual flick of his wrist closed the ledgers. After making certain the movement hadn’t disturbed the plate of meat pastries on the desk’s corner, he lifted his head.

His gaze fixed on the stranger standing beside his housekeeper: a woman. At least, he assumed her to be female by evidence of the bonnet clinging to the sides of her face and the existence of the dress she wore. If he were to judge by streaks of grime and stench alone, she would have better matched the description of a gutter rat.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “What have we here, Mrs. Dunworth?”

“Another for the new maid’s position, sir.”

A talent, Mrs. Dunworth had, for being able to give an opinion on any subject without actually uttering the words. Simon already knew she disapproved of his interviewing for the new maid, despite the fact that the last ones she’d hired had fled once they discovered a bit of courage inside their prudish, supercilious little souls. Now, with nothing more than the razored precision of her reply, his housekeeper made it plain that she also objected to allowing such a woman through the kitchen entrance, let alone into his private study.

Simon’s gaze traveled up the length of the woman’s gown, over the faded brown shawl clutched at her bodice, and probed the shadows lurking within the edges of her bonnet. His previous awareness shifted into surprise as he found her eyes lifted instead of meekly cast down, assessing him with the same amount of frankness with which he regarded her. Although her lack of deference amused him, it wasn’t this that kept him from telling Mrs. Dunworth to escort her out the door.

His fingers curled into the arms of the chair until the tips turned numb. Seconds stretched in deepening silence, yet she never once looked away. If it had only been defiance, he would have sent her back to the streets; Mrs. Dunworth was correct in believing the woman to be far from suitable for his household. But it was the emotion she tried to hide—that which showed through at the pinched corners of her mouth, in the convulsive ripple down her throat—that kept him from obeying his impulse to eject her immediately.

Defiance and desperation… Such an intriguing combination.

He tilted his head in invitation. “Come closer, Miss…?”

She stiffened. “Post.”

“Miss Post, sir,” Mrs. Dunworth corrected evenly. “And mind your curtsy.”

Simon’s gaze flicked to the right. “You may leave us, Mrs. Dunworth.”

In addition to the housekeeper's loyalty, her swift obedience made her worth every farthing he paid. After she retreated beyond the study door, he continued his examination of the woman who, contrary to Mrs. Dunworth, had made no move to accede to his wishes. She remained in the same spot as before, her face a mask of shadows, the colors of her clothing mere variations of the gloom ushered in by the waning sun. Indeed, she blended in so well with the aged paneling that he might have dismissed her as equally dull if not for her stare and that persistent, irritating odor which seemed to have now crawled inside his lungs.

Fucking hell.  

He’d have preferred hanging his head over a chimney stack for an hour.

His jaw tight, the muscles across his back and shoulders knotted painfully, Simon tensed even further in recognition of his rapidly fraying temper. And yet, despite his reaction to the almost nauseating bouquet of poverty and despair—perhaps because of it—he stifled a second impulse to send her away.

He’d believed himself safe. Because he owned a town house with gilded ceilings instead of moldering ones? Because the rooms weren’t infested with cockroaches but with servants anxious to do his bidding? The idea of safety became more ludicrous with each inhalation. Here was evidence of how near the grasping tangle of East End streets still lay, of the cobblestones made slick with blood as much as human excretion and vomited gin. Here was a warning of how far he had yet to go, of how much he had yet to do: this small, drab woman who, after probably walking a mere two or three hours, had emerged from the realm of his nightmares and brought the stench of his own private hell with her.

Gesturing lazily, Simon chose to pretend for the moment as if this reminder of his past was no more bothersome than finding a bone in a slice of mutton pie. He’d become quite adept at pretending over the years. “Well, Miss Post? Let us see you curtsy as a proper maid.”

She complied without hesitation. The movement was quick and rough, a graceless fumble of limbs and skirt. Except in terms of entertainment, Simon found it exceedingly difficult to watch. It became even more so when she tried to rise; for a moment he feared she would go tumbling to the floor, though she saved herself—and him the discomfort of having to act the hero—at the end. Finally, after she straightened, her gaze wavered only a little before locking once again with his own.

Simon steepled his fingers together. “Are you ill, Miss Post?”

“No.”

“Sir,” he reminded idly. “One would think you’ve never had occasion to curtsy before.”

Silence.

“Do you refuse to answer me?”

“You did not ask a question…sir.”

He blinked, then smiled slowly, seductive as silk. “Come closer, Miss Post,” he said, repeating his earlier instruction.

This time she did as he asked, but the single step brought her only inches nearer. Still too far away for him to discern much inside the darkness of her bonnet. There were eyes, a nose, mouth, but these were ill-defined shapes any stranger might possess.

“Closer.”

Another step.

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “You do make a convincing mouse, though regrettably I have no intention of catching you. I prefer my prey to have bathed within the past month, not to reek of refuse and stale liquor.”

At last, a satisfying response: another notch of her chin. Why he should feel such a rush of pleasure at the gesture, he knew not.

“Allow me to be specific,” he drawled, lifting a brow. “Come here, Miss Post.” He motioned toward the swath of carpet in front of his desk. All of the other curtains in the room were kept closed, but here the sun poured through the high, narrow window and framed the Savonnerie rug in a slanted rectangle of light. It was one of his favorite places in the house, serving to blind his guests while simultaneously leaving them exposed and illuminated for his regard.

Though he was willing to accommodate her smell for a little while, and though he could generously indulge her less-than-subservient demeanor—for now—he would not tolerate outright disobedience. Let her come to him and stay for his questions, or let her refuse and be sent away. He possessed neither the time nor patience for further games.

At least, not this kind.

He watched, not yet willing to be pleased, as she strode down the length of the room in answer to his summons. When she reached the ornamented center of the Savonnerie, she came to a sudden halt and, as if to compensate for her earlier failure, sank into a curtsy low enough to give homage to the Queen.

“Have you any references?”

“No, sir,” she replied, her head bent nearly horizontally to the carpet at her feet.

“Have you worked as a maid before?”

“No, sir.”

“You saw in the ad that I am a nude portraitist. Do you intend to run off in the future, your delicate sensibilities offended, like others before you?”

“No, sir.”

He wondered whether she intended to remain in the position of poor, groveling subject for the entirety of the interview. Possibly. He bit back a sigh and instead intoned with great magnanimity, “You may stand.”

She straightened. The westward sun should have pierced all the secrets masked by her bonnet, yet she angled her chin in such a way that only a quarter of her features was brought into bright, shining revelation. Sunlight bisected the pool of one light eye and the dark winged brow that lay above it; a strip of pale skin gleamed along her jaw where the grime had failed to touch.

Simon drummed his fingers slowly on the chair’s arm.

“What was your last position?” he asked, then broke in with a smile before she could respond, one he usually reserved for persuading women from the confines of their clothes. “You may confide in me, Miss Post. As your potential employer, surely I deserve to hear more than one sentence at a time.”

“I was meant to be a teacher at an academy for young ladies. Before I could leave for the position, my family fell ill. My mother and brother died. My father and I did not. I have not worked elsewhere.”

She related the tale without feeling, giving no indication of either being affected by his charm or expecting his compassion—of which there was some, Simon discovered to his surprise. He’d long thought himself past such useless commiserations.

A velvet roughness lined her speech, although he couldn’t tell whether the hoarseness should be attributed to nature, nerves—not that she exhibited many—or an illness which she had earlier denied. Her syllables were fine, clipped softly at the edges in the educated way of the upper middle class, but he well knew how easy it was to ape the accent of another station or nationality.

She presented a portrait of contradictions, his Miss Post did: defiance and timidity; reluctance and determination; embarrassing clumsiness one moment followed by a flowing grace the next; the appearance of a dock worker’s wife with the speech of a governess. What surprised Simon the most, however, was that after nearly fifteen minutes of having her in his study, he still couldn’t accurately determine which was truth and which was lie.

As a result, he found himself terribly—though grudgingly—fascinated. Even the odor permeating the air around her had eased its viselike grip on his senses, allowing him instead to focus on the shift of her weight beneath her skirts, the heavy breath she drew in the silence following her morbid recitation. She was his Mona Lisa: easily judged at first, yet becoming ever more mysterious the longer he stared.

“Go on.” He settled further into the chair, into the accustomed posture of affable hedonist. “Why are you here now? Why not continue on to the academy position as you had planned?” He raised a brow. “I expect you wrote to your employer to tell them of your plight.”

“Yes, I did. But after the…deaths, my father was not the same.” She paused, and though no emotion crossed her face, the knuckles on the hand clutching the ends of her shawl—the ones that a moment ago had appeared reddened and chafed—now turned a bloodless white from the strength of her grip. “I must find a position in order to care for him. That is why I am here.”

“But you do not wish to be here.”

Despite the smell, he almost regretted sitting and not standing before her, head inclined, close enough to feel the breath leave her lips and sough against his cheek. He could have sworn she stopped breathing at that moment.

“I would like this position.”

Not a contradiction, precisely.

“You have never been employed as a maid.”

“I am hard-working and quick to learn.”

“You are also reluctant and hesitant to please. That’s been clear enough from the moment you stepped into the room. I am not surprised my housekeeper didn’t wish to have you here.”

“Please.” The sound came in a strangled burst from her throat, as though barely escaping the battle waged within. Such pride she had. But again, it was the desperation that arrested his attention, left him transfixed as a movement of her mouth showed the inward draw of her lips, a quick wetting with her tongue. Her throat worked violently once more as she swallowed. “Please. I will happily tell you anything you wish.”

A half-truth, he suspected. She might become more earnest in her responses, assuming a facade of passionate obedience for his sake, but he doubted she meant to surrender anything she didn’t want him to know. She was cornered, still fighting, not yet realizing it was the secret she kept hidden behind a veil of shadows that intrigued him the most.

Simon glanced down at the ledgers he had left in disorganized array across his desk. Picking them up one by one, he began to stack them neatly together. “I believe I have heard everything that interests me,” he said, keeping his gaze trained on the task at hand. “You have no references, no experience in service, no qualifications to speak of beyond the dubious talents that an instructor of young ladies must acquire. There is only one matter left, Miss Post.”

He traced the spine of the last ledger, the supple leather its own caress against his callused skin. He stilled—patient, ever patient now; he imagined he could hear the anxious thud of her heartbeat, feel the scrutiny she gave to his every movement. She most likely resented him, perhaps had even come to hate him because she’d resorted to begging in his presence. He didn’t mind; he also resented her for not being an ordinary maid, for being more than a simple gutter rat…for attracting and holding his attention when the only fascination he’d allowed himself in the past eight years was for his art. And sometimes, even that lost its appeal.

Finally, he lifted his eyes again, waited for hers to move up from his desk. She had repositioned herself on the rug so that now her entire face was removed from the sunlight. Their gazes collided—his narrowed and calculating, hers carefully guarded.

“Remove your bonnet.”

A moment passed. “Sir?”

“Why the hesitation, Miss Post?” Simon smiled faintly. “If you are to become a maid here, you should know that you'll have no more than a mobcap to cover your hair. Disregarding the stench you carry and the state of your clothes—both of which can be remedied—it is of the utmost importance that you make a suitable presentation in my household. I wish to know what you’ve hidden beneath your bonnet.”

She averted her gaze toward his desk again, and he added softly, “You may leave now, Miss Post.”

Her hands answered the dismissal by lifting to the knot beneath her chin. Unhurried, as if she might have been a lady just returning from a stroll, her slender fingers tugged the ribbons in a languid motion. He half-expected her to begin humming any moment, her tilted head and lowered lashes providing her with an air of distraction. Simon watched as her shawl, being released from her hold, slipped up and off her shoulders, dragged along her skirt, and fell to pool at the carpet beneath her feet.

Finally, every shadow was banished as she removed the bonnet and let it hang by her side. The sunlight cascaded over her bared skin, forcing her to close her eyes and allowing him the freedom to study her as openly as he wished. Simon leaned forward; he couldn’t quite help himself.

Brown hair, parted in the center, acted as a frame for the oval structure of her face. Her cheekbones were broad, her forehead high. The small cleft in the curve of her chin lent a needed touch of femininity to the otherwise brash strokes of her face, complemented also by the slender point of her nose and the full bow of her mouth. Her eyes were deep-set beneath slanting brows, and a red tint to her cheeks removed any lingering suspicions that the pale skin glimpsed beneath the dirt was evidence of a sickly pallor.

These details he gathered in but spare seconds, following the light over her features as if she was just another of his models to be committed to canvas.

It was after this analysis, as he frowned and searched her face again, trying to understand why she felt it necessary to conceal herself with shadows, that he went entirely still. He didn’t know what she attempted to hide, but any relief he’d felt at believing he could reduce her to a mere arrangement of angles and hollows disappeared. She was perfection. He’d seen others come close before, but only with the skill of his pencil and brush to render them so.

Simon stood and walked from behind the desk, only barely aware of the soft gasp of her breath and the subsequent clenching of her jaw as he moved toward her.

“Your face”—he reached out and grasped her chin—“is perfectly symmetrical.” He tugged her chin toward him, then felt the air leave his lungs as he saw what she had been trying to keep from him all along. “Or perhaps it’s not,” he finished, almost tenderly.

A large welt speared the left side of her face from ear to the center of her cheek. It appeared painful, a bright scarlet as if it only moments ago had stopped bleeding. And yet, when studied more closely, he could see signs of healing and puckering at the edges.

“You’ve been refused work because of this.” One couldn’t have visitors staring at the servants, after all, though he supposed she could have done well as a kitchen or scullery maid. He discarded the idea of giving her suggestions for jobs outside of service—in the factories, perhaps, where the level of her productivity would be all that mattered. He also shrugged off the knowledge that the maid’s position in his household included work in the front rooms, where she might be subjected to his visitors’ scrutiny quite frequently.

“How many times, Miss Post?”

Her eyes had opened, a beautiful pale green glittering in the sunlight, made all the more striking in contrast to her otherwise wretched state. “This is the eighth ad I’ve answered.”

He stepped back, withdrawing his hand. The decision was simple enough now.

As a reminder of the darkness he’d escaped, he wouldn’t have hired her. For all of her contrasts and contradictions, he would have sent her away. Even the suspected symmetry of her face couldn’t have induced him to keep her. Any of these aspects might have resulted in his continued fascination, and fascination for one of his maids—for anyone—was not something Simon could accept.

Pity, on the other hand, was.

Pity—colder than compassion, requiring only an acknowledgment of her lamentable circumstances—meant nothing. It was self-serving also; once she was bathed and trained, he knew she would work harder than anyone else because, unlike the filth covering her body, her scar could never be washed away. Indeed, he could use it to trap her here if he wished.

None of these thoughts should have pleased him as they so thoroughly did.

“I’ve had six maids in the past four months leave my employ,” he said after a moment. He bent to retrieve her shawl and held it out to her. “However, my misfortune seems to be your good luck. You say you are quick to learn. Give me competence and obedience, and you’ll have no reason to fear being turned out for your wound.”

She made no reply.

“This means I have hired you, Miss Post. You may react now.”

She nodded, a short jerk of her head, and took the shawl from his grasp.

Simon moved to ring for Mrs. Dunworth then strolled back toward his desk, his mind already turned to the figures waiting inside his ledgers. If not for the continued stench in his nostrils, he was certain he’d have forgotten his new servant altogether.

 

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