The Darkest Sin by Caroline Richards

against the light canvas. No one would connect this arresting creature with the nondescript governess from Wales, and better still, no one would ever recognize her as Rowena Woolcott who had died over a year ago.
    â€œI believe this shall do, Mrs. Heppelwhite,” Rowena said. The landlady beamed her approval.

    Felicity Clarence had been a fine morsel. Galveston settled into his box at Covent Garden, the shrieking of the well-padded soprano onstage undermining the comforting satiety of knowing that all was right with his world. Beside him, his wife Lucinda sat in rapt attention, not at all focused upon the swelling music emanating from the orchestra pit but rather upon the fashionable company that attended such events. Her ridiculous sausage ringlets quivered in anticipation of meeting Lady Sophie Crittendon’s new son-in-law, a freshly minted duke from Italy. Her hopes momentarily dashed, she raised her lorgnette from her ample bosom in anticipation of catching the Duchess of Osborne in her box. Securing an invitation to her weekly salon was her fondest desire.
    Galveston rested his head on the velvet cushion of the settee, shutting out his wife who, with a dowry and allowance as generous as her form, had allowed him to pursue his leisurely pursuits as should have been his birthright. The fact that generations of his family, on both maternal and paternal sides, had squandered their patrimony on horses and brandy was of no account. Lucinda’s merchant-class bona fides were unfortunate, save for the munificent sums that flowed consistently from her family’s coffers.
    The soprano’s voice soared in supplication, an annoying counterpoint to Galveston’s more pleasurable ruminations. Felicity had been a tasty morsel indeed . The images repeated themselves in his mind. He missed her rather salacious enthusiasm most of all. When he had first been introduced to her at Garrick’s in the West End by the Baron Francois Sebastian, an aristocratic gentleman who traveled in the same discreet circle as most of Madame Recamier’s guests, he had been delighted. The actress had been as voracious in her appetites as in her penchant for trinkets. But it was Felicity’s irritating ambition to rise above her station that had halted the enjoyable proceedings, most inappropriately. Not the thing at all, to ask him to be introduced to the more august personages in his sphere, the diplomats and the earls who littered his realm. He recalled the glitter of determination in Felicity’s eyes.
    It had all ended rather in a muddle—were it not for Sebastian, who had been most helpful with his suggestions for a tidy cleanup, a way of sending Felicity her congé. The Baron had unwittingly encouraged Galveston in his own dark directions, with an enthusiastic Felicity happy to comply. A familiar tightening in his groin joined with images of the actress, her head flung back, her mouth in a rictus of pain. Until that last evening, when matters took a rather drastic turn. It was difficult to remember exactly who had suggested the little game. Was it the Baron or the slyly lovely Miss Barry? Galveston did not care to recall.
    It was unlikely that the body recently disgorged by the Thames belonged to the actress. Even if that did prove to be the case, there was no way to connect her disappearance to Lord Ambrose Galveston, or so Sebastian had assured him. As long as Rushford did not insert himself into the mix, thought Galveston darkly. Baiting him last evening at the club had been about as wise as baiting a lion in its den, but necessary all the while. Galveston had wanted to remind Rushford of the dangers of revisiting his past.
    Galveston, annoyed at the tapping of her lorgnette on his shoulder, turned to his wife. She pointed somewhere into the sea of theater patrons, but he could not hear her words over the soaring voice of the soprano. No matter. He nodded in any case, following her gloved hand as she discreetly