The Trouble With Sin (Devilish Vignettes (the Devil DeVere) #2)(8)

Freddie then knelt on all fours and spread her delectable arse cheeks. His bollacks tightened when she turned her head and cast a beckoning gaze over her shoulder with those fathomless dark and sultry eyes. He was nearing combustion— "Simon?"

His gaze flew to the door. Immersed in his fantasy, he hadn't heard the light scratch until it was almost too late. Releasing himself with a quiet stream of expletives, he fumbled with his falls, barely managing to scrape his chair under the desk before the door flung open.

Lady Singleton stood in the doorway. "Simon, have you forgotten you were to recite for me?"

He blinked dumbly. "Ah, er… Is it that late already?" Sermons had been the furthest thing from his mind.

"It is past seven o'clock. You have been buried in that book for hours." She approached with her brisk little step, wearing a look of concern. "Are you all right, Simon? You don't look well at all!" She came close enough to lay the back of her hand on his forehead. "You feel feverish. Shall I send for a posset?"

"I've come down with a bit of a headache," he said. "It is nothing, Mama. Perhaps I'll just retire early to bed." Yes, precisely the place where I should have conducted my former activity.

"Dear boy, you must have overtaxed yourself with all this study."

Before could anticipate her actions, Lady Singleton picked up the book. She scanned one page and then another. Her gaze widening, her mouth gaping.

"I don't know what kind of book this is, but it's not a volume of sermons!"

"It's not what it appears, Mama!"

Her voice quivered. "It appears to be a directory of harlots! What is my son doing with such a book? Who put this…this…wickedness into your hands? It was that devil DeVere, wasn't it?"

"DeVere is in France, Mama. He's quite innocent…this time."

"Where then, Simon?" she demanded. "Was it in the same place where you imbibed spirits? I cannot bear it!" She pressed her hand against her heart. "This work of Satan must be consigned to the purifying flames!"

"No!" Simon almost leaped from his chair, but stopped himself in the nick of time. With his falls still unbuttoned and his prick hanging out, he could only clutch the desk in dread as his mother marched to the hearth. "Please, Mama! Don't," he begged.

"Much better the book go to the fiery furnace than you!"

"Just let me explain!"

"Explain? How? How can you explain this?"

"It's…it's my work," he blurted. My mission on behalf of the Magdalen House."

She fixed him with an incredulous stare. "Your work?"

"Yes. I had intended to surprise you. The book is why I went to the tavern. That volume contains the names and addresses of hundreds of poor, lost wretches in need of salvation."

Brilliant, Sin. Utterly inspired!

"Simon!" She gasped. "You are right! This is all the proof we need to petition Queen Charlotte for funding a larger domicile." She rushed back to clasp his head against her bosom. "You dear, dear boy! How could I ever have doubted you?"

Moments later Simon offered a second prayer of thanks to his guardian angel for another blessed escape.





Chapter Four


Simon awoke early the next morning with one thought that he dispatched through manual means. It was but a temporary palliative for his fever. Freddie remained the only panacea, but thanks to Harris, he now had the means to affect his cure.

Simon knocked on Freddie's door, impatient to see the elation alighting in her eyes when she opened to her new lover. To his dismay, the door parted only far enough to glimpse the tip of her nose and one dark eye. "You again."

"Of course it's me! Who else were you expecting?"

He thought he heard a mumbled expletive. The door swung into the chamber. She raked him with an insolent stare. "If you've come empty handed you might as well leave now. I meant what I said."

"But, Freddie—"

"No, Simon! I won't let you bed me. I'll have a real protector or none at all."

Simon clutched his heart. "You cut me to the quick, Freddie. Did I not make you a promise?"

"Men are known to make false promises."

Simon puffed in affront. "You measure me with the wrong staff, Freddie. I am a gentleman of my word. I promised you Spitalfields silk, and that is what you will have."

"Where is it then?" She asked with biting sarcasm,"Have you a gown in your pocket?"

"It is yet to be made," he replied. "I am here to take you to the shop of Mrs. Martin of Covent Garden Square, a maker of fine ladies' attire where you will be custom fitted."

"A custom gown?" She speared him with a disbelieving look.

"Of whatever color and mode delights you most. You didn't suppose I would give you some ill-fitting second-handed rag, did you?"

Her flickering eyes told him she had presumed precisely that. Bugger! A pawned gown hadn't even occurred to him! He sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound…or ten.

***

Simon spent the next few hours in total tedium sipping tea in the mantua maker's tiny reception room, while Freddie had her fitting. Mrs. Martin had a number of half-finished gowns that caught Freddie's eye. She'd settled an outrageously gaudy confection in yellow and pink. Although close to her size the alterations took up the entire day. But when Freddie, or Frederica, as she now insisted upon, finally emerged, the vision fairly stole his breath.