The Trouble With Sin (Devilish Vignettes (the Devil DeVere) #2)(3)

"He would be, model son that he is. Puts the rest of us blighters to shame."

Simon chuckled. "Speak for yourself, old man. I am my mother's pride and joy, bound for the clergy as I am."

DeVere sputtered his ale. "You? A man of the cloth?"

"What better way to employ my pen than in sermon writing?"

"Between composing lewd verses, you mean?"

Simon shrugged. "All work and no play makes Simon a dull boy."

"But the church, Sin? Come now!"

Simon took a long drink. "If you must know, it seemed the easiest path back into my parents' good graces."

Although Simon's parents were narrow-minded and puritanical, he never doubted their affection, unlike DeVere who was born into wealth, privilege, and complete parental apathy. His parents notoriously despised each other and flaunted their infidelities. Worse yet, his father was rumored to be half mad from the pox.

"How was Kent?" Simon asked. "As bad as you expected?"

"Far worse. I must now face the penance of exile."

"Exile?" What do you mean?"

DeVere smirked. "I am forced to go abroad and suffer all the decadent and lascivious pleasures the Continent has to offer. Come with me, Sin! This scandal is a blessing in disguise. Just think of it! Months to do as we damned please."

"Impossible." Simon shook his head. "Do you think my father is going to allow me to go off on the Grand Tour after this ruckus we created?”

"But that's just it. A few months away and all will be forgotten. Besides, it won't cost him a farthing. I'll foot the entire bill—or better said—the Viscount DeVere shall."

"You know I can't." Simon sighed. "In fact, he has expressly forbidden me any further contact with you—believes you're a bad influence on my character."

DeVere grinned. "Then he would be right."

"How long will you be gone?" Simon asked.

"Six months. Mayhap a year. Longer if I can manage. Which now reminds me of why I sent for you. There are some things I need you to look after for me." He withdrew a key from his pocket along with a card with an address written on the back. "The key is to the rooms I have let in St. James. You must go there at your earliest convenience."





Chapter Two


It was two days before Simon could break away again. This time his escape was in the light of day, ostensibly to borrow a book of sermons from Reverend Dodd.

With access to DeVere's apartments that included a bed, Simon ventured through St. James the park, hoping to encounter a certain dairy maid. He hadn't laid eyes on the toothsome Lavinia since he'd composed the bawdy verse in her honor—the poem that had incited the chain of events leading to his current disgrace. Arriving at the grazing meadows just above St. James, he was dismayed that Lavinia was nowhere in sight.

"Cuppa milk, young sir?" asked a bent old crone holding a haltered cow.

"No milk, madam," he replied. "But perhaps you could tell me the whereabouts of a lass named Lavinia?"

She extended a gnarled hand with an expectant look. Simon dug two pennies from his pocket and handed them over. Her gaze narrowed. "Milk for tuppence. Questions are thruppence."

Simon retrieved the third coin from his pocket with a resigned sigh.

The crone took it and cackled with toothless triumph. "Lavinia, eh? More like lazy, lackadaisical light skirt, not fit fer an honest day's work. Don't think ye be the first randy young gent to come sniffing about her skirts. Nor will ye be the last."

Simon's hackles rose. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"She done took up with that rogue from the Shakespear's Head. I says good riddance to the baggage." She spat.

"The rogue from the Shakespear's Head? Do you mean Jack Harris?"

"Aye. The pimp general hisself come recruitin'. Lost half a dozen milk maids in a day. May God save 'em all from the pox." She gave a bony shrug and turned away to tend her cow.

Simon trudged away. Damn! It wasn't bad enough that DeVere had left for the Continent, and Ned was rusticated to Yorkshire. Now Livy had gone to the Shakespear's Head?

He'd sought out Livy with the fancy that a good tupping could lift him out of his doldrums. He'd even secreted in his pocket the Ode to a Milk Maid of St. James in hope that his poetic composition would counterweigh his lack of coin and ease his way under her skirts. Now that she'd entered the world of fleshpots, he'd never be able to afford the pleasure of her company— or any pleasure at all!

Lost in melancholy, Simon hoofed it across the park to DeVere's lodgings. He entered the chamber startled to find the remnants of a meal sitting upon the table, and various articles of clothing littering the floor. How Strange. DeVere had been gone for days. Did the house employ slatternly chambermaids? Or did someone else occupy the room? Had the avaricious landlord let it out to another in DeVere's absence?

Before he could puzzle it any further, a lump stirred in the bed and then sat up. Simon gaped. "Freddie?"

"Simon?" she returned. The gypsy girl's look of tousled, sleep-drugged petulance sent a surge of blood to Simon's groin. Damn, how he wished he'd been the one to tousle her. A frown marred her brow. "My lord said you'd come and look after me. What took you so long?"