The Trouble With Sin (Devilish Vignettes (the Devil DeVere) #2)(7)

"Very well." Harris shrugged. "I know someone who can assist you.” He retrieved his calling card and scrawled on the back, handing it to Simon. "Go to Mrs. Martin just across the Piazza. Give her this card and she will extend you credit in the amount of ten pounds. The amount should suffice for your needs."

Simon accepted the card and tucked it into his breast pocket with a grin. "Thank you, Harris."

He gave Simon a meaningful look. "I hope your sister shows you proper gratitude."

"I am sure she will be exceedingly gratified." Simon departed with an imagination brimming with visions of Freddie's various and sundry manifestations of enduring appreciation.





Chapter Three


"Simon! Where on earth have you been?" demanded Lady Singleton.

He winced, his hopes of slinking upstairs unnoticed, dashed. She approached with her nose twitching. He'd never considered it before, but his mother rather resembled a rabbit.

"Spirits, Simon? You smell distinctly of spirits! You have been to a tavern!" Righteous fire smoldered in her accusing eyes.

"Mother, it's not what you think—”

"You told me you were calling upon the Reverend Dodd to borrow a book of sermons."

The pained look in her eyes evoked a pang of guilt, if not quite contrition. He really did love his mother and hated to disappoint her, but her saintly expectations were impossible for any mortal to live up to.

"Yes, Mother," Simon scrambled to explain the brandy. It seemed to him a greater kindness, and therefore a lesser sin, to offer up a small prevarication. "Indeed, I have a volume right here in my pocket that I intend to study most diligently."

Her face instantly softened. "Do you, Simon? Perhaps you could read it to me. If you hope to be heard from the pulpit, you must apply yourself to the art of oration."

He smiled. "Of course, you are right, Mama, but I would first prefer to familiarize myself and commit some key passages to memory."

"A brilliant idea!" Lady Singleton exclaimed. "What is the theme of this sermon book?"

Damn! Damn! Bloody damn! I should have anticipated that one!

Simon searched his memory desperate to recall a well-known sermon—or any sermon at all! "The Mount," he blurted the only one that came to mind. "The Sermon on the Mount."

She clasped her hands with a look of rapture. "An exposition on our Lord's great beatitudes? You must tell me who the author is? Is it Dr. Dodd?"

A reply in the affirmative might lead her to question Dodd later. "No, Mama. The discourse was penned by that…that…traveling Methodist fellow."

"Dr. Wesley? His sermons are well renowned!" She extended her hand. "May I see it?"

Double Damn! He closed his eyes on an inward groan. He could almost feel the individual beads of sweat popping out of his forehead. Simon reached into his pocket with a genuine prayer. "Here it is, Mama. Just a plain black sermon book. There is nothing special to see, but if you will allow me to give it my full devotion for a few hours, I'll be happy to recite what I commit to memory."

"That would be utterly delightful, Simon." She cupped his cheek with a warm smile. "Shall we say later this evening? I shall be in sad want of company with your father at his club again. Will you join me for supper?"

"If you don't mind, I'd prefer to tray in my room while I study," he asked.

"But of course. Your dedication is admirable. I just knew all this recent ruckus had to be the wicked influence of that rogue DeVere."

"As you say, Mama. Until this evening." He bussed her cheek.

Once out of sight, Simon released the air from his lungs in a long, slow gush. He thanked his guardian angel for his reprieve—and promised to repent of at least some of his sins.

***

Simon retired to his room where he immersed himself in study of Harris' book. Simon had thought it would be an effortless undertaking to pen witty homage to these birds of Paradise, but after thumbing through dozens of pages, his well of inspiration remained dry. Aside from names, addresses, and physical descriptions, there were a few crude notes written in the margin detailing attributes, talents, and preferred sexual acts. To his dismay, nothing stirred his poetic passion or ignited his imagination. In actuality, the only stirring was in his prick. Yes, that part of him was highly inspired. He threw down his quill and raked a hand through his hair.

He opened the book again, determined to focus more diligently on the work at hand, only to read a particularly colorful description of one plump and toothsome wench called Cherry Belle for her practice of rouging herself—cheeks, mouth, nipples, and even her nether lips.

Bugger it all!

He slammed the book down. Was this some cruel joke? Or perhaps an agonizing penance he had to pay for his willful iniquity?

Fully aroused, Simon slumped in the chair and loosened his cravat with a resigned sigh. He then unbuttoned his falls, determined to take matters in hand. He fisted himself and shut his eyes, focusing all his frustration on visions of dear Cherry applying the rouge to her pebbled nipples. He stroked leisurely up and down his shaft as she squeezed her breasts together with a sly smile meant only for him—a dark and secretive gypsy smile—Freddie's smile.

He stroked harder and faster as Freddie smoothed her hands slowly over her naked belly to her glorious mound of Venus. His cadence increased to a frantic pace as she parted her nether lips with rouge-tipped fingers and delved inside with a moan of pleasure that echoed his own.