Lauren Hawkeye - My Royal Sin / Playing Dirty

“Ruby,” he says, his eyes widening. “What is it?”

I hug my torso, shivering now—from the chill in the air? Fear? I’m not even sure.

“Did you go to the cottage?” I ask, hoping for logic to rearrange my frantic thoughts. “Did you go to my room?”

His brows furrow, and he shakes his head.

“I—After you left, I went for a walk. And...” I take a shuddering breath. After what my life has become these past two months, I’m starting to trust that things will only get worse. “I think someone broke in while I was gone.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. He looks over his shoulder and then at me.

“Come in,” he says. “You are safe here.” He steps aside and closes the door. “Follow me.”

He moves in front of me, and I gasp as he leads me from the entryway, as my eyes rest on the raised welts that cover his back.

He says nothing until we are in a modest bedchamber. The walls are bare but for a crucifix on the wall by a lone window. The bed is large but without any trappings of royalty. Just plain white sheets and a quilt. He sits me on the edge of the bed and moves a good distance from me, crossing his arms.

“Tell me what happened,” he says, not bothering to acknowledge the new elephant in the room.

“Tell me what happened to you,” I say.

He sighs. “Nothing,” he says softly. “Nothing more than purging myself of my guilt.”

My hand flies to my mouth as I stifle another gasp.

“My tormented soul isn’t your concern, Ruby. I hired you to do a job, and you performed as expected. Now tell me what you are doing here.”

His words bite, though I know they shouldn’t. They are nothing more than the truth.

“When I got home,” I tell him, “something felt wrong. And when I went to my room, the chair—your chair—was not where you’d left it. At least, I don’t think it was.” As I speak, I realize I sound less convincing by the second. But then I remember the floorboard. “There was a squeaky piece of wood in the floor behind the chair, and I thought it odd that it hadn’t sounded when you were there, because I swear your chair was right over it, so I pulled it up and—”

“Let me guess. And you found the catacombs?” He raises a brow and grins.

I stand up in a huff. “I just ran here frightened for my life, and you’re joking around?” I ask. The idea of laughter seems too ridiculous to mention. It must have been the wind and my own overactive imagination.

I turn to storm out, realizing I won’t find comfort here, but Benedict grabs my wrist.

“Wait,” he says.

I face him but say nothing more.

“There is a chance I may have moved my chair closer to you.” His expression darkens. “I don’t remember. You bewitched me with that show you put on—inserting me into your fantasy. I probably couldn’t have told you what day it was while I was in that room, let alone whether or not I moved a chair.”

“But the catacombs? That dark hole under the floor?”

He nods, a soft smile taking over his features. “There is not only a maze above the ground but one beneath it, as well. They run from under the palace to the far reaches of the grounds. I assure you that is all you saw beneath the cottage, and I can almost assure you it was I who moved the chair.”

I sigh, and he finally drops my wrist. “I guess that all makes sense.” And it does, though I’m still uneasy. “I guess...I’ll head back and go to sleep.”

He reaches for my cheek but stops short.

“You are still frightened.”

I nod.

“Then you will sleep here.” He gestures toward the bed. “I was going to sleep on the floor anyway,” he adds.

At this, I want to reach for him, to ask him to forgive himself for nothing more than wanting what he cannot have. But I know that will only cause him further distress. And because I do not want to be alone in what now feels like too strange of a place, I agree.

“I do have one condition,” I say, and he bows his head slowly. “You need to let me tend to your wounds. There are so many bruises.” For a moment I wonder if this is the hardest he’s punished himself yet. “I don’t want you marred on my account.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I shake my head. “Let me—let me do something good,” I say.

His shoulders relax, and he points toward the direction from where we came. “The bathing room is on the left. You will find supplies in there, healing salves and such.”

I smile and turn toward the door, and that’s when I see what’s on the wall...what wasn’t in my line of sight when we entered the room.

This is what I was sent to find, but now that I see it, I realize that whatever the story is behind the painting, it’s more than I anticipated.

It is not only the image of an angel...but it is one who wears my face.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Benedict

THERE IS A loud thump as my bedroom door slams shut. I whirl around to find Ruby crumpled against it, hands pressed to her face, her cheeks drained of all color.

“What is it?” I demand. My heart is in my throat. She seemed fine a moment ago, composed even.

“The portrait...” She keels forward as if to swoon. “You own one of Vernazza’s Guardian Angels paintings?”

I blink slowly, unable to comprehend the depth of emotion in her voice. “You’re a fan of Giuseppe Vernazza’s work?” Vernazza was regarded as the great artist of our age until his unfortunate death a decade ago, losing control of his car and wrapping it around a tree along the Nightgardin border. A waste to lose such a gifted prodigy before his time.

Her laugh is without humor and goes on and on, the hysterical edge slashing my peace of mind. “You could say that,” she gasps. “Vernazza was my father. Look closer at the painting. Tell me, does it remind you of anyone?”

I transfer my gaze from her beautiful face to that of the angel, the one that has so often served as both my temptation and my salvation—and my heart gives a dull thud. What a fool I have been not to see what was right under my nose. Ruby’s face...the angel’s face, good God, they are one and the same. No wonder she appeared so familiar the moment she removed the wig. My insides churn.

“He painted my features as he imagined they would one day look. His imagination came close to the truth, right?”

It’s as if my world has flipped its axis and down is up and up is down. “I didn’t know.”

How could I have been so blind?

“Of course not.” She winds her arms around her legs, hugs her knees to her chest. “Who would imagine the daughter of Europe’s most famous painter since Pablo Picasso would make a living by selling her body?”

“Why do you work for The Jewel Box?”

Her eyes darken. “My father died.”

“Rest his soul.” I make the sign of the cross. “A terrible accident. I shall pray for him.”

“Accident?” She pushes herself to standing, her features fierce, shining with hidden fire. “My father drove that same route between Nightgardin and Rosegate at least once a week to deal with patrons. He took expert care of that car. No. That wasn’t a mere accident that claimed his life. The weather was calm. The sun shining. He was murdered. Someone tampered with his brakes!”

My shoulder blades slam together. “You have proof?”

A sob escapes her. “Only the truth in my heart. There is no proof. No motive. Mother died not long after my birth, and all I had after Father was my brother. J-J-J-Jasper.” As the name leaves her tongue, her weeping grows.

“Jasper Vernazza.” I frown. “This name, it’s familiar to me.”

“His fate wasn’t as dramatic as Father’s. He still lives, if you can call being locked in a cage like an animal a life. He was a minor news story this past year until we lost his case and they locked him up. He was an art historian caught stealing a painting from my father’s collection in the Musée des Beaux-Arts. They say he wanted to sell it to a black market dealer in Hong Kong, but my brother reveres museums and Father’s legacy. It doesn’t make sense.” She wipes her eyes. “The portrait he was accused of stealing was another angel, actually. My father painted a whole series of them.”