Lord of Sin (3 page)

“Why not? She isn’t in seclusion now. She—”

“She is with that flock of widows who have vowed never to marry again.”

Felix blinked. “That girl? Preposterous. And who said anything about marriage?”

Sinjin smiled cynically. The boy was still green enough to think of binding himself to a female before he reached the age of forty. One misstep, and he might fall. And
that
Sinjin was determined to prevent.

“Perhaps you ought to set your sights a little lower,” Sinjin suggested. “The younger they are, the less likely that they will be able to conceal any…indiscretion. There are any number of experienced women who would be happy to accept your attentions.”

“But where is the challenge in that? You always say a good challenge makes it all the more satisfying when one is victorious.”

So he had. But Melbyrne might easily bite off more than he could chew…especially since it was clear from Lady Orwell’s attitude that she regarded Nuala as a friend. The girl was near the age Mariah had been four years ago, and, to judge by her eager reception of Nuala’s speech, just as trusting.

Don’t get tangled up with
her,
boy. No pretty young widow is worth the trouble
.

But how could he tender such an opinion without explaining what Nuala was? The real events at Donbridge remained a secret, and would never come to light.

Best if he simply distracted the boy, pointing him toward a less perilous partner who would teach him what he needed to learn.

“Come, Melbyrne,” he said, gripping the young man’s arm. “Don’t make any sudden judgments. There are many other pretty pictures to see.”

Felix sighed. “If you insist, Donnington.”

Sinjin didn’t look behind him as he led his protégé away from immediate danger. He suggested several suitable partners, at least one of whom returned Melbyrne’s polite smile with a coquettish one of her own.

“Mrs. Tissier is an excellent prospect,” Sinjin said. “She is still young, a courtesan of the first water.”

“A courtesan? What is she doing here?”

“The prince has been known to favor ladies whom Society would ordinarily ignore. Mrs. Tissier is one such lady. As such, she enjoys a certain caché.”

“Have you had her, Donnington? Is that why you consider her such a prize?” Felix snorted. “Of course you have. You’ve had all of them at one time or another.”

The implied insult missed its mark. “You aren’t likely to find a married woman in our set who hasn’t taken at least one lover,” Sinjin said. “If a matron has borne the necessary offspring, she can always pass an additional child off as her husband’s. His own infidelity makes it unlikely that he would raise an objection even if he suspected the truth.”

“I know all that, Sinjin, but—”

“Of course your prospect need not be married at all. Mature widows are generally intelligent enough to recognize the danger of having their
amours
confirmed by an unexpected birth.”

“I know how to take precautions,” Felix said with a flash of uncharacteristic irritation.

“Precautions or no, there is always a risk.
You
must convince the lady that you have such matters under control, and then keep your word.”

“Which you always manage to do.”

“I have produced no children, to my knowledge,” Sinjin said mildly. “I avoid naive young widows just as I do girls who have yet to take their marriage vows. I urge you to follow my example.”

“I’m not so certain I belong in your dashed club.”

Sinjin yawned. “That is entirely up to you. But if you make a mistake and find yourself forced to marry the chit, don’t come running to me.”

Frowning, Melbyrne gave Mrs. Tissier a second look. “If you wouldn’t mind, Donnington, I’d like to do my hunting in peace.”

“As you wish.” Certain that he’d made his point, Sinjin walked out of the Academy and breathed in London’s not-so-fresh air. At least here, away from the crowd, he was able to think.

He’d told Melbyrne that a challenge was always most satisfying, and he’d faced more than a few himself. But there was one woman in the world he wouldn’t pursue for all the tea in China. Except to make her explain…confess…

He didn’t know what he wanted of her. He only knew that he couldn’t let her go until he finally understood who and what she was. Until
she
knew what it was like to be the one truly without power.

D
EBORAH CLUTCHED
at Nuala’s hand.

“Did you see him?”

Nuala looked away from the Frith. The prickle of awareness she’d felt earlier returned with a vengeance.

“See whom?” she asked a little too sharply.

“That young man who was staring at us.”

Nuala turned fully in the direction Lady Orwell was looking, her heart beating much too fast. “I don’t see any young man,” she said. “Can you point him out?”

Deborah stood up on her toes. “He isn’t there now.” She met Nuala’s gaze, her own filled with surprising disappointment. “He was…quite handsome, with fair hair and blue eyes.”

The sharp ache in Nuala’s chest eased. Not
him
. She had heard that he was recently returned to London from India. She knew their meeting was inevitable, but she was not ready to face the Earl of Donnington.

She forced her thoughts back to Deborah’s young man. Lady Orwell’s description might indicate any number of gentlemen in Society, and both she and Nuala were as yet unfamiliar with many of them. But Deborah’s tone was most interesting, most interesting indeed. It was almost as if she were amazed by the fact that she might be the object of a handsome young man’s attention.

“He must have noticed
you
,” Nuala said, relieved that her own feelings of being watched had proven unfounded. “Who would not?”

“Oh, no. It must have been you he was looking at.”

“You are by far the greater beauty, and I am past my prime.”

“But surely he noticed that I am in mourning.”

“Half-mourning. And even that will not prevent a man’s admiration.”

Deborah flushed. “Perhaps I ought not come out so often.”

“It is good for you, Deborah. Grief does not make the world go away, as much as you might wish it.”

“I wish that I might crawl into a black pit and never come out again.”

“No, you don’t.” Nuala took Deborah’s arm and linked it through hers. “You are not alone now. You will always be with one of us, wherever you go.”

“I feel safest with you.”

After much soul-searching, Nuala had taken on the role of a kind of mentor to Deborah. There was, of course, some risk; though Nuala’s magic was gone, she might conceivably live for many more years before she was granted the release of death.

It is only for Deborah’s sake
, she reminded herself.
Soon enough she’ll have no further need of me
.

“I suggest that we continue to enjoy the paintings,” she said. “The others are well ahead of us.”

“Oh, yes. We should catch them up.”

Deborah hurried toward the beacon of Tameri’s gold collar. The Widows were laughing about some
thing or other, drawing a few mildly disapproving stares. After all, truly well-bred women merely tittered, if they laughed at all. But in spite of her severe suit and upright bearing, Frances cared nothing for the opinion of Society. Nor did Clara, who had joined in her hilarity. Maggie was simply oblivious to the judgment of others. Their enjoyment of their joke even affected Deborah, who all but grinned in delight.

Yes, there was hope for the girl yet.

Clara smiled at Nuala. “Well,” she said, “we wondered where you had gone.”

“Deborah and I were merely watching the crowd.”

“Fascinating, isn’t it? The study of human nature is a most vital subject that has long been neglected.”

“Perhaps you ought to take up the study yourself, Clara.”

“Not I. I’m content with my microscope and telescope.”

Tools she would not have been permitted to use when Nuala had been a girl. In those days, mortal men had done far worse than scoff at women who held such lofty interests. Any female who stepped out of her proper place of humility and obedience, let alone show skill in pursuits that might conceivably cross the boundaries set by the Almighty…

“Are you ill, Nuala?”

“I’m quite well,” Nuala said. “Have you seen the new florals in the next room?”

Lillian’s round blue eyes lit up. “No, I have not. Shall we visit them?”

Allowing herself to be guided into the adjoining room, Nuala quieted her memories. Memories she had once been able to set aside so easily. Why were they returning now with such potency, when she least desired them? Was this to be yet another punishment?

She glanced at Lillian’s laughing eyes and reminded herself again that she had not been completely abandoned. There might yet be answers. And perhaps, when she finally met Sinjin again, she could lay at least one of her ghosts to rest once and for all.

T
HE
H
YDE
P
ARK PARADE
was in full swing. Nuala, Deborah and Victoria, the Marchioness of Oxenham, sat comfortably in Lady Oxenham’s sparkling landau, which—in spite of its team of handsome grays—moved no faster than a walking pace and frequently came to a complete stop amid the crush of carriages and horsemen and women.

On any given afternoon—or mornings on Sundays—Rotten Row was the place to see and be seen. Countesses, baronesses and ladies of every description mingled with gentlemen and peers in their riding clothes and top hats, smiling as the constant swirl of dust settled on their parasols and compelled them to cough most discreetly behind their lace handkerchiefs.

Nuala didn’t mind the dust. She watched the comings and goings of the lords and their ladies, superb horsewomen in snug riding habits, young bucks driving their own phaetons, the more staid matrons showing off their equipages and dipping their heads to those who were privileged to know them. Each of them had a story. Sometimes Nuala imagined that she
felt the spark that had always guided her in choosing who most needed her help: here a lonely young man whose shyness made it impossible for him to approach the woman he loved from afar; there a young spinster whose plain face concealed a keen intellect and loving heart.

She stopped such speculation before it could proceed any further and returned the greeting of a horsewoman to whom she had recently been introduced. The marchioness’s progress had been interrupted many times by such admirers; she had many friends. Her musicales and parties were much admired by both members of the fast Marlborough House Set and the more conservative followers of the Queen. She had a pleasant word for everyone, and frequently pointed out the leading lights of Society to her two guests.

“Look! Isn’t Lady Rush’s hat extraordinary?” Lady Oxenham asked, peering through her lorgnette. “I shouldn’t have the nerve to wear it. But of course she never gave two straws for the dictates of fashion.”

“I rather like it,” Deborah said in a tentative voice.

The marchioness chuckled. “It is just the sort of thing any young woman of imagination might fancy, I suppose,” she said. She smiled at Nuala. “And are you enjoying our outing, my dear?”

Nuala laid her hand over Lady Oxenham’s. “If it hadn’t been for you and your patronage, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Oh, pish. You are the wife of my son. You made
his last days the happiest of his life. It is we who owe you our deepest thanks.”

An unaccustomed flush warmed Nuala’s cheeks. “If only I had been able to do more for him….”

“Never reproach yourself, dear Nuala. Charles loved you.”

“A poor vicar’s daughter.”

“A woman of great compassion and sensibility is not to be dismissed merely because of rank. And now you are Lady Charles Parkhill, and shall be until you marr—” She paused and waved her fan vigorously before her impressive bosom. “I did not mean to offend, my dear.”

Nuala squeezed her hand. “Of course not, Lady Oxenham.”

The older woman beamed at Deborah. “And you, Lady Orwell? What think you of our grand city?”

“Sometimes I think it can’t quite be real,” Deborah said, giving her own fan a quick shake.

“Indeed, at times I wonder the same thing myself.” The marchioness settled in her seat with a sigh of satisfaction. “Of course, Paris is nothing to sneeze at. You must have seen such sights there. Ah, Lady Bensham is riding alone. No doubt she’s quarreled with her husband. Those two quite unfashionably adore each other, but one must expect…” She pursed her lips. “Ah! Here are a pair of gentlemen you might like to meet. You share much in common.”

Nuala followed her look toward the approaching riders. “What would that be, Lady Oxenham?” she asked, her breath catching in her throat.

The marchioness glanced at her slyly. “They have sworn not to marry, just like you.”

Deborah sat up and shaded her eyes with one gloved hand. “Truly?”

“Indeed. They call themselves the ‘Forties,’ because they have vowed to remain bachelors until they have passed the age of forty.”

“Is that so very unusual?” Deborah asked. “My own dear husband…”

“Not terribly unusual in younger sons, at least,” Lady Oxenham said. “But eldest sons must look to producing heirs of their own. And these young gentlemen have…something of a reputation.”

“What sort of reputation?”

The marchioness had no opportunity to answer. The gentlemen were drawing their horses alongside the landau, the elder on a black stallion he held under remarkable control, the younger on a bay mare. Deborah’s eyes grew very wide. The younger man tipped his hat and returned her regard, his fair hair falling across his brow.

But Nuala gave him no more than a passing glance. She stared up at the taller man, who had also raised his hat to Lady Oxenham. He seemed to be completely unaware of Nuala’s presence.

“My dear Lord Donnington,” the marchioness said, extending her hand. “How pleasant to see you again.”

The earl took her hand and kissed the air over her fingers. “Lady Oxenham,” he said. “I trust you are enjoying the afternoon.”

She allowed him to hold her hand a little longer
than was strictly necessary. “Indeed I am,” she said, and turned to her guests. “Lady Orwell, Lady Charles, may I present the Earl of Donnington.”

Deborah continued to gaze at the younger man as if she hadn’t heard the introduction. Lord Donnington bowed stiffly over his saddle.

“Lady Orwell,” he said, “Lady Charles.”

Nuala met Sinjin’s hard brown eyes. She had never forgotten for an instant how handsome he was, how lean and graceful, how utterly masculine in his coat, breeches and riding boots. Nor had she forgotten the scorn in his eyes four years ago, when she’d admitted to being a witch. A witch who had posed as a maid at his brother’s estate, Donbridge, and who had made herself an essential part of the events that had resulted in Giles’s death, and the disruption of everything Sinjin had known and believed.

She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling. “Good afternoon, Lord Donnington.”

He ignored her greeting and gestured to his friend. “May I be permitted to present Mr. Felix Melbyrne.”

Lady Oxenham inclined her head. “Mr. Melbyrne. I understand that you are but recently come to London.”

“It is true, Lady Oxenham,” Melbyrne said, nervously shifting his reins in his hands. “I am most honored to make your acquaintance.” His gaze wandered back to Deborah. “And yours, Lady Orwell, Lady Charles.”

Deborah blushed, bobbed her head and smiled. “I…I am happy to meet you, Mr. Melbyrne.”

“And I,” Nuala said. She searched the young man’s eyes. “Lady Orwell and I are also recent arrivals.”

“I…I see.” Mr. Melbyrne continued to fidget in a very telling manner. “There is so much to see and do.”

“Yes,” Deborah said, “I agree.”

“And you, Lady Charles?”

Sinjin’s voice was as harsh as his gaze, drawing a start of surprise from the marchioness. Nuala didn’t smile. She was compelled to concentrate entirely on making certain that her distress was not visible to him or her companions. That Deborah should not guess that she and the Earl of Donnington had met before under the most painful of circumstances.

“It is very different from the countryside Lord Charles preferred,” she said.

A flash of what might have been chagrin passed over Sinjin’s face. “Permit me to offer my sincere condolences on the loss of your husband.”

“You are very kind, Lord Donnington.”

“The earl was also kind enough to offer me his condolences,” the marchioness said, more brusquely than was her habit. “Having been out of the country so long, he did not learn of Charles’s passing until very recently. But then again, my brother-in-law was very reclusive. Many forgot his existence entirely.”

“Not I, I assure you,” Sinjin said. “We were together at Eton. I was deeply grieved.”

The marchioness inclined her head. “You have been much occupied since your return from India.”

“Oh,” said Lady Orwell quickly, as if she were
eager to change the subject. “You have been in India? How fascinating.”

Mr. Melbyrne said something about having visited some other exotic clime, but Nuala wasn’t listening. She watched Sinjin without quite looking at him, taking him in with her senses as well as her eyes.

He had changed. Oh, not so much in appearance, though there were a few more lines in his face and a deep tan gained from several years in India. He had lost none of his handsomeness. No, the greatest change was within him. He had always been somewhat cynical, a man who had a reputation as a lover and a gambler. But he had shown compassion toward his former sister-in-law, Mariah, when she had been in trouble. He was capable of great feeling and unflinching loyalty.

That Sinjin seemed to have vanished. His face revealed no expression, even as he conversed easily with Lady Oxenham. His dark eyes were shadowed, as if he seldom slept, and his mouth was tight.

There was no mistaking his coldness toward her. They had parted so abruptly at Donbridge, and that was her doing. Her cowardice. Had his brother’s death and Lady Westlake’s subsequent madness turned him into the man she saw before her?

You knew it might be like this
. Yet his unspoken hostility was much worse than she might have imagined. A part of her had hoped for something different, a neutral meeting, some way she might explain without having to face his mistrust and obvious resentment.

He finds you in London, a lady at least in name, a stranger he never had any real reason to trust. I told him so little. Is it any wonder
…

She had thought of laying ghosts to rest. But now, suddenly, she was afraid.

“We must go,” Sinjin said, touching the brim of his hat. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, Lady Oxenham, Lady Orwell.” He paused. “Lady Charles.”

He wheeled his horse about and started away, dodging a town coach and four. Melbyrne lingered, his horse shuffling nervously beneath him, opened his mouth and bowed from the saddle before riding after his friend.

“How very interesting,” Lady Oxenham murmured. But she didn’t elaborate, and soon the landau was moving again. Nuala found it impossible to keep up her part in the conversation.

He is suffering,
she thought.
Because of me.

And he had judged her, just as the witch-finders had judged her family.

“It was he,” Deborah whispered, leaning close to Nuala’s ear.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The young man I saw at the Academy!”

Nuala took herself in hand. “Mr. Melbyrne?”

“Yes. He
is
handsome, is he not?”

“Yes. Very handsome.”

“And that man with him…Lord Donnington—” She shuddered. “He was quite intimidating. Very courteous in his manner, but so distant.”

“Perhaps he had important things on his mind.”

“Oh, most important,” Lady Oxenham put in. “What suit he ought to wear tomorrow, where he might spend a stimulating evening playing at cards, what new bit of horseflesh he might choose to buy. All very pressing matters.”

“But I thought you liked him!” Deborah protested.

“I do. He has certainly kept up the family’s interests in the East and has done well by his tenants at Donbridge. But he has only been in England three months, and already he is influencing the most fashionable young men…not necessarily for the better.”

“The Forties?” Deborah asked.

“Quite so. Sinjin seems to take a rather dim view of women, as well as marriage—it is obvious that he was once hurt badly by one of our sex.”

Nuala knew just how badly Sinjin had been hurt, but she said nothing.

“Unfortunately,” Lady Oxenham continued, “Mr. Melbyrne is obviously in Lord Donnington’s thrall. A pity. Such a promising fellow. Possessed of rather a good income, I believe.”

Deborah fell silent, biting her lip. Nuala sighed. Not even a blind man could have failed to notice how intently the two young people had studied each other.

Sinjin must have noticed, too. He had obviously not approved….

Stop, stop, stop!

Desperately Nuala tried to distract her mind. But all she could think of was Sinjin’s face. The way it had looked the last time they’d been together at Donbridge four years ago.

“I don’t need the help of a witch
,” he had said. Such anger. Such contempt…

“My dear Nuala,” Lady Oxenham said.

“Forgive me,” Nuala said, snapping back to the present. “I wasn’t listening.”

“The marchioness is to give a ball,” Deborah said. “We are both invited.”

“A ball?” Nuala repeated stupidly.

“A fancy-dress ball,” the marchioness said. “It is rather short notice…only four weeks from Tuesday…but my youngest son is returning from his service in Africa, and I wished to celebrate properly. He is very fond of fancy-dress balls.” She gave Nuala a direct stare. “You shall attend, of course.”

“I ought not—” Deborah began.

“You shall wear something bright,” Lady Oxenham said. “There is no time for one of the Paris modistes, of course, but I have a dressmaker who is just as skilled and almost as inventive. I shall send her to you.”

“Thank you, Lady Oxenham,” Deborah murmured, overcome by the old woman’s determination.

“Of course, your friends shall all be invited, as well,” Lady Oxenham said. “I am quite certain that the dowager duchess will have chosen her costume even before she receives the invitation.”

Deborah laughed behind her fan. Nuala was in no mood for humor.

Will
he
be there?
It would be rude to ask Lady Oxenham such a question, but the very thought made her hands begin to tremble. After all these years, a man had such power over her emotions.

But she would not let emotion rule her. Before Donnington, she had been successful in her work by keeping her head and maintaining some distance from those she helped. Celebration came only after the work was completed to her satisfaction.