“That’s very forward of you. What if I’ve given this dance to someone else?”
He looked down at her. “You haven’t.”
“And you know this because…”
“Because you barely know a soul in London. You just said so.” So she wasn’t the sharpest knife on the rack. Something about her conjured images of warm nights and soft silk sheets.
“I’m not at all certain this is proper.”
“It is,” he returned, drawing her closer. Whatever odd sensation had overcome him this evening, he intended to enjoy it. Charlemagne slid his hand around her slender waist—and stopped as a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
“I’m occu—” he began as he looked behind him. “Oh, it’s you.”
Sebastian glanced from him to Lady Sarala and back again. “What’s amiss?”
Charlemagne tried to set aside his own mental debate over whether Melbourne had fantastical or abysmal timing. “Nothing’s amiss. I told Shipley I’d speak with him at nine o’clock, and you were naming offspring.”
“I believe you were going to tell me about that silk sh—”
“Later,” Charlemagne interrupted, flashing an unfelt grin at his brother. “As I said, I’m occupied.”
With a lifted eyebrow and one of his unreadable looks, Sebastian backed off. Ha. Shay didn’t need to be placated like an infant. And if Melbourne genuinely wanted to know about the silks, he could wait until after the waltz. Charlemagne swept Lady Sarala into the dance.
“Who was that?” Lady Sarala asked, looking from him to Sebastian.
“My brother, Melbourne.”
Her green eyes widened a little. “Melbourne, as in Sebastian Griffin, the Duke of Melbourne?”
So the foreign princess did know something of London Society. “I told you I wasn’t a tailor.”
“Yes, but I didn’t realize you were one of those Griffins. You’re famous. Your brother married a painter last year.”
“Not that brother,” Charlemagne returned, indicating Melbourne, “but yes. Zachary did.”
Her gaze went to Sebastian again. “He doesn’t look very pleased with you. It’s not because we’re dancing, is it?”
“I daresay I may dance with whomever I please,” he noted, sinking back into the humming, expectant energy between them. Damn Melbourne, anyway. At three-and-thirty Sebastian looked precisely like what he was—the very wealthy head of a powerful and well-favored family, and obviously a distracting personage to a naive and exotic foreign beauty. “He’s only annoyed because tomorrow I’m going to make a very lucrative business deal that he doesn’t know the least detail about. He hates being kept in the dark.”
Green eyes gazed at him luminously. “How exciting,” she breathed, her chest rising and falling with her quick breath. “Is this deal a secret, then?”
So now she found him more interesting than Melbourne again. Good. “No,” he answered, considering. “Not really.”
Her lips formed a slight, disappointed pout. “Oh.”
Damnation. “I mean in a sense, I suppose it is a secret,” he amended hastily. Zachary was right; sometimes he could be very obtuse about women and their flighty imaginations. He hardly considered it to be his fault, however, that most females found business far beyond their ability to comprehend or appreciate. In this one instance he could decorate the canvas a little, he supposed. “If the wrong people should hear about it, the price of the shipment would treble.”
“‘Shipment’?” she repeated in a low voice. “Is it from America?”
“No, from China.”
“Oh, I’ve always longed to visit China,” she exclaimed, though she kept her voice low.
She was taking this “secret” silliness seriously. Charlemagne smiled at her. “Just between you and me, then, the ship Wayward docked at Blackfriar’s this afternoon. Her cargo is five hundred bolts of the very finest Chinese silk I’ve ever set eyes on. The captain’s sold cargo to me before, so I’m the only one he contacted.” He lowered his voice still further, though with the noise from the orchestra and the guests around them, he doubted anyone could overhear even if they wanted to. It sounded very conspiratorial, at any rate, and it gave him an excuse to hold her a little closer in his arms.
“Blink,” he continued, “bought the bolts outright rather—”
“Blink?” she broke in at a whisper.
“Peter Blink. The Wayward’s captain. He bought the shipment outright rather than taking a percentage for the transportation of the cargo…” Charlemagne trailed off, realizing that he was getting carried away again. She probably had no idea about the intricacies of business, and even less interest in them. She wanted to hear about intrigue and secrets. Little as he liked pointless flights of fancy, tonight he definitely felt in the mood to indulge this particular Indian princess.
He drew a breath. “So our captain is very eager to sell and recoup his expenses so he can pay his crew before they mutiny.”
“A mutiny?”
“Oh, definitely, if he can’t pay them. But since I am very eager to take possession of the silks, I doubt anyone will be gulleted.”
Lady Sarala clutched his fingers. “And when is this duel to prevent a gulleting to take place?”
“At ten o’clock tomorrow, which is why I won’t make an appearance until three-quarters past.”
“Goodness,” she breathed. “And that will make Captain Blink even more anxious and cause him to lower his price further.”
“That’s the idea,” he responded. Women might not have an interest in business, but they did appreciate power and confidence. Lady Sarala obviously realized that he had those qualities in spades.
“That’s brilliant.” She smiled again, her teeth white against skin tanned by the Indian sun. “And you do this sort of thing all the time?”
Charlemagne nodded. “All the time,” he murmured.
“Your brother the duke must rely on you for so much.”
And now back to Sebastian, damn it all. “He does rely on me, but these silks are my affair. I have my own business in addition to shares in the family enterprise.” In fact, this wasn’t part of the general Griffin family business. It was his own venture, his own risk, with his own blunt.
She continued to gaze at him admiringly. “Your mother did name you well, Lord Charlemagne.”
If he’d been a female, he would have blushed. For the briefest of moments, though, Charlemagne wished the Indian princess had more to contribute to the conversation than compliments and a pleasantly heaving bosom. True, he didn’t expect much of most women—his sister Eleanor and Zach’s Caroline being exceptions to the rule of the prettier the face, the emptier the head—but that was exactly the reason his affairs tended to be brief and of secondary importance to the rest of his life. She would look very fine spread on his bedsheets, but if she could actually have comprehended his plan in more than the broad terms he’d laid out for her, this one would have been difficult to set aside.
The waltz ended, and at her request he escorted her to the refreshments table. Whatever doubts he had about her mental acuity, he still couldn’t seem to make himself bid her good evening. “Are you residing at Carlisle House, then?” he asked.
“We are.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t object if I called on you there.”
She lowered glittering lids. “Perhaps I wouldn’t.”
Charlemagne’s partner for the country dance cleared her throat from a few feet away, and he blinked. “Then perhaps I shall see you soon, Lady Sarala,” he murmured, kissing her knuckles again before he reluctantly released her.
As he moved through the country dance he noted that his princess remained unpartnered by the sweetmeats. It made sense; as she’d said she’d hardly had the time to become acquainted with anyone. And her appearance, while definitely…stimulating, could be a bit off-putting to some of the younger bucks. He definitely wouldn’t classify her as demure. Electrifying, perhaps, but not demure.
When he’d disc
harged his obligation for the next two dances, Charlemagne went out to the balcony for a breath of air. All evening long he could swear the scent of cinnamon clung to him, and it continued to leave him distinctly and uncharacteristically distracted.
“I’m not going to resort to dancing with you to get an answer,” Sebastian said, joining him at the balcony railing.
“Good God, I should hope not,” Charlemagne retorted.
“If you’d stayed home for another five minutes, I would have gotten to you, you know. A child for Eleanor is somewhat significant to her—and to all of us.”
“I’m aware of that.” He gave the duke a sideways look. “And I hope I haven’t given the impression that I require your approval before I venture any of my own blunt.”
“You never have before,” Sebastian conceded. “You’re a fine businessman, Shay, as if you needed the reassurance.” He sighed uncharacteristically. “Honestly, with the way Zachary’s been cornering me about his cattle breeding program, and now Nell with baby names, or ponies from Peep—well, my daughter comes first, of course—or your exploits, it’s not much of a contest.”
Charlemagne grinned. “So I may tell Zach and Nell that other than Peep, I’m your favorite?”
“Very amusing. At times you are the only one with any sense. I’ll grant you that. So tell me about the silks.”
“Not much to tell yet,” Charlemagne returned, shrugging, “except that I should be the proud owner of five hundred bolts by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.” He glanced at his older brother. “And I did have to meet with Shipley. I put him off until luncheon tomorrow. I wasn’t sulking.”
“I didn’t think you were, but your disappearance did surprise me a little.” The duke put an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s find some port to toast your success-to-be then, shall we?”
“By all means.”
And if Lady Sarala’s “perhaps” meant what he thought it did, they might very well be toasting his private success-to-be, as well. At any rate, he intended to have cinnamon in his tea in the morning.
Chapter 2
“What do you mean, you already sold the silks?”
Captain Peter Blink sat back in his chair, his suntanned face growing pale. “Well, uh, the other gentleman said you, uh, weren’t coming, so…so naturally when he offered to purchase the—”
“What other gentleman?” Charlemagne demanded, his voice clipped as he struggled not to strike the Wayward’s captain.
“The one—he was just here. Surely you passed him on your way in. I didn’t know—well, he said you—”
Snarling an expletive, Charlemagne strode out of Blink’s ramshackle warehouse office and back outside into the bright morning sun. Narrowing his eyes, he cast about for the man he’d barely given a first thought, much less a second. Tall, wearing dark, not terribly well-tailored clothes, a satchel—
There he was. Clenching his jaw, Shay started after him. This damned interloper and Blink had both just earned themselves a very large problem with a very angry Griffin.
A half-dozen sailors and dockworkers had begun loading bolts of silk—his silk—into a pair of wagons. Just in front of them, the tall man leaned into the window of a closed coach and handed over some papers to the occupant. Charlemagne slowed his approach to watch. Angry or not, he wasn’t a fool; the more he knew about the circumstances, the better his position would be. And damned Blink was the one who had blundered and sold the shipment out from under him; this fellow and whomever he worked for had merely taken advantage of that fact.
After a short conversation and a nod, the tall man pulled open the coach door and climbed in. Shay moved closer, dodging the workers who carried away his bolts of silk. He was rarely outmaneuvered, and he had a perverse desire to have a word with the fellow who had accomplished that feat today.
The coach began to rumble off, and he quickened his pace to a half run. “You there!” he shouted. “Stop that coach!” With a look back at him the driver pulled the team in, and Charlemagne drew even with the door. “Look here, there’s been some sort of mis—”
He stopped dead as all three of the coach’s occupants looked up at him. The tall man, a female clearly dressed as a maid, and the third one. Her. The Indian princess. The subject of the rather heated dream he’d had last night.
“You?” he stammered.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said coolly, and rapped on the window with gloved knuckles. “Driver, carry on.”
“Just a damned minute, Sarala,” Charlemagne returned, striding after the coach. “You are not—”
She leaned out the window. “Oh, and thank you for the very helpful information, my lord,” she called, and disappeared inside again.
Several distinct and unpleasant thoughts roiled through his mind. So the chit thought she could best him—and taunt him. Charlemagne began to curse again. Moving fast and barely refraining from shoving people out of his way, he returned to where he’d left his horse Jaunty and his secretary Roberts, along with the men he’d hired to transport the silks.
“That was very quickly done, my lo—”
“Wait here,” he snapped at his secretary, swinging into the saddle. Not even the profanity spewing from beneath his breath could cool his temper. Sarala Carlisle hadn’t just thought to—she actually had bested him. And his first impulse was to ride down her damned coach and break her bloody neck.
Before he’d ridden beyond the end of the warehouse, though, Charlemagne slowed Jaunty to a halt. Angry—no, furious—as he was, first and foremost he was a Griffin. And Griffins didn’t kill people over business. Not unless they truly deserved it. And technically this was his fault. He’d discussed business with a lovely, simple chit only to discover that while she was indeed beautiful, he’d apparently erred in his assessment of her intelligence.
He pulled out his pocket watch. Damnation. He had a perplexed secretary and several laborers waiting for him, and a luncheon appointment with two commerce ministers. Slowly he turned the chestnut around and walked back to where Roberts waited. After luncheon, however, he had every intention of tracking down that blasted woman and getting his bloody shipment back.
Lady Sarala couldn’t help looking down the street as a footman opened the coach’s door and helped her to the ground. “Is my father in, Blankman?” she called to the butler who stood at the top of the steps.
“Lord Hanover is in his office, my lady,” the large, gray-liveried butler intoned, gesturing the coach around to the stables at the back of the house.
She glanced over her shoulder once more as she slipped through the front door and into the house’s cold, dim interior. In the weeks since they’d left India she’d given up the hope of ever being truly warm again, but she couldn’t help wishing for just one day of true heat here in London. And this was summer; even the idea of winter filled her with foreboding.
And so did her last sight of Lord Charlemagne Griffin. Obviously he hadn’t expected to see her at Blackfriar’s pier. But for heaven’s sake, business was business, and he should have known better than to tell a stranger all the details of a lucrative transaction he’d barely begun, much less completed.
She had no idea what he would have done if she hadn’t told the driver to leave. He’d looked angry enough to reach through the window to strangle her. The memory of his expression made her shiver. And even that was nothing close to the shivers he’d given her last night when he’d told her his plans to nab the silk—or when he’d kissed her knuckles.
“There you are, child,” her mother said from the depths of the morning room. “Where on earth have you been?”
With a sigh Sarala backtracked down the hall and stopped in the morning room doorway. “I had a little business to attend to. Is Pita still in his office?”
“‘Papa,’ you mean,” Helen Carlisle, Lady Hanover, corrected, lowering her embroidery to frown. “Or ‘Father.’”
“I like ‘Papa’ better,” Sarala returned with a pained smile. For heaven’s sake, she’d
just forgotten for a moment. She’d called her father Pita for twenty-two years, after all.
“Then use ‘Papa,’” her mother said unsympathetically. “And what do you mean, you had business? Ladies don’t conduct business.”
“I helped Pi—Papa with affairs in Delhi all the time. You know that.”
“What I know is that we’re not in Delhi any longer. We’re in London, and thank goodness for that. Another year or two in India and I daresay you would have forgotten how to speak English altogether.”
“Yes, Mama,” Sarala intoned, declining to note that since the majority of her father’s business had been with Indians, it had been a solid business decision for the two of them to learn to speak Hindi. “Is Father in his office?”
“He’s back early from Parliament, so I imagine that he is. Don’t keep him long. He’s reviewing our finances.”
“I won’t.” Pushing away from the doorframe, Sarala turned down the hallway again.
“Sarala.”
Closing her eyes for just a moment as she felt the remains of her brief satisfaction of the morning ebbing, she returned to the morning room. “Yes, Mama?”
“This business to which you attended. Please tell me you didn’t go alone.”
“I met Mr. Warrick. He actually conducted the business. I waited in the coach with my maid.” And hated every blasted minute of that nonsense.
“Good. Go see your father, then.” The marchioness sighed, lifting her embroidery again. “You two are as alike as peas in a pod, anyway. I don’t know how I manage.”
Pretending she couldn’t hear her mama’s muttering, Sarala hurried to the marquis’s small office at the back of the house. “Pita,” she whispered, rapping on the door and opening it a crack, “I’m back.”
“Sarala, my ladakii,” Howard Carlisle, the new Marquis of Hanover, said, rising from behind his mahogany desk to kiss her cheek as she entered the room. “How did we do?”
Sarala handed him the leather binder she’d clutched all the way home, half convinced Lord Charlemagne would appear, wrench open the coach door, and take it from her. “You are now the proud owner of five hundred bolts of very fine Chinese silk. Warrick is putting it into storage as we speak.”
Something Sinful Page 2
