Something Sinful

by Suzanne Enoch

  The butler appeared in the doorway. “My lady, you have a caller.”

  Immediately her heart began to pound. But Shay had said noon; of that she was certain. “Who is it, Blankman?”

  The butler produced a salver. A calling card with a pretty embossed silver border of vines and roses lay in the middle of the silver tray. Ornate lettering spelled out the name of Eleanor, Lady Deverill. In the upper left corner a small, regal griffin perched. Interesting that the marchioness chose to keep part of her family’s ancient coat of arms, whatever her married name and status might be. And they were certainly nothing to sneeze at.

  But why would Lady Deverill want to see her, and at half past nine in the morning? “Where do you have her waiting?” she asked, wiping butter from her fingertips and standing.

  “In the morning room, my lady,” Blankman returned, his tone indicating that she should have known that. She supposed all the good guests were stashed in the morning room; where the inferior ones went, she had no idea. The cellar, perhaps.

  “Very good. Please have some tea brought in for us.”

  Sarala hurried down the hallway, made a quick check of her appearance in the mirror there, and strolled through the open morning room door. With perfect brunette hair, perfectly coiffed, and an elegant blue morning gown beneath a darker blue pelisse studded with what looked like sapphires, Eleanor Griffin-cum-Corbett looked like precisely what she was: one of the wealthiest, loveliest, and most influential young ladies in England.

  “Good morning, my lady.” As the marchioness faced her, Sarala made a shallow curtsy.

  “Lady Sarah,” the marchioness returned in her smooth, cultured voice. “I apologize for calling on you so early in the day.”

  “Not at all. I was about to step out to see Mr. Pooley.”

  “The antiques dealer?”

  “Yes,” Sarala returned, covering her surprise. How would a wealthy marchioness know of a minor antiques buyer? Whatever the answer, Lady Deverill certainly didn’t need to know that the Carlisle family was selling heirlooms—even ugly, disliked ones.

  For a brief moment Eleanor Corbett looked as though she expected an invitation to join the expedition, but she recovered her expression so quickly that Sarala might have imagined it. Instead the marchioness smiled.

  “I enjoyed meeting you last night,” she said. “I thought since you’ve had such a short time to become acquainted with anyone, that I would invite you to join me for luncheon the day after tomorrow. Some of my friends and I meet once a week. I think you would like them, and they, you.”

  Again Sarala was surprised, and deeply pleased. The circle of ladies whom Lady Deverill called friend was the most selective, well-respected, and sought-after in London. They certainly didn’t need an unknown almost-foreigner joining them, but she’d missed female friendship, and she had liked what she knew of the lady standing before her. Still, her negotiator’s instincts told her that she mustn’t appear too eager. “That’s very kind of you, my lady, but I—”

  “Eleanor, please. And say you’ll come, at least once.”

  So the marchioness was apparently sincere. That was some good news. Sarala nodded. “I believe I am free on Friday.”

  The marchioness smiled. “Wonderful. I’ll send a coach for you at half past twelve.”

  Sarala couldn’t help her return smile. Lady Deverill continued to seem genuinely pleased by her answer. “I’ll see you then, my la—Eleanor.”

  For several minutes after the marchioness left, Sarala sat alone in the morning room. That had been odd, if opportune. In light of that, perhaps she should just be thankful and accept the gift of friendship offered her.

  “Sarala? Oh, there you are.” Her father leaned into the room, glanced about the interior, and entered.

  “Has my name reverted, then?” she asked, facing him. “Thank goodness.”

  “Oops. No. You’re still Sarah. It was my mistake.” He cocked his head as she met his answer with a dour expression. “You’re not still upset about the moniker alteration, are you? It’s harmless, really.”

  “Honestly, I still don’t see the point. If the plan was to Anglify me, it should have been done before we arrived here. At this point it merely seems to be causing confusion among those whose acquaintance I made during the first ten days of our residence here.” At least Charlemagne hadn’t yet bowed to her parents’ belated attempts to make her more…bland.

  The marquis gave a half smile. “I don’t want to see you changed, you know. Not the important bits, anyway.”

  “My thanks. Have you sent for Mr. Warrick yet? I want to get that old clock to Mr. Pooley before anyone else ventures into the streets to see what we’re doing.” Though if Lady Deverill was already making calls, the rest of Mayfair might very well be, too.

  “That’s why I came looking for you. There’s no need to go see Pooley this morning, after all.”

  “No? Did you find money buried beneath the stairs?”

  “If only. No, the Duke of Melbourne’s youngest brother, Lord Zachary—do you remember him from last night?—sent over a note asking if I’d be willing to rent him that pasture land we inherited outside of Bath. He’s breeding cattle there, you know.”

  Sarala stifled her quick frown. “Yes, I’d heard something about that.”

  “What a coup that a Griffin wants to do business with us. We—or you—must have made quite an impression last night.”

  She’d barely spoken with anyone but Shay last night. Apparently someone had been impressed, however, because in one morning she’d gone from a rivalry with one Griffin to entanglements with two additional members of the family. What were the odds of it all being coincidence? “Can’t we get rid of the clock anyway, Pati?” she asked, because he would expect her to say something. “It’s covered with all those very well-endowed hunting dogs.”

  Her father snorted. “I’ll see if I can relegate it to the attic collection. We may need it again, eventually.” He pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. “I have to go and meet Lord Zachary. This rental money won’t save us, but it should stave off the wolves for another few weeks. Which reminds me—do you have good news for me yet about those silks?”

  She nodded. “Three merchants so far have expressed an interest. I’d like to wait another few days to see what else comes in before I set a price. And I still have that offer for seven hundred and fifty guineas, though I wouldn’t dream of selling for that price.”

  The marquis chuckled again. “So you have that worm still dangling on your hook? I wish I had time to sit in on the negotiations. You are an artist, my dear. If you decide to deal, just don’t take every guinea he owns.”

  “I promise, Papa.” She only wished she would have that chance. That would be something to see.

  “Good, my love. I’ll see you for dinner, yes?”

  “And the theater. Remember, the new production of The Tempest premieres tonight at Drury Lane.”

  “How could I forget?” He smiled again. “You see, there is something about London you appreciate.”

  Sarala sighed. “Yes, one something.”

  “It’s a starting point, though.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  After her father left, Sarala returned to her bedchamber to work some figures. Once again she wished for her own office, but she knew as well as anyone that that would never happen. As she’d expected, Madame Costanza had made an offer for ten bolts, at two guineas apiece. The other two shops had offered a bit less and were in for only two bolts of silk each. It was a poor way to dispose of such a large shipment, but unless she could hook a large distributor, it seemed the most practical way to go. Unless of course Charlemagne decided to be reasonable.

  She tucked the letters into her reticule in case he needed proof that she wasn’t simply sitting about waiting to play with him. The minimum price she would accept for the entire shipment was twelve hundred guineas. Charlemagne Griffin could easily afford that, but would he pay it? He’
d scoffed at her price of five thousand pounds, but in all truth she’d expected him to. Today, though, she meant to be serious; fun as the bantering was, her father needed the money.

  With that new determination in mind, she summoned Jenny again. “Will you please fetch my brown and yellow muslin?” she asked as soon as the maid arrived.

  “Your mama said you were to wear the new green one today, my lady.” It had already been laid out for her, in fact; a low-cut, slim-waisted creation perfect for attracting a man’s attentions. Of course the man her mother had in mind was the Duke of Melbourne, and she wasn’t likely to see him today—and even if that weren’t the case, she knew as well as anyone that if he did ever mean to remarry, his eyes would be raised toward a much loftier prize than she represented. As for his brother, after those surprising kisses and considering her family’s need, she meant to make it very clear that she had nothing on her mind but business.

  Frowning at the green confection, Sarala picked up her embroidery scissors and walked to the bed. Ignoring Jenny’s gasp, she cut the seam along the front six inches of the dress’s hem. “There. I can’t wear it like that, and you can’t be blamed for not carrying out my mother’s instructions.”

  “Oh, dear,” the maid muttered.

  “We’ll say I was putting it on and accidentally stepped on the hem. The brown and yellow dress, if you please.”

  “Very well, my lady.”

  Despite the simple and conservative look of the gown she’d chosen, it took her an inordinately long time to dress. Thank goodness she hadn’t had to go to Pooley’s, or she never would have been ready in time. She turned this way and that, checking to see that from every conceivable angle she looked like a serious business woman—competent, confident, and not to be trifled with. No more of that kissing, for heaven’s sake. Besides being contrary to the practices of fair negotiations, it had nearly accomplished what Lord Charlemagne had intended—to leave her befuddled and confused and far too amenable to any offer he might make.

  “Are you certain you won’t at least wear the gold comb in your hair, my lady?” Jenny pleaded. “Please forgive me for saying it, but this attire looks quite…plain.”

  “Plain is my aim,” Sarala said firmly. “And I shan’t need a comb, because I will be wearing my brown bonnet.”

  “Your brown…Yes, my lady.”

  Even she couldn’t claim to be particularly fond of the brown oversized monstrosity of a hat, but it had been a gift from Nahi’s grandmother. At the moment she was glad she’d kept it, despite her private assessment that it could be used as a dwelling for a small family.

  There. Hair pulled back into a tight knot, any loose strands around her face both minimized and hidden by her plain brown bonnet, and a simple, high-necked brown and yellow muslin covered by an equally plain brown pelisse, all up to her throat and down nearly to her fingers. Clearly she wouldn’t welcome or tolerate any nonsense. And in her private opinion, she’d never looked more English.

  With a last turn in front of the full-length mirror, she went downstairs to await Lord Charlemagne and pretend that she was as composed on the inside as she looked on the outside. No fluttering nerves for her. She wondered which strategy he would attempt today: whether he meant to flatter and seduce, or bully, or actually be logical and fair-minded. She felt ready for anything her rather sneaky opponent might attempt.

  “Sarah, what in heaven’s name are you wearing?” her mother demanded from the morning room doorway.

  “My brown muslin.”

  “I can see that! Don’t be impertinent.”

  Sarala grimaced. “I apologize, Mama. I only—”

  “You were to wear your green dress. The one with the pretty lace at the neck.”

  “I stepped on the hem while I was putting it on.”

  “Very likely. Have Jenny mend it at once. Thankfully you still have time to look attractive.”

  “Forgive me, but I thought my first priority was to look English. Doesn’t this dress better suit that purpose?”

  “Only if you wish to become a vicar’s wife. Go and change at—”

  “My lady,” Blankman said importantly from behind the marchioness, “Lady Sarah has a caller.”

  A tremor ran through Sarala. He’d arrived twelve minutes early. Did that signal his impatience to acquire the silks? If so, all the better for her. Sarala stood. “I’m sorry, Mama, but there’s no time. I can’t very well keep a Griffin waiting while my maid mends a gown.”

  “Of course you can’t.” Lady Hanover grabbed one of her daughter’s history books, hurried to the nearest chair, and seated herself. “Show him in, Blankman.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  Her mother absolutely could not be present for any negotiations. “But Mama—” Before Sarala could more than begin her protest, the butler vanished back down the length of the hallway.

  “Sit down, Sarah.”

  She complied just as Blankman returned, Lord Charlemagne on his heels. “Lord Charlemagne Griffin,” the butler intoned, and backed out the door to allow their guest entry.

  Shay bowed, while Sarala scrambled back to her feet to duplicate her mother’s curtsy. “My lord,” they said in broken unison.

  “Lady Hanover, Lady Sarala,” he drawled, his gray gaze flicking toward her mother as he said the latter name.

  Sarala couldn’t help a small spark of satisfaction. At least someone still preferred her real name.

  “Good morning, my lord. Do come and sit with us before you make off with our Sarah.” Lady Hanover made a grand gesture toward the sofa where Sarala had perched herself.

  To her surprise he dropped onto the sofa beside her. “Yes, thank you for allowing me to escort Lady Sarala about London,” he said, shaking his head as a maid appeared with an offer of tea. “It’s not often I get the chance to show the Town to someone for the first time.”

  Oh, he was in fine form today. In addition, he looked very dashing. Where she’d chosen to appear conservative and perhaps a bit severe—all to good purpose, of course—Lord Charlemagne stood as the definition of the word “dashing” in buckskin breeches and tasseled Hessian boots together with a tan coat, black waistcoat, and a wonderfully tied cravat.

  “We’re delighted you’ve taken such an interest in Sarah, for that is what we call her,” her mother said expansively. “You are too kind.”

  “Not at all,” he returned just as graciously, shifting to face Sarala. “And escorting Sarala is entirely my pleasure, I assure you.”

  For a moment Sarala’s mother looked nonplussed. She didn’t often encounter anyone who simply countermanded her wishes, and politely at that.

  “Shouldn’t we be going?” Sarala asked, trying to arrange an exit before anything unpleasant should happen.

  “How is your brother this morning?” Lady Hanover went on, the force of her cheerfulness a bit unnerving even to her daughter. “I only ask because he was so gracious in asking us to sit with him last evening.”

  For the briefest of moments Sarala saw what might have been annoyance speed across Charlemagne’s handsome face, but it was gone before she could be sure. “He was in good spirits when I last saw him.” He pulled out his etched silver pocket watch and opened it. “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Hanover, Lady Sarala and I should take our leave.”

  Her mother stood, tittering. “By all means! Don’t let me keep you and Sarah from your amusements.”

  Chapter 8

  “Is your new strategy to earn my gratitude by becoming a mortal enemy of my mother?” Sarala asked. Moments ago, Shay had handed her up into his phaeton, then had taken the reins of his team of bays. Now they were tooling along toward St. James’s Park.

  “I equate it to my family suddenly deciding I’d be better served if they called me John. Charlemagne has its difficulties, I admit, but it’s part of who and what I am.”

  “Well. Then thank you.”

  Shay nodded. “You’re welcome. But more importantly, what the devil are you wearing?”r />
  One slender hand went to the brim of her enormous brown bonnet. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, all innocence. “I am dressed in the current fashion, am I not?”

  “You look nearly like a nun. And that hat could shade all of Wiltshire.”

  She faced him, having to turn well sideways to look around the edge of her bonnet. “I’m sorry you don’t approve of my wardrobe, but my appearance is irrelevant to our negotiations.”

  Charlemagne couldn’t stop the shout of laughter that broke from his chest. “So this attire of yours is so I’ll look upon you as a rival rather than as a chit?”

  “Precisely. And what’s so amusing about that?”

  “You could wear a sack, Sarala, and you’d still be as lovely as autumn roses.”

  Since he was looking for it, he caught the hesitation of her fingers, the unconscious smoothing of her ridiculously prim skirts while she conjured an appropriate response. Ha. He did affect her. Thank God his attraction wasn’t completely one-sided, since she was halfway to driving him mad as it was. And conservative as her gown happened to be, on her he found it enchanting—like a princess trying to hide her beauty by dressing in burlap. Warm arousal ran through his veins. And that hat…

  “Might we return to Hyde Park today?” she asked, hesitating again with that affecting combination of innocence and the exotic.

  They were headed in the opposite direction, but he immediately turned north along Regent Street. “Certainly. May I ask why?”

  “I wanted to see the Serpentine. My maid told me a queen had it built there in the park.”

  One more turn, west on Piccadilly Street, and they were on their way to Hyde Park. “You truly are a stranger to London, aren’t you?” He forgot at times that she knew so little of what had surrounded him for his entire life. She seemed so capable and sure of herself that he couldn’t imagine her unsure of her footing anywhere. “Yes, the Serpentine is in the middle of Hyde Park. Queen Caroline, George II’s wife, had the Westbourne dammed to create a lake and add to the overall beauty of the park.”