“Not yet. I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you. And Zachary?”
Belatedly his brother looked up from his plate. “Yes?”
“In the future I will expect you to inform me of my actions before I’ve taken them.”
This time Zachary’s swallow didn’t go down his gullet nearly as smoothly. “Of course, Seb. This was a…a singular event.”
Sebastian smiled. “Glad to hear it.”
Sarala hummed an Indian lullaby as Jenny pulled her hair up into an artistic tangle. If she kept a diary, today would have been peppered with underlines and exclamation marks. Being in the company of Lord Shay Griffin definitely had its advantages. With him making the requests, not only had they gained access to every bit of Roman wall within the confines of the old Tower of London grounds, they’d been provided with a guide who knew things about London’s history she’d never even imagined.
The entire day…glittered. She couldn’t think of a better way to describe it. And if Shay had an odd way of negotiating that made her skin tingle and her heart beat faster, at the moment she could think of nothing wrong with that at all. For the first time since she’d left India she’d been able to discuss antiques, business practices, and politics with someone other than her father.
Even in Delhi the conversations hadn’t been as exciting. Shay wasn’t an old, company-starved former governor of India or a condescending officer or even an amused, ambitious young nobleman looking for income opportunities. For a moment she frowned, wishing she hadn’t conjured that particular image. No, no, no—she’d been thinking about Charlemagne.
He was aggravating, yes, but he was also confident and very intelligent and handsome. And somewhere in the last few days any condescension he might have expressed toward her had vanished. And fine a negotiator as he was, he kissed as sinfully as the devil, himself.
If only he would agree to her very reasonable offer—though she had to admit that she hadn’t been pushing as hard or as well as she knew she could do. If he did agree to her price, he would no longer have a reason to pretend to pursue her, or to show her that there were some rather remarkable things to see in England. Given her usual loyalty to her father and her admittedly well-developed liking for business, the choice between spending time with Shay and having guineas in the family’s coffer was surprisingly difficult. Yet despite all that, she couldn’t help humming.
And now tonight she would see The Tempest. Her father had told her how inferior their seats were likely to be, and her mother had protested going at all because they would be so far from the “right” people that no one but bankers and solicitors and possibly grocers would even know they were there.
Sarala, however, didn’t care if they had to stand in the hallway. Not only was The Tempest her favorite Shakespeare play, but she would see the famous Edmund Kean as Prospero.
“You’re in a good mood, my lady,” Jenny noted, as she shifted from hair to necklace and ear bobs.
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Then your picnic with Lord Charlemagne must have gone well.”
“It did. And he took me sightseeing afterward.”
“Did your gown prevent any more of that kissing from him?”
“Jenny!”
The maid bobbed her head. “Mayhap I’m too bold, but Lady Sarah, your mother Lady Hanover hired me to help look after you. And you don’t know London as well as most. I grew up here. And lords kissing ladies they ain’t married to, it ain’t a good thing.”
“Which is why we won’t say anything more about it to anyone.” Sarala forced a smile. “For heaven’s sake, Jenny, it’s only one of Lord Shay’s negotiation tactics, anyway.”
“That’s some very strange negotiating, Lady Sarah.”
“Yes, and very unsuccessful, too. I’ll leave it to him to realize that in his own time, though, because he does kiss quite well.”
The maid flushed crimson. “Goodness.”
Goodness had little to do with any of this, Sarala was certain. But it was blasted fun, nevertheless. “So promise me that this will remain between us, Jenny.”
“Oh, I prom—”
The bedchamber door flew open, rattling the perfume bottles on her dressing table. “I have the best news ever!” Lady Hanover exclaimed, doing an actual pirouette.
“What in the world is it, Mama?” Sarala asked, grinning at her mother’s obvious enthusiasm.
“Your dear father just informed me that he’s given up our theater seats.”
“What?” Sarala shot to her feet, one ear bob hitting the floor. “How is that good news? What a terrible thing to say! You know how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing The Tem—”
“Let me finish! He’s given up our seats because the Duke of Melbourne has invited us to share his box!”
Sarala blinked. “Melbourne’s box?”
“Yes! Now you see why I’m so enraptured.” Lady Hanover stopped in mid-twirl. “I only hope that brother of his doesn’t attend. I don’t know how much more strongly I can suggest that he call you Sarah.”
“Mama, Lord Charlemagne was introduced to me as Sarala,” Sarala explained, declining to admit that they’d introduced themselves and refusing to question why she wanted her mother to like her chief business rival. “That’s the only—”
“You cannot wear that dress now.”
Sarala stopped to glance down at her attire. “You asked me to wear the yellow silk, Mama.” Oh, for heaven’s sake. Not only could she not dress as she wished, but now even wearing what she’d been told was wrong.
“That was before we knew we would be sitting in Drury Lane Theater’s prime box. Now you must wear the new lavender and white silk gown with the beading.”
“Mama, that one still needs the lace panel put in at the neck.”
“No, it doesn’t. It’s perfect as it is. You’ll look charming. Fetch it at once, Jenny.”
The maid curtsied and hurried to the wardrobe. “Right away, my lady.”
“And I’ll stay right here while you dress, Sarah, just to make certain you don’t step on any hems.”
As Jenny returned, Sarala silently lifted her arms over her head. In a second the yellow gown was gone and she was wearing the very low-cut lavender one.
“Splendid. Where’s that ruby you wore last night?”
For a second Sarala’s heart skipped, then she realized it was a general question and not an accusatory one. “That one?” she said flippantly. “But all the Griffins saw me wear it last night.” And if Shay saw her wearing it after their picnic, he would think she’d become smitten with him or something, and she would have to sell off the silks piecemeal because she’d never get a decent price from him.
“That’s true. Very good thinking, darling. The silver one with the pearl drop, then. And the matching ear bobs.”
Jenny was still fastening the necklace around Sarala’s neck as her mother hurried them downstairs to dinner. Her father arrived a moment later, and the footmen immediately began serving.
“Why the hurry, my dear?” the marquis asked. “The play doesn’t begin for two hours.”
“Because you said we’re to meet His Grace inside the theater, and I want to be certain we have time to be seen chatting with him.”
“Are any other of the Griffins attending, Papa?” Sarala asked.
“Not that middle son, I hope. Do you know that he refused to call Sarah by her name, and insisted on referring to our daughter by that—that other name?”
Sarala sighed. “You can’t even say it to demonstrate a point? I did own it for two-and-twenty years.” And she still owned it, as far as she was concerned.
“I don’t know who might join us,” her father returned, ignoring his wife’s outburst. “Zachary only said that Melbourne wished us to join him. The—”
“‘Him,’ you said,” her mother broke in. “‘To join him.’ It must be Melbourne alone. This is so wonderful I can barely breathe.”
“Shall I fetch some smelling s
alts?” Sarala suggested, not certain she could make herself return to the dining room once she’d escaped.
“Nonsense. Eat your venison. I want us to be there at least half an hour early. An hour would be better.”
Sarala and her father exchanged looks. “Yes, Mama,” she said. At least this way her mother wasn’t complaining about having to go to the theater any longer, though she continued to put in barbs about Shay. Sarala hoped Melbourne had a few drinks to ease his nerves before he arrived to meet them.
But why had the duke made the invitation in the first place? They’d joined him just last night, after all. Certainly he had enough family and friends and hangers-on that he had no need to demonstrate his kindness—or charity—to the same people two nights in a row.
Unless her mother was correct, and she’d somehow caught the duke’s eye. But that was so silly a notion she couldn’t even conjure a chill about it. Still, her instincts told her something was afoot. A luncheon invitation from Lady Deverill, business with Lord Zachary, and now two successive evenings in the Duke of Melbourne’s company—it was very odd. The only Griffin with whom she had a reason to interact was Shay, and neither of her parents knew about that. Nor, she suspected, did his family.
The only thing to do, she supposed, was to go and see The Tempest. And to pay close attention to anything the duke might say. Her mother was certain to read everything as a declaration of marriage. That could never happen. Someone therefore needed to keep a logical eye and ear on events.
Sarala honestly thought she and her parents would be left standing in the Drury Lane Theater lobby, trying to pretend they weren’t being ignored by most of the other well-acquainted members of the haute ton. She was wrong. In fact, the only people who didn’t appear to be present and attempting to chat with them were the members of the Griffin family.
“Good evening, Hanover,” a tall man with powerful shoulders and a shock of gray hair said, shaking her father’s hand.
“Your Grace. A pleasure to see you here. May I present my wife and daughter? Lady Hanover, Lady Sarah, the Duke of Monmouth.”
The duke sketched an abrupt bow. “Ladies. I hope we’ll all be enjoying the performance tonight.”
Sarala smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”
The Duke of Monmouth. And he was only one of several dozen who’d seemed to make a point of coming over and inquiring after the Carlisle family’s health or how they were enjoying London. Abruptly her family had gone from being barely noticed to being the don’t-miss family of the evening.
And as the crowd stirred near the theater entrance, Sarala realized why. The Duke of Melbourne strolled into the lobby, Charlemagne at his side. As soon as she could force her eyes from the lean, black-clad Shay, she glanced about the lobby. The noise in the room didn’t diminish, but its cadence changed. Everyone knew who’d just arrived, and everyone would watch their actions—with whom they conversed, who they seemed to avoid—all evening.
Heavens. If she hadn’t snatched the shipment of silks out from under Shay’s nose, their one waltz at the Brinston soiree probably would have been both the beginning and the end of their acquaintance. But now for some reason all the Griffins seemed to be going out of their way to welcome the Carlisles to London. Of course the rest of Society would notice.
“Hanover,” the duke said, offering his hand as he reached them. “Zachary said you’d agreed to join us.”
“Thank you for the invitation. Our Sarah’s been in raptures about seeing The Tempest for days.”
Gray eyes, cool and assessing, shifted to her. “Have you now?”
She nodded, heat rising in her veins as she felt rather than saw Charlemagne stop at her elbow. “I’ve dragged Papa to every performance in Delhi since I was eight, but I’m afraid they were few and far between.”
At her side, Shay stirred. “We’ve arrived a bit late. Perhaps we should take our seats.”
If they didn’t, Sarala doubted anyone at all would leave the lobby for fear of missing something. As the duke nodded, Charlemagne offered his arm to her. Since she had no idea where they were going, she wrapped her fingers around his warm sleeve. In a moment they were several steps ahead of the rest of their party.
“Why didn’t you tell me you wished to see The Tempest?” he asked in a low voice.
“It didn’t occur to me to say anything.” She glanced up at his strong profile. “Why did your brother invite us to his box?”
“You’d have to ask Melbourne.”
“You didn’t suggest that he invite us?”
“I would have, if I’d known of your interest, but he’s the one who informed me that you’d be joining us.”
Sarala swallowed. “So it was all His Grace’s idea?”
“It would seem so.” He smiled, the expression lighting his gray eyes. “Not that I have any objection to seeing you again today.”
“Ah. If the invitation had been from you, I would have said that you’re still attempting to convince me to lower my price by offering interesting bribes, but since this was none of your idea, I don’t feel the slightest need to budge.”
Shay chuckled. “If you were a man, I think you would make a very fine prime minister. You certainly twist events to your advantage like one.”
She drew a slow breath. “If I were a man, I think this negotiation would have been finished by now.”
“Perhaps.” He guided her around a curving wall and through a curtained doorway, pulling her closer to him as he did so. “Very well, definitely. You are breathtaking this evening,” he murmured, his gray gaze lowering briefly to her half-naked bosom before raising to her face again.
Her skin heated, but he’d looked at her the same way when she’d worn the brown gown that came up practically to her chin. “Now who’s being bold?” she whispered.
“You have no idea how much restraint I am currently showing,” he returned in the same tone, his lips brushing her ear in the near darkness as he shifted out of the doorway to make room for her parents and the duke.
Heavens. She’d worn low-cut gowns before, but this was the first made in the current English style. Despite her protest to her mother, she actually liked it. It was the reason for the gown that troubled her.
Melbourne gestured for her and her parents to take the three seats at the front of the box, but her father shook his head. “You young people brave the foreground; Helen and I may doze with fewer people noticing in the rear.”
“As you wish. Lady Sarah?” The duke handed her into the middle chair, while he sat to her right and Shay to her left.
Very aware of the crowd below and determined not to give them anything to talk about, Sarala deliberately turned her attention to the stage on their left. It seemed practically close enough to touch, if she just stretched out her fingers far enough.
“My lady,” Melbourne’s quiet, cultured voice came, pulling her out of her reverie, “may I ask why you favor The Tempest above the rest of Shakespeare’s works?”
She smiled as she faced him. “I suppose because in an odd way it feels like the India of myth. Magicians, strange creatures, timely storms, and true love. It’s familiar and faraway at the same time, if that makes any sense.”
“I suppose it does. Is that how you’re finding London? Familiar and yet faraway?”
“More faraway than familiar, I’m afraid. There are so many things to remember that seem so arbitrary.”
“Arbitrary to you, perhaps, without the background of a native. I believe we refer to those things as traditions, which enables them to be meaningless and yet significant.”
Sarala carefully stifled her frown. Had the Duke of Melbourne just rebuked her? His tone had been polite, and his words so mild, that she couldn’t be sure. At any rate, he certainly didn’t sound as though he was the least bit enamored of her. Just the opposite. Thank goodness for that. Relieved as she felt, though, it didn’t explain why she and her family remained in the best box in the theater.
And everyone continued to
stare. As countless eyes watched her from the dimness, Sarala abruptly felt…terrified. Terrified and vulnerable. She’d gone from being barely noticed to standing at the center of Society’s whirlwind. If she moved the wrong way, said the wrong thing in the wrong tone of voice, frowned or smiled too broadly in the face of Melbourne’s conversation, she could ruin both herself and her family.
And plainly the duke knew that; in his own way, he’d pointed it out to her. Her mother had wanted her to be popular. Now she was, at least for tonight. Had the marchioness realized what the consequences could be? Of course she hadn’t. Lady Hanover saw only the lofty heights; she didn’t see how far the fall could be for the imperfect, the ones found lacking. Sarala knew herself to be imperfect, and she knew how very high she happened to be sitting. It was too much. Too much.
Shaking, she reached over to tap Shay on the arm. He immediately faced her. “I think you’ll like Kean’s portrayal of Prospero,” he whispered, smiling. “For once there’s a reason for a reputation.”
She tried to smile back, but she was having so much trouble breathing that it probably came out as a sickly grimace. “Shay, I—”
His brows lowered. “Good God. What’s wrong?”
“I—”
“Never mind.” Charlemagne stood, practically hauling her to her feet beside him. “Lady Sarala needs some water,” he said to the box in general. “We’ll be right back.”
He managed to keep what looked like a conventional grip on her arm as they left the box. Once they reached the thankfully empty hallway she closed her eyes and sagged against the wall. “Oh, dear.”
When she looked again, Charlemagne was nowhere to be seen. Wonderful. He’d probably gone back inside to watch the beginning of the play. She could hear applause emanating from the auditorium behind her.
“Here.” Shay reappeared, shoving a glass into her hand. “It’s water. I brought whiskey, too, if you prefer that.” He showed her the other glass he carried.
“Water is fine.” Gratefully she clutched the glass and gulped it down.
“Not too quickly, or you’ll drown yourself,” Shay chastised, bodily pulling the glass from her lips.
Something Sinful Page 13
