Something Sinful

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I’ve been attempting to. She’s a good negotiator.”

  The duke shook his head. “This does not make any sense. I’ve been open-minded, stayed out of matters, and you—”

  “Now just a minute. What matters have you been staying out of, Seb? What’s going—”

  The front window shattered.

  Sebastian on his heels, Charlemagne thundered into the blue room, grabbing one of the old Griffin family swords off the wall as he went. Nothing.

  No, not nothing, he amended a heartbeat later, taking in the small bundle resting against the leg of a chair. “There,” he said, moving forward to grab it while his brother barked some order that had Tom the footman standing at the open front door with a musket in his hands.

  “What is it?” Melbourne asked, moving to his side.

  Shay hefted it. “A rock. It’s wrapped in…silk.” A very fine quality silk. The cold that had been burrowing into his chest since he’d read the newspaper yesterday stopped his heart. “Christ. I have to go.”

  “Go where?” Sebastian demanded as Charlemagne thrust the rock at him and headed out the door.

  “To see Sarala.”

  “You are not going out alone.”

  “I can take care of myself. And I need to finalize my purchase before someone realizes that it’s not me who owns the silks.”

  “Shay! If it’s just business, then why—”

  He could finish the question himself, Charlemagne realized, as he ran toward the stable. Why put himself in danger over a business deal when it had been yanked out from under him in the first place? And he knew the answer, as well. Sarala wasn’t simply a business rival. He wasn’t quite certain what she was, but he had no intention of allowing her to remain in a position that could potentially be very dangerous.

  The wrapped rock message needed to be answered, as well, but before he could deal with that, he needed to put himself in the position of being the one they would have to deal with, and he needed to minimize the danger to Sarala and his family. He could stay at Gaston House until they settled matters.

  His mind continued to race as a groom brought Jaunty up. He swung into the saddle and goaded the chestnut down the front drive. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Melbourne come out to the front portico, but he otherwise ignored his brother. Whatever mess he’d caused between the Griffins and the Carlisles, it would have to wait.

  The streets of Mayfair thronged with vendors and pedestrians and servants collecting vegetables and milk for the day. With a scowl at the congestion he turned Jaunty into an alleyway—and stopped as for the second time the shadow materialized in front of him.

  This time the Chinese warrior carried a long, curved, and very sharp-looking saber in his hands.

  Charlemagne quickly dismounted. In the same motion he pulled his pistol from his greatcoat pocket and cocked it. “I don’t doubt your proficiency with your weapon,” he said coolly, shifting toward the nearest wall so no one could come up behind him, “and I suggest you accept my proficiency with mine.”

  “Then perhaps we will talk,” the swordsman said in excellent, if heavily accented, English.

  “You’re not the one I saw yesterday at the museum.”

  “No. That was him.” He gestured toward the rooftop opposite Charlemagne. Another man, dressed and armed as the first, crouched in the shadow of a brick chimney and watched them.

  Wonderful. Outmaneuvered and outnumbered, but at least if they were here then they weren’t assaulting Sarala yet. “You’re the reason Captain Blink disappeared as well, I presume? And which of you followed me the other night?”

  “Yes, and all of us.” A third swordsman appeared from the alley entranceway as the first one spoke again.

  “Might I ask why?” Charlemagne considered the major flaw of his character to be his lamentably short temper. He’d worked at curbing it and improving his patience, but there were occasions when an eager willingness to pummel someone could be helpful. After the rather blatant clue of the silk-covered rock, he considered this to be one of those occasions.

  “You stole from us. From China.”

  “I’ve stolen nothing.”

  “Emperor Jiaqing says differently. His Eminence wants his property returned and the insult avenged.”

  “Avenged? Against Blink?”

  “He stole property. Property then purchased by you. You have insulted the emperor.”

  “You’re talking about the silks.”

  The first swordsman inclined his head. “They were commissioned specifically for the birthday celebration of Emperor Jiaqing. They must be back in China by that time. You will return His Eminence’s stolen property, and you will present yourself to him to be dealt with according to his wisdom. As will your captain.”

  “He’s not my captain.” They were starting to shift toward him, and he aimed the pistol squarely at the one blocking his path. “If you want the silks back, you will deal with me, gentleman to gentleman. I will meet you tomorrow at noon, at the museum. The same place I saw you yesterday.”

  It wasn’t much of a plan, but it would gain him a day, and a meeting in a public place.

  The swordsman gave an elegant, one-shouldered shrug. “Do not lose your courage, as your captain did. If you do, we will hunt you down as we did him.”

  “My courage is my own concern,” Charlemagne said flatly. “But I will be there tomorrow. Will you?” The one on the roof would have to make it past Jaunty below. The shot would have to be to the first swordsman, then the butt of the pistol against the one behind him. It was a longshot, but he was willing.

  The first one bowed. “We will be there.” He said something in Chinese and abruptly all three of them vanished back into the shadows again.

  Charlemagne took a deep breath, slowly released the pistol’s hammer, and returned the weapon to his pocket. Jaunty stood nervously on the opposite side of the alley, and he spent a moment calming the chestnut before he swung back into the saddle. Sarala. He needed to reach Sarala.

  Chapter 11

  “Did you invite all these ladies?” Lady Deverill whispered to her sister-in-law.

  Lady Caroline Griffin shook her head. “I don’t even know who half of them are.”

  Sarala stood a few feet behind them, a smile pasted on her face and hands held together behind her back so no one would see them shaking. Apparently the “friends” luncheon to which Eleanor had invited her had grown to proportions unimagined. With a breath she took a step forward. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

  Both women faced her. “No, no, my dear,” the marchioness said after a moment. “The unexpected is always expected in this household.”

  Sarala supposed that Eleanor meant the Deverill household, since that was where the mass of females stood chatting and snacking on biscuits while footmen scurried about to place more tables and chairs in the back garden. The two hostesses might claim to have no idea why half the young ladies of London had arrived uninvited and unannounced, but as Sarala watched them troop by in groups of two or three, she had a fair grasp on what was happening. She had become the latest attraction in London. The Griffins were feting her family, inviting them to exclusive events, including her in their intimate gatherings, and everyone wanted to know why.

  So did she, as a matter of fact, but since Eleanor and Caroline were the only two people with whom she had even the remotest acquaintance, now didn’t seem the time to make a straightforward demand for answers. She probably wouldn’t like hearing what they had to say, anyway.

  After another few moments of whispered discussion, Caroline separated from her sister-in-law and took Sarala’s arm. “So, Lady Sarah, what do you think of London so far?” she asked, strolling with her in the direction of the garden. “I was rather overwhelmed by it when I first arrived. It’s very different from Witfeld House in Shropshire, even with the crowd we had living there.”

  “It’s very different from Delhi, as well,” Sarala answered, “but I’m learning to enjoy it.”


  “I’m glad to hear that,” Lady Caroline returned with a warm smile.

  “You’re a portraitist aren’t you?” Sarala asked, moving the subject away from herself. She’d learned long ago that the best way to get information was by simply getting the other party to talk.

  “I am. Do you paint?”

  “A little dabbling when I was younger. I had some interest, but not much skill, I’m afraid. How do—”

  “What do you enjoy doing, then?”

  Drat. For once it seemed it would be rude not to talk about herself. Everyone was so blasted interested, where before she’d barely been able to conjure up a dance partner at a soiree. “I read, histories mostly, and occasionally assist my father with his business. Not as much now as in India, of course.”

  She added that last part in deference to her mother’s warning, and those of the marchioness’s matchmaking cronies, about women and business. Caroline’s expression didn’t change, but Sarala couldn’t help wondering what Lord Zachary’s wife must be thinking. They would have to know that she was somehow responsible for the crowd—or rather that the Griffins’ show of interest was somehow responsible. If Sarala—Sarah—turned out to be a hopeless eccentric, it could reflect as badly on them as it did on her.

  “May I ask you a question?” Sarala ventured.

  “Of course.”

  “Why am I here?”

  Caroline’s gaze darted swiftly toward Lady Deverill, then back again. “I’m certain Eleanor explained that we enjoyed your company the other night, and thought you might enjoy ours.”

  “Yes, she did. But what I find confusing is why the Duke of Melbourne decided to ‘notice’ my family in the first place. He must have myriad other friends with whom he’d rather attend recitals and the theater.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to try to explain what the Duke of Melbourne might be thinking,” Caroline finally answered. “He’s rather inscrutable.”

  And a little rude as well, Sarala added silently. “He’s not attempting to woo me, is he?”

  As soon as the words came out she regretted them, her mind flashing to Shay’s admonition about propriety and her mother’s about showing more reserve. Caroline’s face paled, then darkened into a fine blush.

  “I…I beg your pardon?” she stammered.

  “I was only joking,” Sarala said hastily, forcing a chuckle.

  “Um, well, I don’t believe His Grace is courting anyone. Is that—he, I mean—where your interests lie?”

  “Heavens, no. He’s far too…British for my taste.”

  “‘British.’”

  “I mean to say, he seems very…unyielding. Rigid.”

  The volume of twittering beside the doorway at the far end of the room increased, and a heartbeat later Charlemagne strode into the room. Sarala’s first feeling was one of relief. A friendly face, one with whom she didn’t need to dissemble, or even to watch what she said. Then she saw the look in his eyes as he spotted his sister and made his way over to Eleanor.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were having Sarala over for luncheon?” he asked in a low voice, which she nevertheless managed to overhear.

  “Hush, Shay. I may invite whomever I wish to dine with me.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t. I asked why you didn’t tell me.”

  “I—”

  “This is part of Melbourne’s nonsense, isn’t it?”

  “I have no idea what—”

  “Never mind. Where is she?”

  “Shay, this is hardly the place—”

  He turned and saw Sarala. “There you are,” he said, striding directly up to her. “I need to speak with you.”

  So much for blending in as simply one of the girls. She’d be lucky if anyone wanted to converse with her at all after this. Or rather, she doubted now that she’d ever be able to have another decent conversation without absurd expectations or being plied with a thousand questions about the Griffins to which she didn’t know the answers. “Now?”

  “Yes, now. I went to Carlisle House, but your butler said you were here.”

  Sarala frowned. “Why are you following me about London, Shay?”

  “For God’s sake, Sarala,” he whispered, “if you’ll come with me into the other room, I will tell you.”

  Charlemagne looked annoyed and exasperated, but there was more to his expression than that, even. Something bothered him. Something worried him. Sarala nodded. “Very well.”

  He took her arm and, without even a backward glance at their rapt audience, led her into a neighboring study and closed the door. Ill-versed as she might have been in propriety, she knew that wasn’t usual.

  “Open the door, Shay.”

  Shay looked at her for a bare moment, then swept forward and captured her in a hard, deep kiss. Immediately everything—the nervousness, the uncertainty of her place in Society, the worry at having to make polite conversation with people who would rather talk about her than to her—all of it faded into nothing. She kissed him back, flinging her arms around his shoulders and not caring what in the world had made his seeing her so imperative. Heavens, if he would always kiss her like that, she might just give him the silks.

  He broke the kiss first, looking down into her eyes for a long moment. “I want those silks, Sarala. And I want them now.”

  She lifted her eyebrows, wondering for a moment if he was truly that devious. “Is that why you kissed me?”

  Charlemagne frowned. “No. I kissed you because I can’t not kiss you. Sell me the silks, Sarala.”

  If he’d said something that nice to her at any other time, it would have meant considerably more. Concentrate, Sarala. “Why do you want them now? You drag your feet about making me a decent offer for almost a week, and now you interrupt my first Society luncheon so you can make demands?”

  “Four thousand pounds, Sarala. Sign them over and tell me where they are.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Sign this and I’ll be out of your way.”

  Four thousand pounds? “I’m not signing anything. You’ve found a buyer, haven’t you? Someone who’ll buy for much more than four thousand.”

  “No…” He took a slow step back, running restless fingers through his dark hair. It was the first time she’d seen him show anything like uncertainty. “No, I haven’t found a buyer. I’m tired of this silliness, and I want to take them off your hands. Four thousand.”

  “‘Silliness’? If by silliness you mean your inability to carry out your half of a simple negotiation, then I agree.”

  He circled her, and she could swear that he leaned in to smell her hair as he passed behind her. An involuntary tremor ran down her spine.

  “I just offered you four thousand pounds,” he said. “I’d call that straightforward and reasonable.”

  “The price is now eight thousand.”

  An elegant eyebrow lowered. “What? You offered them to me for thirty-five hundred just the day before yesterday.”

  “And you offered me more than that just now. You’re the one who said not to appear too eager. You’ve weakened your own position.” Her gaze focused on his mouth; why was it that the more heated the bargaining, the more she wanted to kiss him? “Obviously you want them, so now you shall pay for them.”

  “You are—” A low curse rumbled from his chest as he stalked up to her again. Taking her chin in his fingers, he leaned in for another plundering kiss. “Fine,” he grumbled, clearing his throat. “Eight thousand. Will a note do? I don’t carry that much currency on me.” He pulled another piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

  “What is going on, Shay?” she demanded with as much clarity as she could, her senses still reeling. “I want some answers.”

  “Nothing is going on. Eight thousand. Made out to you, or to your father?” he asked, squatting down at a writing desk and grabbing a quill to scrawl out something.

  “No. It’s twelve thousand now.”

  “Twelve—” He slammed down the paper and rounded on
her so fast that she took a step backward. “I may not be able to stop…touching you,” he growled, “but this is not a game.”

  “Certainly it is,” she retorted, lifting her chin. He would not intimidate her with his snarls and his large frame. He’d already confessed that he desired her. “You’ve treated it as one from the beginning.”

  “No, I haven’t. Don’t confuse my magnanimity with lack of seriousness. That shipment is mine, and we both know it. I’m doing you the courtesy of offering you fair compensation for it.” He took a step closer. “Eight thousand pounds. Sign the paper.”

  “Not until you tell me which fly you’ve lured into your web.”

  He took a harsh breath. “You won’t believe me, but the silks belong to the emperor of China, and he wants them back.”

  Laughter burst from her chest. “You’re selling them back to China? That’s amazing! I stand in awe of your abilit—”

  Charlemagne grabbed her by the shoulders, yanking her up against him. “For the last bloody time, I am not joking. Sign them over to me right this damned minute, Sarala. If you don’t—”

  “If I don’t, then what?” she asked defiantly.

  He lowered his mouth over hers once more. Anger and heat and frustration washed over her stronger than before, a wave of aroused yearning. She clutched his lapels, pulling herself against his hard, muscled chest. The paper crushed in his fist as he slid his hands down her back to her hips. A vase rolled off the table behind her and broke on the wood floor. She scarcely noted it.

  Good heavens. She’d been wrong. Business and pleasure, at least where Shay was concerned, went together quite well. His tongue teased at her lips, and she opened to him hungrily. They shifted, his hands pulling at her hips as he pushed her toward the couch. Her heel caught on the carpet and they both nearly went down. Sarala didn’t care. She moaned, grabbing at him harder.

  “Shay.”

  At the low hiss, Charlemagne lifted his head, his arms still encircling her—thankfully, since her legs felt like water. The Duke of Melbourne stood in the doorway, his face absolutely expressionless. Sarala’s heart froze.