One Little Sin

by Liz Carlyle

  “Number Four, Ballachulish Close,” said the young man proudly.

  Esmée was impressed. Mr. Nowell was not, it seemed, in need of a fortune—unless it was to pay his mortgage. She shut away that bit of cynicism, and smiled. “Ballachulish Close,” she echoed. “That’s Scottish.”

  Nowell nodded. “The architect who conceived and built all this is a Scot,” he said. “A singularly moody fellow, but a genius nonetheless. Won’t let them lay so much as a brick without his approval, and manages the design, the financing, every little detail, personally. Worse than crazy Cubitt up in Belgravia, I reckon. I’m to take title on December 1, if the poor devil can bring himself to part with it.”

  “How lovely it all is!” said Esmée. “And I’ve never seen so many workmen in one place at one time.”

  Nowell’s expression turned fretful. “Perhaps this isn’t a proper place for a lady to visit?”

  “Nonsense,” she returned. “Still, I daresay we ought to go. Aunt will be wondering where I am.”

  Nowell snapped his reins, and attempted to turn his cabriolet amidst all the carts and drays. In the process, he edged perilously close to the black curricle. The groom jerked to attention and watched Nowell assessingly, as if daring him to so much as scratch his master’s fine conveyance.

  Esmée exhaled a little sharply as Nowell cut the turn with only two inches to spare. “You needn’t worry,” he said calmly. “It’s Mr. MacLachlan’s, and believe me, he can easily afford a score of ’em.”

  Esmée’s grip tightened on the side of the cabriolet. “I—I beg your pardon?” she managed. “It belongs to whom?”

  Nowell was still working his way around the close. “Merrick MacLachlan, the famous architect,” he said absently. “He and his brother are the investors behind all this. But wait—you are distantly related to them, are you not? That is to say, Lady Gravenel mentioned something to that effect.”

  “Aye, distantly, perhaps. I’m not sure.”

  Esmée looked back at the close, and almost as if she’d willed it, Merrick MacLachlan came round the corner of Number Four and stepped carefully over the low foundation adjoining it. His dark coat and waistcoat were immaculately brushed as always, but his trousers were covered in dust to the ankles. His face was fixed in its perpetual glower, the nasty scar across his cheek stark and taut. And worse, he was not alone.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Nowell, as the men approached the curricle. “Miss Hamilton and I were just admiring the house.”

  The brothers exchanged glances and greeted them with cool politeness. “Well, you may trot out here and look about all the livelong day, Nowell,” Merrick added, “but the house won’t be ready ’til December, and wishing won’t make it otherwise.”

  Nowell looked at Esmée a little sheepishly. “I have made rather a pest of myself,” he admitted. “Tell me, Sir Alasdair, has your brother enlisted your help in his architectural endeavors?”

  Alasdair gave a bark of laughter. “For your sake and his, Nowell, you’d best hope not.”

  Merrick MacLachlan shifted his gaze from Alasdair to Esmée uncertainly. “It’s as well you’re here, I suppose,” he said to Nowell. “Penworth is inside, torn between two different chimneypieces I designed. I prefer one, he prefers the other. Do you wish to choose for yourself? It will likely ruin your shoes.”

  Nowell glanced back at the house almost covetously, then hesitated, but whether over the propriety of leaving Esmée alone or the welfare of his shoes, she could not say.

  “Alasdair will hold your horses,” said Merrick.

  “Oh, nothing would give me more pleasure,” said his brother.

  Covetousness won out. Nowell leapt down. “I shall return in a jot, Miss Hamilton!”

  Critically watching his departure, Alasdair gave a sour smile. “I don’t think your aunt would approve of Mr. Nowell just now, do you?”

  “She wasn’t overfond of him when I left,” Esmée admitted breezily. “I believe I am merely to practice my feminine wiles on him until something better comes along.”

  Alasdair shot her another dark look, but somewhere along the way, it turned into a spurt of laughter. “Oh, she said that, did she?” he asked. “Good God, I have thrown you into the clutches of a true Machiavellian.”

  Esmée looked imperiously down at him. “Aye, so you have,” she retorted. “And I’m glad to hear you admit ’twas your own doing.”

  His eyes narrowed, and his perfectly chiseled jaw twitched. “Don’t cut up at me, Esmée,” he warned. “No one put a skean to your back—neither to go, nor to flirt so outrageously with these fools.”

  Esmée lifted her brows. “Flirt outrageously?” she echoed. “Really, Alasdair, I think you give my feminine wiles more credit than ’tis warranted. And as to that skean, I could have sworn I felt it draw blood.”

  He turned his head away, and the knuckles holding the horses’ harness went white. “I see,” he gritted. “And who is to be the next spider in the web?”

  “Your friend Wynwood, I collect,” she said airily. “He is to take me to the theater Wednesday night.”

  She heard him curse softly. “Quin?” he responded incredulously, his head swiveling round again. “To—to the theater?”

  “Yes, but it will be hard for me to flirt outrageously with the poor fellow,” she went on. “It is a very moralizing sort of play, so I daresay I shall be obliged to leave my fan at home, wear a demure neckline, and confine myself to mild coquettishness. For propriety’s sake, you know.”

  “Good God,” he responded. “You are—but you are going to see The Wicket Gate?”

  “Aye, what of it?” she answered, dropping her voice to a more serious tone. “Really, Alasdair, I cannot quite make out what it is you wish me to do. I thought I was to get out of your hair and find myself a husband, and yet nothing I do to that end seems to please you.”

  “But The Wicket Gate,” he said again. “That is—is—oh, never mind!”

  “You did not answer my question,” she said.

  He flicked another of his dark looks up at her. “What I wish you to do, Esmée, is go straight home when that lack-wit Nowell comes out,” he said. “And don’t tell your aunt you’ve been out here. A building site is no place for a lady.”

  Esmée cast an uneasy glance toward the house. “I did begin to wonder at it,” she admitted. “I never seem to know what’s expected. I was used to doing as I pleased in Scotland.”

  “This isn’t Scotland.”

  “Aye, I’d noticed,” she returned. “Besides, you seem almost as out of place here as I do.”

  He was no longer looking at her, but instead letting his eyes run over the distant piles of rubble and brick. “I am out of place,” Alasdair agreed. “But Merrick has a notion to build one of these modern monstrosities for our grandmother. She’s having none of it, of course. So it falls to me to make peace and explain to Merrick why one of his ideas is thought less than brilliant.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that concept is hard for him to grasp.” Esmée looked up and squinted against the sun. “Your grandmother is in Scotland, is she not? Why should she wish to leave?”

  Alasdair shrugged. “It is a colder, harsher life there, isn’t it?” he replied. “But she more or less manages my estate for me. She has command of a drafty old castle and a whole army of servants. No, I do not think she would willingly give up such independence for a little warmth and a few modern conveniences.”

  “Good for her!” said Esmée.

  He looked up at her appraisingly. “You would do the same, wouldn’t you?” he murmured. “You would go home in a flash if you could.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I no longer have a home to go to,” she said simply. “And I could not bear to be so far away from Sorcha.”

  One of the horses shifted a little restlessly, and to soothe him, Alasdair began to stroke him from neck to withers with slow, almost mesmerizing motions. “If you are trying to make me feel guilty, Esmée, it won’t work,�
� he finally said. “I am her father, and any sort of father is better than none at all.”

  Esmée stiffened. “Did I say otherwise?” she asked. “I never even knew my father, and I would not wish that on Sorcha. I have never so much as suggested she should leave you.”

  “No, but your aunt did.” Alasdair was still stroking the horse, as if he did not wish to hold her gaze. “Esmée, why did you not tell me you were an heiress?”

  She blinked in mild surprise. “An heiress?” she echoed. “Why, I’m not, really. Am I? I mean, I suppose that I will bring wealth to my husband if I marry. But that money does me not a jot of good now, does it?”

  “But you are still an heiress.”

  Suddenly, the devil seemed to gig Esmée. “Rethinking your haste, Alasdair?”

  He looked up, his eyes hardening. “That remark does not become you, Esmée,” he snapped. “I am trying to do what is best for you and for Sorcha.”

  “Aye, there it is again!” said Esmée. “That overweening paternalism! Poor little Esmée! So young! So naïve! We must do what is best for her!”

  Alasdair suddenly exploded. “God damn it, what do you want of me?” He lifted one arm so violently the horses started. “Just tell me, for pity’s sake! And be careful what you wish for!”

  Esmée was still clinging to the side of Nowell’s cabriolet, and staring at his face, which had gone stark with anger. “Nothing,” she finally whispered. “I want nothing.”

  “Aye, if you’re smart, you don’t!” he agreed. “It is one thing, Esmée, to rely upon your looks to find yourself a husband. But when money comes into play—well, you need be excessively careful. That is all I’m trying to say. Fortune hunters are a clever lot. Be on your guard.”

  Just then, Merrick stepped outside. Nowell followed, gingerly picking his way down the steps, and along the boards which fashioned a sort of path into the close. Esmée watched him almost dispassionately. “What do you think, Alasdair?” she murmured. “Is my handsome young suitor a fortune hunter?”

  His face looked bloodless now. “Nowell?” he answered. “Not so far as I know.”

  Esmée turned on the seat to squarely face him. “And what of Mr. Smathers?” she asked, forcing him to hold her gaze. “Or Lord Thorpe? Or your friend Wynwood? Tell me, Alasdair, what would you advise? You seem to have such a strong grasp on what is best for me.”

  His eyes flashed again. “Fair enough, then,” he answered. “Since you asked, Smathers is a fortune hunter, Thorpe is a mamma’s boy, and Nowell is about as exciting as watching herring pickle. I’m shocked, honestly, that your matchmaking aunt cannot reel in a better fish.”

  “You did not remark upon Lord Wynwood,” she said quietly.

  He tore his gaze away. “I cannot,” he said quietly. “He is a friend. But if he marries, Esmée, it will be out of duty.”

  “And not love?” she asked. “Is that what you meant to suggest? For if it is, feel free to dance at our wedding. I am not looking for love. Not any longer.”

  Alasdair turned away and said no more. Merrick and Nowell had finished their conversation and were striding toward them now. After a curt thanks to Alasdair, Nowell climbed up, clicked to his horses, and set off. At the last possible moment, Esmée turned on the narrow seat to look back. Merrick MacLachlan had vanished. But Alasdair still stood in the cobblestoned close, watching them as they rolled away.

  The streets leading to the theater on Wednesday evening were choked with carriages for a quarter mile in all directions. Esmée tried to stare out the window without appearing to gawk like the rustic she secretly was. All of London, Aunt Rowena claimed, was attempting to attend the opening night of The Wicket Gate, lest they be viewed as less pious or less saintly than their neighbors. Some even expected to be entertained.

  For Esmée, however, such a trip to the theater was the evening’s entertainment, for she had never seen a real play, save for a traveling theater company at a village fair one summer. Once inside the theater, they were shown to their box, a lavish little nook done up in wine-colored velvet. Esmée, it seemed, was to sit in the front of the box with Lord Wynwood, whilst the three ladies took the rearmost seats, where they immediately fell into whispered gossip about everyone and everything around them.

  Wynwood was all that was polite, offering to fetch refreshments, ensuring she had the best possible view, and making light conversation whilst they waited for the lights to go out. And yet she sensed that he was ill at ease. His gaze kept drifting around the theater, and his conversation felt forced.

  Esmée did not have long to ponder it. Behind her, the whispers were growing in heat and intensity. Esmée strained to hear the words.

  “Why, the audacity!” her aunt murmured. “Ever the peacock, isn’t he? And she means to play more than one role tonight, I’m guessing.”

  Lady Kirton’s voice was quiet but calm. “Actually, I believe that is the sister on his arm,” she responded. “And the Karlssons really are quite good actresses. I met them once, you know.”

  “Oh, horrors!” said Esmée’s aunt. “You are speaking of that dreadful incident at Drury Lane, are you not? When that Black Angel person was murdered?”

  “She shot herself, Rowena,” corrected Lady Kirton. “It was an accident.”

  “Still, Isabel, one must admit you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Lady Wynwood. “And then to be detained by the police—and with those infamous Karlsson sisters!—really, my dear, I should have fainted, I am sure!”

  “The sight of blood does not make me faint, Gwendolyn,” said Lady Kirton calmly. “Nor does having to visit a police station with a pair of actresses. We were all three witnesses to the accident, and we all three did our civic duty. I thought them very kind.”

  Lady Wynwood ignored the tactful overture. “Nonetheless, Wynwood, I hope and pray, would never make such a spectacle of himself as he is doing! Indeed, I should hope Wynwood would not acknowledge her at all!”

  Beside Esmée, Lord Wynwood seemed to sink lower in his chair. Esmée wanted to look about and see just who was provoking such fervent disapproval, but by then, the lights were going out.

  Due to the play’s length, there was to be no prelude, so Esmée slid eagerly forward in her seat. Lord Wynwood leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Have you read Mr. Bunyan’s famous allegory, Miss Hamilton?”

  In the gloom, she gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I tried,” she confessed. “I believe I made it as far as the Valley of the Shadow of Death, then decided poor Christian would have to soldier on to his eternal reward without me. Did you finish?”

  He laughed softly. “It may surprise you to learn that I have read every word of The Pilgrim’s Progress twice,” he said. “Both times at knifepoint—a penknife, that is, since my tutor was a notoriously hard-minded fellow. So if you have questions, feel free to ask me.”

  From the general direction of the pit, a strain of almost celestial music rose, swelling to a crescendo as the curtain slowly rose on its shrieking mechanisms to reveal the chorus.

  “Good God,” whispered Wynwood, wincing. “They ought to oil those pulleys.”

  The chorus consisted of a trio of beautiful, white-clad angels bearing flaming torches. The centermost angel, a tall, breathtaking beauty whose white-blond hair hung below her waist lifted her torch and stepped forward. In unison, they began to speak, portending in dire, theatrical voices the many tribulations and temptations which were to come. Soon the actor playing the role of Christian the Pilgrim stepped forward and began the first act.

  The work was ingeniously put together. Only the essential elements of the novel’s plot had been retained. The three beautiful angels remained stage right at all times, cleverly bridging the scenes whilst holding their burning torches aloft until Esmée felt sure their arms must have gone numb.

  Esmée remained on the edge of her chair as their intrepid hero faced down the deceit of Mr. Worldy-Wiseman, and traveled through such temporal hazards as the Slough of Despond and
Doubting Castle on his journey to reach the Celestial City. But soon, the allegory lost her interest, and Esmée began to look about the theater for distraction.

  She did not have to look for very long. At that very moment, Christian exited stage left, the chorus of angels stepped back, and the curtain began to descend, the mechanical protestations of its rings and pulleys even more shrill than when it had risen.

  Esmée relaxed. Intermission was beginning. Behind her, the ladies began to whisper excitedly again. Wynwood stood, and bowed. “Your pardon, Miss Hamilton,” he said quietly. “I see someone to whom I must pay my respects.”

  After being enjoined by his mother to fetch refreshments as he returned, Wynwood pushed his way through the heavy curtains behind them. The three ladies resumed their chatter. Alone in the front of the box, Esmée amused herself by looking about at the beautifully dressed people who sat in the boxes opposite. Just then, she heard a sharp gasp behind her. As if her gaze had been directed by the sound, Esmée looked up and to the right, and felt her heart lurch.

  Alasdair. Alasdair, who was being joined by Lord Wynwood. And Alasdair was not alone. Someone—a very beautiful someone—sat beside him. She was dressed all in red, with a red plume in her hat. It was, Esmée realized, the lithe, blond angel from the chorus. She was smiling up at Wynwood, an exultant expression etched upon her face.

  Wynwood stepped past Alasdair and kissed the hand she languidly offered. The actress let the hand drop, and returned her gaze to Alasdair, seductively dropping her lashes even as she looked at him. Esmée felt a painful stab of envy. The woman was very beautiful, and Esmée was still trying to comprehend how she could have reappeared so quickly, and in an altogether different costume, when she heard Lady Wynwood again.

  “And just what does he think he is doing?” she demanded. “I vow, I ought to—ought to—”

  “Ought to what, Gwendolyn?” interjected Lady Kirton gently. “Spank him? Scold him? He is a grown man, my dear. And she is going to be a very famous actress someday. Besides, she is Sir Alasdair’s guest, not Wynwood’s.”