Sweeter Than Sin

by Andrea Pickens

  "Nothing would please me more," he replied softly. "I did not mean to seem distant. It is just that..." He drew in a ragged breath. "That it is very complicated."

  "It is, indeed. But then, life is never simple, even in the best of circumstances."

  The reply encouraged him to be frank. "To be truthful, I feel so very strange usurping Jack's place."

  "You mustn't think of it like that. I don't." Hendrie rose and went to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of wine. "Jack's place will always be here, unaltered." He touched a hand to his heart. "If you will join him there, it would be a joy to me and a light to help counter the darkness."

  "I—I would be truly honored, Uncle Aubrey."

  "As would I." He lifted his glass. "Come let us drink a cheerful toast, rather than a maudlin one. Your father, my brother, and I loved sharing laughter when we were young. I hope we shall come to do the same."

  "To laughter," agreed Rafael. May light and laughter brighten both this house and our hearts.

  "I-I should like to hear more about the battle, and Jack's last moments, if it would not cause you too much pain," asked Hendrie, once they had both savored a swallow of the wine. "Both you and the general have given me the facts, but..." He let his gaze drop down to the glass clasped in his frail hands. "Does it seem terribly macabre that I wish to have a better picture in my mind's eye of his final hours?"

  Rafael felt a clench of guilt. He should have realized his uncle would want more than token words of heroism to hold as precious memories. "It is not macabre at all. It's just that I wasn't sure how to—"

  "No apologies, Rafael," interrupted Hendrie gently. "You have nothing for which to be sorry."

  He drew in a steadying breath. "It was a brutally hot day. The dust was choking and the sun beat down relentlessly, its rays burning like fire against the flesh. Our infantry units were outnumbered, and despite their tenacious fighting, the French were slowly forcing them back. The losses on both sides were staggering." He paused, feeling his throat grow dry. "General Graham knew it was imperative to hold the pass for Wellington's forces. So despite the odds against us, he ordered our cavalry regiment to charge and try to regain the high ground on the left flank, so that we might position our artillery there and turn the tide."

  Hendrie nodded for him to go on.

  "The French send their elite Hussars to counter our charge. The clash was fierce beyond description." There were many nights when Rafael awoke in a cold sweat with the ring of steel reverberating in his ears. "My horse was killed by a pistol shot and I fell, entangled in the stirrups, amid a welter of slashing hooves. A French officer swung his saber, cutting my leg. I was helpless, for my weapon was pinned beneath my mount, and as I saw the saber rise again, I knew it was aimed at my heart."

  He managed another breath, though his chest felt as if a vise of iron was clamped around his chest. "Suddenly Jack appeared, and spurred his stallion forward. He swung his own saber, but his horse stumbled and the blow missed. The Frenchman twisted and his blade caught Jack square in the chest. Our eyes met for an instant and then he fell back, and I... I passed out."

  "Thank you," said Hendrie after a long moment. "It is a great comfort to know the details. And a great comfort to know that Jack died as he would have wished." A small smile tugged at his uncle's mouth. "You held the pass that day, which was crucial to Wellington's advance. Jack would have considered that worth his life."

  "General Graham sent our troops to search for his body during the truce that followed the fighting." A time for tending to the wounded and dead was usual after any battle. "But the French had already sent their burial parties to the hillside. Our men found Jack's saber, but, they—they were assured that all British casualties were buried with full honors," said Rafael.

  "Thank you," repeated his uncle. "I know how hard it was for you to be forced to relive those awful moments."

  Coals crackled in the hearth as flames flared up from the burning logs.

  "And now, let us put the past aside and look to the future." Hendrie took a small sip of his port and then quickly changed the subject. "Is your work progressing well?"

  "Yes, in fact it is." Despite the difficulty of talking about the terrible day, Rafael sensed that both he and his uncle felt as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. "I hadn't quite expected to be so captivated by the subject, but Dona Maria makes it come alive."

  He suddenly thought about their wraith-like neighbor and sight of her slender form flitting through the woods and fields. "She makes Theobroma cacao so much more than a mere academic interest. Through her eyes, I see the magic of its essence." His lips pursed. "Though I daresay that sounds exceedingly odd to you."

  "Not at all," said his uncle softly. "There is much magic in the world around us if we would let ourselves be open to seeing it."

  Rafael was once again very glad he had made the journey to England.

  A chuckle made him look up from his glass. "Speaking of magic, Cook has mentioned your activities in the kitchen. It seems you are brewing up a bit of magic as well as writing about it."

  "I do hope it is not causing any problems—"

  "No, no, not at all! It is unusual for a gentleman to have any interest in culinary concerns, but she is intrigued by your endeavors—and very curious. Apparently the sweet scents have everyone dying to know what you are up to."

  Rafael grinned. "I shall be happy to present them with a platter of bonbons from my next batch. And perhaps you would like to try a new spiced version of hot chocolate for your breakfast drink."

  "I am very fond of my morning coffee," answered Hendrie. "But I should like very much to taste any new concoctions you create."

  "We will soon have to send to London for more supplies. I'm afraid the local purveyors don't carry many of the ingredients I need, and I seem to be running out of items more quickly than I anticipated."

  "I am delighted to aid in your research. Leave a list with Cook and we'll send it off tomorrow."

  Rafael was already composing a mental list of piquant spices and pungent tropical sugars that he wished to share with Lady Kyra. "You know, I have heard that the Covent Garden markets offer quite an interesting mix of exotic items. And it has been a long time since I've visited London. So perhaps I shall go up to Town and see for myself. If I leave very early in the morning I should be able to be back by evening."

  "An excellent idea. The hustle and bustle of the city will make for a nice change from the quiet of Hendrie Hall. Just let John Coachman know when you wish to make the journey and he will have the carriage ready."

  * * *

  Kyra put down her brush and stepped back to assess her painting. Not bad, considering she was merely copying from an old engraving. But the textures and colors shown in the old volume of botanical prints made her long to see some actual examples of Theobroma cacao. The nuances looked infinitely intriguing—like the surprising flavors of Rafael de Villafranca Greeley's frothy hot chocolate drink.

  Like the subtle range of hues in his sea-blue eyes.

  She quickly looked away from her palette, quashing the urge to sketch a portrait of the Spaniard's handsome face. Plants—it was much safer to stay with plants. Their beauty was benign and didn't cause heartache or pain—

  What about foxglove or stinging nettles? piped up a small voice in her head. There is both good and evil in all of Nature.

  As she carefully rinsed her brushes, she couldn't help thinking about the idea. Good and Evil. Was it possible that in allowing darkness to overshadow all of the light in her life she was letting evil have the ultimate triumph over her?

  Kyra felt a frown furrow her brow. There would be no easy answers to such a complex, confusing question. Just the thought of trying to contemplate it was a little daunting and frightening.

  But perhaps it was time to stop being afraid of her own shadow.

  Still in a pensive frame of mind, she left her workroom and wandered down the corridor to the library. There were several mor
e books on tropical plants and she gathered them up, along with a book of maps on the Caribbean islands. As she turned, the scent of tobacco smoke wafted into the alcove.

  "That's is quite a pile. Here, please let me help you carry them back to your workroom."

  Kyra allowed her father to take half the pile from her arms.

  His brows rose on reading over the titles, but he made no comment save to say, "I will be going up to Town on the morrow. Are there any books or art supplies you wish to have brought back?"

  "I am running low on several shades of watercolor pigment, so a fresh batch from Watman's Emporium would be very welcome," she murmured.

  "Just write out a list and I shall see that Jenkins purchases them."

  "Thank you, Papa." Kyra hesitated as they turned the corner of the corridor. Dare she ask? Before she could think twice about the decision, she let the words slip free. "I—I was wondering... might I come along? I—I was thinking that my maid and I might spend a few hours exploring Kew Gardens while you are taking care of your affairs in the city."

  The low flame of the wall sconce caught the flicker of light that lit in the duke's iron-gray eyes. "By Jove, I think that a splendid idea!" he exclaimed. "I seem to recall reading in the newspaper that they have recently received a new shipment of tropical specimen plantings from the West Indies."

  "Yes, and it's said to include some very rare flowers," she replied. "I thought I would bring along my sketchbook and do some quick studies. It is always inspiring to try a new subject."

  "Excellent, excellent!" he exclaimed, his face wreathing in a smile. "Let us leave bright and early, so you have plenty of time to stroll through the path ways and conservatories."

  "Thank you," she repeated, feeling a pinch of guilt at how the timid request had sparked such a look of hope. It reminded her again of how her actions had hurt the ones she loved. For an instant, she was tempted to retreat, to make up a cowardly excuse to put off the trip.

  Bur she couldn't bear to disappoint him yet again. "Good night, Papa. I had best retire if we are to rise at the crack of dawn."

  * * *

  The next morning, as the carriage drew closer to the city, Kyra was feeling even more unsettled about her decision. Living in her own isolated little enclave, she had forgotten just how noisy and crowded the main thoroughfare could be—carriages jostled with the farm carts and brewery wagons, drovers called curses at the young bucks racing their curricles at a reckless pace.

  A part of her cringed at all the commotion... and yet, a part of her felt the thrum of activity stir a certain frisson of excitement. Clenching her hands in her lap, she tried to still her quickening pulse. This wasn't her world anymore, and never would be. She was an outcast and—

  "We are almost there." Her father shifted to glance out the window, drawing her out of her own mordant thoughts. "You have an extra shawl in case it turns chilly?"

  "Yes, Papa."

  Turning to her maid, who was busy arranging the parcels piled on the seat beside her, the duke asked. "And you have the picnic that Cook prepared?"

  "Yes, Your Grace." The young woman indicated the hamper, which looked to have enough food to feed a regiment. "And a blanket in case the ground is a trifle damp."

  He opened his pocket watch and blew out his cheeks. "Well, then. I shall leave William with you to carry the parcels. I shall return around two if that suits you."

  "Please do not feel that you need to rush through your errands on account of me." Already Kyra could see a hint of intriguing colors poking up from flowerbeds bordering the nearby walkways. "There is so much to see here."

  "You can always come back another day."

  Much as her fingers itched to take up her brushes and watercolors, she felt butterflies begin to flutter in her stomach as the carriage door opened and the iron steps were set down. But on seeing a pinch of concern thin her father's mouth, she made herself descend.

  There was nothing to be nervous about, she chided to herself. None of her acquaintances from Town visited places like this. They spent their time within the gilded splendor of the grand mansions in Mayfair, gossiping during the long hours of morning calls and then dancing until dawn at the fancy balls.

  Strangely enough, she didn't really miss those things.

  "Watch your step, milady, there are several puddles just ahead." Her maid, Anna, reached out to tuck the trailing fringe of Kyra's shawl around her shoulders.

  "And mind the chill," added the footman as he caught up to them. "The breeze looks to be freshening."

  She paused in the lee of two tall Lebanon cypress trees. "I appreciate your concern, but truly, I'm not quite the wilting flower that I appear."

  They both looked a little abashed.

  "Why don't the two of you pick out a nice spot for the picnic and arrange all our things, while I make some sketches."

  "But I promised your father—"

  "I won't wander far," she assured. Seeing Anna's uncertainty, she added softly, "I appreciate your concern, but you know I prefer to work in solitude, and having the two of you hovering will be a distraction. Please enjoy the picnic—I would rather wander and sketch than eat."

  "Very well, milady." Her maid expelled a sigh that surrendered to a smile. "You go ahead and enjoy yourself. We'll be right here. But you have only to signal if you need us."

  "Yes, of course." Kyra felt a flush of excitement warm her cheeks. For just a few precious hours, she would give herself the freedom to forget about the past and simply explore the present.

  The pathways beckoned with all sorts of tantalizing botanical treasures, but as she took her small satchel of painting supplies from the footman, she knew exactly which specimens she wished to find. A quick question to one of the attendants directed her down a graveled walkway that led toward the Chinese pagoda. Tucked behind of a high hedge of Sumatran yew, halfway down the sloping lawns, was a charming glass-paned conservatory.

  Opening the door, Kyra stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in warm, moist air, redolent with the sweetly spiced scent of...

  "Chocolate," she whispered to herself, breathing deeply and savoring the heady fragrance.

  The colors, ranging from rich coppery oranges to pale lemony yellows, were also a feast for the senses. She stood for a bit, simply admiring the profusion of pods growing out from the slender trunks of the small trees. According to the brass plaques placed in the earthen beds, there were three species of Theobroma cacao on display—criolla, forastera and trinitario.

  After one last deep inhale, Kyra set to work unwrapping her sketchbook, water jar and paintbox. Taking a seat on the teak bench set by the stone fountain, she mixed up the first batch of hues, touched her brush to the palette and turned to a blank page. So lost was she in her art that she wasn't aware of someone else entering the conservatory until a shadow fell across the paper.

  "Oh!" She looked up with a start.

  "Forgive me for startling you." Rafael flashed a tentative smile. "I was trying not to disturb you, but couldn't resist trying to steal a peek at your paintings."

  "They are just rough sketches," Kyra replied, trying not to let her gaze linger on the sinuous curl of his lips. She quickly shut her book. "If I am lucky, there will be enough details for me to work up a finished piece."

  "I have a feeling luck has nothing to do with it," he murmured. "Might I be allowed a closer look?"

  Kyra hesitated.

  "I beg your pardon." His expression squeezed to a wry grimace. "I have no doubt made some terribly rude request. I may be half English but I seem to be wholly ignorant of the many complex rules of Polite Society."

  A gentleman who could poke fun at himself? His self-deprecating humor was even more attractive than his smile. “I used to know them all when I took a term at Oxford before Jack and I headed off for the Peninsula, but they seem to have slipped my mind.”

  "Your manners are faultless, sir. Rather it is my own unpolished skills that hold me back. My art is simply for my own enjoym
ent."

  "I assure you, I would enjoy it too, especially as the subject is one that is near and dear to my heart." He held out his hand. "Please?"

  Had he made some flowery request, full of fulsome flatteries, she would have resisted. But it was impossible to deny his simple, straightforward appeal.

  With a wordless nod, Kyra passed it over.

  * * *

  Up close, the sketches were even more exquisite than he had guessed from the quick glance he had gotten before she had shut her book. There was a grace and fluidity to her brushstrokes that captures the living, growing essence of the cacao trees. And her eye for color was wonderfully nuanced. The subtle shadings of the elongated pods were beautifully rendered.

  "These are quite marvelous," murmured Rafael as he carefully turned back through the pages for second look. "You have a rare talent."

  A slight blush suffused her cheeks—a lovely shade of pale pink, softer and more delicate than a velvety rose petal. "You are too kind, milord."

  Milord. The fact that as heir to the earldom he now bore Jack's courtesy title make him wince inwardly. However, he hid his reaction and replied, "My words are not flummeries, Lady Kyra, they are naught but the plain truth."

  Her color deepened.

  Seeing that he was embarrassing her, Rafael quickly shifted the conversation back to a more general discussion of art. Having some knowledge in the subject, he said, "What is your opinion of the botanical illustrations of Pierre-Joseph Redouté?"

  "They are quite lovely," replied Kyra. "But for true genius I prefer the art of Maria Sibylla Merian."

  "A lady artist?" he mused.

  "Yes."

  "I am not familiar with her work."

  Kyra's chin rose a fraction. "That's hardly surprising. Females have a deucedly difficult time getting any recognition for their talents."

  "They do," he agreed. "Which is most unfair."

  His sentiments seemed to shock her. "You truly think so?" she asked warily.

  "My grandmother was passionate about healing, and had more knowledge in the field than any man I ever met. But her desire to study medicine at a university was met with derision in Spain. A lady, she was told, had not the intellect or the emotional stability to understand such advanced lessons." He let out a low snort. "As if men, by virtue of their plumbing, have been gifted with some great cerebral advantage."