Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  He spoke so quietly, so gently, as if he had guessed all about Walter and wanted to help.

  She told herself it was just a seducer’s ploy, but her chin quivered from the emotions racing through her. She felt horribly exposed, and all her doubts and worries about Walter swelled her heart.

  She swallowed the tightness forming in her throat. She had not once cried about Walter. She could not imagine why she had the urge to do so now.

  “There are some . . . obligations,” she whispered.

  He pressed warm lips to her skin again. “But not love?”

  She had never answered that question. She had never asked it. Now she found herself looking into a corner of her heart where she had avoided searching for a long time.

  It both relieved and saddened her to discover it was empty.

  “No. Not love. Not any longer.” She said it to herself, but heard the admission whisper in the air between them.

  “I am glad.”

  He lowered his hand to her knee, so it rested there as he cradled her wrist. He kissed her wrist again, his head low to her lap, so close to where it had been the night before.

  She watched him make love to that small line of flesh. She fought the impulse to stretch her fingers through his hair again and hold him to her just as she had shockingly done mere hours ago.

  He was fueling a fire that had been kindling all night. She had not slept, either. She had drifted, half conscious, in a state of sensual warmth and arousal.

  That had happened before in her life, but this had been different. Her physical reactions all night had been vivid and real, and the man in her half dream had been Lyndale, not Walter or a faceless force.

  He straightened, but continued caressing her wrist with his thumb, stroking so effectively that her whole body trembled. He looked into her eyes and she could tell he knew how easily he aroused her. His expression silently repeated his declaration of last night. I want you and I will have you.

  She glanced nervously at her sister. Anne’s head was turned to the window now. She remained sightless, however. Oblivious.

  Useless.

  “I will have to bring Joan or Mary with me next time.”

  “You will bring no one with you next time. I forbid it. If I was duped on these prints, I do not want the world to know.”

  He kissed her pulse again, with stunning effect. Then he began closing the glove’s buttons.

  Art crammed the viewing room at Bonham’s. Ewan explained how the lots were organized, and the duty of buyers to examine everything closely.

  “Bonham’s takes care not to handle forgeries or questionable goods, but the ultimate responsibility to assess authenticity still rests with those who bid.”

  Anne had returned to reality, and she gawked at the paintings covering the walls and the tables loaded with folios and books and objets d’art. “One could spend days here.”

  “I often do,” Ewan said. “It is an ever-changing feast.”

  Some paintings caught Anne’s eye and she wandered off. Bride made to follow her, but Ewan stopped her.

  “Let her go. We have business to conduct.”

  He led Bride through the room and beckoned one of the auctioneers who kept watch.

  The man knew him, as did everyone else at this establishment. Not merely because he frequently bid and bought. Bonham’s hoped to handle the sale of any prints inherited from Uncle Duncan that Ewan did not want to keep. One of the auctioneers had been among the first to call when news of Uncle Duncan’s death spread.

  “Lord Lyndale, we are honored. How can we serve you?”

  “I would like to speak with Mr. Dodd. It pertains to the series I purchased last year.”

  The man’s face fell just enough to show Ewan’s tone had communicated trouble. A glance at Bride indicated that the ambiguous reference to a series was appreciated. This particular series had been offered at a private auction, and had never been on view in this room.

  “If you would follow me, I am sure that Mr. Dodd can be found.”

  Ewan trailed behind the man, with Bride in tow. Their escort found the lady’s continued attendance disconcerting. Ewan ignored the contorted facial language requesting that her presence be shed.

  Mr. Dodd was found at once. In an elegant office decorated with expensive art waiting its day on the block, Ewan explained his concerns.

  “I find myself questioning the series, now that the excitement of the hunt has passed. It is no reflection on your establishment, of course. I merely want to pursue a few questions regarding provenance.”

  Mr. Dodd had been guarded when the topic was raised, but now he smiled. “The provenance was excellent, I assure you.”

  “But not announced, nor was the name of the seller.”

  “Anonymity was requested, in light of the content. I am sure you understand.”

  “Of course. However, I would now like to know where the series resided all these centuries.”

  Mr. Dodd shifted in his chair. “I am unable to satisfy you. Our patrons expect discretion from us. When your own collection is eventually sold, I am sure your heirs will want to know we will respect their desire for privacy.”

  “Sir, I have important questions regarding the series. I am sure you do not want my suspicions to be known at large. If you cannot help me ascertain the truth, I do not think my collection, or any of my uncle’s, or any of my friends’, will ever be sold here.”

  “Lord Lyndale, this is most irregular. You have me at a disadvantage.”

  That was where Ewan wanted him.

  He let Mr. Dodd contemplate the two unappetizing plates thrust in front of him. When the mood had gotten very heavy, Ewan offered a little sweet to help his own meal get swallowed. “I do not require the exact name. Merely some reassurance.”

  Mr. Dodd brightened a bit. He bobbed his head while he thought that over. “I can tell you that the series came from the estate of a gentleman deceased two years at the time. A man of high standing, much like yourself. His family made use of an intermediary, in presenting the series to us.”

  “Are you sure that the intermediary actually represented that family? Could their name have been used as a lie?”

  Mr. Dodd’s face fell. A pink curtain began descending on it. “We knew that man who approached us. We were satisfied all was in order.”

  “I am sure you were. Should you see your way clear to enlighten me as to this intermediary’s name, I would appreciate it.”

  Ewan rose and offered Bride his hand. He intended by the gesture to let Mr. Dodd know that any communication of that name need not be done with witnesses. It could be sent discreetly.

  Bride appeared very subdued as they left the office and returned to the viewing room.

  “I had no idea it would be so easy to sell forgeries,” she said. “Not that your ‘I Modi’ are forgeries. The more I contemplate that, the more convinced I am that they are what they seem.”

  An hour ago, Ewan would have agreed. The meeting with Mr. Dodd, however, pricked his confidence. If he had interpreted Dodd’s reaction correctly, there had been no proof the series actually came from the family in question.

  Anne spied them from across the room and hurried over, looking more lively than Ewan had ever seen her.

  “Oh, Bride, this is such fun. You will never guess what I found. One of Father’s engravings. Over on that table, in a big lot. It is his river god. You remember, the one after the statue in Rome. Imagine my delight in—”

  “That is not so surprising,” Bride said, cutting off her sister’s excited flow. “There must be hundreds of prints here.”

  She raised one hand to her head and grimaced. “This has been fascinating and most instructive, Lord Lyndale. Thank you for inviting me. I am suddenly a bit dizzy, however. Would you mind too much if we returned to Belgrave Square?”

  She did not appear dizzy to him. She looked like an amateur actress pretending to feel faint.

  She walked beside her sister, and managed to pull som
e distance in front of him. As he trailed behind, he saw Bride’s arm circle Anne’s shoulders. Her head dipped low so she could say something in Anne’s ear.

  As soon as the coach left Bride and Anne at Belgrave Square, Ewan ordered it back from whence it had come.

  He strode into Bonham’s and aimed for the tables holding the large portfolios of prints. They were mixed lots for the most part, and common reproductive work that would be sold to the trade.

  Positioning himself at the tables, he methodically worked his way through the sheets. He kept his eyes peeled on the borders at the bottom, looking for the name Angus Cameron.

  He flipped the bottom of the sheets with his thumb, and turned them five at a time. Other names blurred by, not even registering in his head.

  Bride had become distressed at Anne’s mention of their father’s work. She had moved to quash her sister and divert his attention. He found that curious, and now he wanted to see that print.

  An hour later he frowned down at the portfolios. There had been no border with Cameron’s name.

  He began again, this time sheet by sheet, searching for an engraving of the river god.

  Suddenly it was in front of him. He did not doubt Cameron had engraved it. The technique was very close to Bride’s.

  He read the border. The words had not penetrated his concentration while he flipped quickly, but they should have. He should not have missed it the first time through.

  This plate had been printed and sold by an establishment in Edinburgh. It had been engraved by Thomas Waterfield.

  That was the name Bride and her sisters used on their plates.

  Only this one bore the date 1804, before Bride had even been born.

  He gazed at that river god while various ideas rearranged themselves in his mind. They pointed to conclusions that could not be avoided.

  The figure of the reclining god was engraved using the patterned, tiny lozenges typical in reproductive prints. The setting, however, displayed freer burin work. The buildings and sky, the foliage and stones, employed a technique similar to that found in original Renaissance works.

  Those details captivated Ewan’s eyes. The technique appeared familiar. He had studied similar flicks and lines recently. Very recently.

  It looked like the same technique used in the subsidiary portions of his “I Modi.”

  He noted the lot’s number. He would buy it when the auction was held, so he could do a comparison of this river god and his Raimondi series. If that examination proved his suspicions correct, it would explain how and why Uncle Duncan had ruined Bride’s father.

  It had not been political reasons. Uncle Duncan probably neither knew nor cared about Cameron’s extreme political views.

  But if Duncan had discovered that Angus Cameron was forging Renaissance engravings, if Cameron had tried to sell Duncan bad prints, Duncan would have demanded that Cameron either give up his craft and his trade, or be exposed as a criminal.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  The Earl of Lyndale is hosting a party tonight. As might be expected, there has been considerable discretion regarding the guest list, although it is said his house guests will not attend.

  Bride read the few lines in a scandal sheet, then handed it back to Joan.

  “It certainly makes clear we are not among his guests,” Joan said, sounding a little hurt. “His insistence we not even be seen tonight means you were right, Bride. We really are not welcome here. He wants everyone to know we are not fit for his friends.”

  They certainly were not, but not in the way Joan thought.

  Bride wondered about the last words in the scandal sheet, and who had ensured they would be included. Lyndale himself, probably. It was considerate of him to hand out that tidbit to protect her sisters.

  That party was taking place right now in a chamber almost directly below hers. The public rooms had been locked for two days while the household prepared. She wondered what creative touches Lyndale had given this scandalous night.

  Her chamber did not face the street, but she had heard the carriages arrive. She had seen the servants in the back garden, heading for the mews. Strains of music and an almost inaudible buzz filtered to the upper floors from the activity below.

  An unwarranted vexation kept pricking. It appeared the Earl of Lyndale wanted Bride Cameron, but until he succeeded in seducing her, he would occupy himself otherwise.

  She welcomed the evidence of just who and what this man was. She was grateful that every time she softened toward him, he managed to remind her that she should not.

  She turned her attention to a list on her writing table that she had just finished composing.

  “The last two days have been very full, Joan. We are making some progress. Lyndale escorted me to several engravers and two more print shops yesterday. I have learned much about the industry here in London that will be useful when we have our own studio. Lyndale has collected a little list of engravers who, in the opinions of the experts we consulted, could forge old master prints very well.”

  She could not say more. Her sisters did not know about “I Modi.” She had only warned them that Lyndale had bought prints printed off some of their father’s missing forged plates.

  “That does not help our investigation much,” Joan said. “We already know Father made all the plates being sought by us and Lyndale.”

  That was true. Fortunately, while Bride and Lyndale rode about the city, Joan had been out and about, too, visiting shops that sold paper.

  “What have you learned?”

  Joan handed over a small piece of paper. “These are some men who manufacture paper the old-fashioned way, by hand and not machine, such as was used for the banknotes years ago. The last two are quite old and experienced and have suffered changes in fortune recently.”

  Bride studied the list. She would have to shed Lyndale for at least one day so she could speak with these men, and ascertain their characters.

  She turned the sheet on her desk, and looked at its blank side. The vacancy depressed her. She had hoped to add a fact or two to this side, as well. Lyndale’s company had meant she could not ask the necessary questions, however.

  “Did you learn anything about Walter?” She did not look at Joan while she asked the question. She did not want to see her sister’s reaction. Joan’s moist-eyed sympathy would be too much to bear.

  That would be true especially now, after Lyndale had forced her to look into her heart and see what remained of that old love. Nostalgia and sadness, to be sure. Worry and obligation, too. But the memories were growing dim, and the passion had died. Maybe her doubts had killed it. Or perhaps she was by nature inconstant.

  With a touch on her arm, Joan demanded her attention. The moist sympathy was waiting for her, more intensely than ever before.

  “I did learn of him, I think,” Joan said. “It was not clear it was Walter spoken of, however.”

  “What was said?”

  “When I asked one of the stationers about papermakers such as we sought, he mentioned there must be a new fashion developing for hand-laid sheets among the Scots. He commented that some months ago a young Scot had been requesting the same references.”

  Bride’s heart sped. “Which of these papermakers did this stationer name to you, Joan?”

  Joan’s finger pointed to the name at the bottom of the list. “This one here. Twickenham.”

  “I must find where he is located and visit as soon as possible. I always suspected it would be the paper that would lead us to our goal, and it appears as if Walter thought the same thing.”

  “It might be dangerous, Bride.”

  It might be, but she would have to find a way to do it anyway—

  The door to her bedroom suddenly opened. Jilly stood on the threshold and peered around.

  She shrugged and turned to leave. “I wonder where she has got to,” she muttered.

  “Who?” Bride asked.

  “Mary. She was fussing all day with bits of notio
ns she has bought, and I thought she was still in our chamber while I kept Anne company, but—”

  “Are you saying Mary has gone missing?”

  “Maybe she is trying to sneak a look into the party,” Joan said. “She has been pouting for two days about not even being allowed to see the decorations or watch the guests arrive.”

  Bride felt her mouth fall open.

  Mary at Lyndale’s party?

  She bolted to her dressing room. “Jilly, find a servant and ask that he check the kitchen, just to be sure she is not down there. Joan, come and help me dress, quickly.”

  “My ass is cold,” Abernathy mumbled.

  “Do not blame my home’s chimneys. You were the one who chose to come in that flimsy tunic as the god Apollo,” Ewan said.

  “It is not flimsy. It is diaphanous, like the garment Apollo wears in Raphael’s ‘Parnassus.’ ”

  “Diaphanous, hell. If your ass is cold, get up and raise your skirt to the fire.”

  Abernathy peered resentfully across the card table. “As a Scot, you would know all about skirts and how to deal with cold asses, I expect.”

  “Indeed I do. You do not hear me complaining, do you?”

  He had not complained, but in truth, his ass was cold, too.

  He should never have left it to Michael to choose his garments for this Roman party. The result was a centurion’s rigid breastplate, a ridiculously brief tunic, and naked arms and legs. Despite the high blazes in the fireplaces, necessary to keep all the Romans warm, there was a definite draft down below.

  He glanced with envy at Colin on his right. Burchard had the good sense to come as a Roman senator. The extensive drapery of his toga would provide some privacy, should Colin leave the library and venture into the salon where costumes were being loosened and shed on the sofas.

  “You appear out of sorts,” Colin said. “The party is a great success, but you do not appear to be enjoying yourself much.”

  “Perhaps that is because a certain lady is enjoying herself too much,” Abernathy said.

  Ewan let that pass, although he was indeed out of sorts. Enough to almost respond that Abernathy had taken sanctuary at the gaming tables because Knightridge had also come as Apollo, and Abernathy could not suffer the comparison.