Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  When her gaze met his, however, a different expression entered his eyes. He could still make her feel like a rabbit caught in a hawk’s sight, and it still took her breath away.

  She could not suppress a naughty smile. “I think I know what way you mean,” she whispered.

  “I doubt it.”

  She giggled. “Oh, dear. Another novelty?”

  He took her arm and guided her out of the studio. As they walked he angled his head so he could speak lowly to her. “Nae, Bride. Ah dinna mean that kind o’ way. Ye daesna ken me at all.”

  Not only his tongue had turned to Scots, but his brogue had thickened. She laughed at this new surprise.

  “Nae, Ah’ll ne’er ken ye fur aw, Ewan.”

  He tapped the rolled sheet she carried. “Some summer day, we will sit on that hill and look at that glen, Bride, and you can thank me then with one kiss, no more.”

  Lyndale’s attention had been so unflagging since the party, and their visit to the lithographer so much fun, that it surprised Bride when he did not invite her to join him when he left the house the next day.

  The sudden loss of his company cast her adrift in her own thoughts. She spent the afternoon trying to concentrate on her true purpose in coming to London, but anticipation of his return distracted her.

  That night when he arrived at her dressing room door, he pulled her through the passage connecting their apartments as if they had been parted a month. His expression as he undressed her was serious, as if the day’s appointments had provoked a thoughtfulness that affected how he saw her.

  There were no novelties that night after he laid her down. No games and no laughter. Just scorching kisses and possessive caresses and, finally, the comforting weight and warmth of his body covering hers.

  The reflections in the looking glass captivated her when they joined like this, and she kept glancing to them while he made love to her. Golden candlelight flowed in a liquid shimmer over the body of the man in her arms. The eroticism of his embrace and caress were heightened by the view of his body suspended above them.

  The light sculpted his shoulders and back into alluring ridges and hard cords. It glowed down his tapered torso and slid over the hard swells of his buttocks. It illuminated his legs, showing their athletic beauty.

  She could watch the tensing and flexing of his body, and see the signs that indicated what he would do before her body felt it. She anticipated every stretching fullness of every thrust.

  He moved again. His hips flexed and he withdrew until they were barely joined. She gritted her teeth at the momentary loss, and watched for the dip in his lower back that would herald a new completion.

  Instead a different tautness hardened his muscles. His shoulders rose as he braced his weight on extended arms. His new position blocked her view of the reflection. She could see only his face and chest hovering above her.

  “The glass fascinates you,” he said.

  “Like a moving painting,” she said, and smiled. She shifted her hips a little, to encourage him to continue. His ability to simply stop what they had been doing surprised her.

  He remained immobile, driving her mad with that slight, tantalizing connection. “I am not a painting, Bride.” His head dipped down and he kissed her gently. “I know all about that reflection, and how it distracts. How it makes your lover distant, and the pleasure safe.”

  “That is not true.” Except it was, a little. It did provide a certain distance. It transformed the acts even as it intensified them.

  “You watch me, too,” she said, uncomfortable with the directness of his gaze and the way he filled her vision. His form dominated her world and her body now. His reality almost overwhelmed her.

  “I almost never watch you, except at the beginning and afterwards. That glass does not exist most of the time for me anymore.” Locking her gaze with his, he finally thrust and filled her. “I do not think I want you retreating into that painting either.”

  She reached to pull him close, but he did not come to her. Braced on his arms, he continued his slow withdrawals and entries. His gaze invaded as much as his body. His expression demanded that she not look away or close her eyes.

  The intimacy deepened. It changed the pleasure and the warmth, the excitement and the thrills. Her soul reacted with joy, but also experienced tremors of fear. His slow, deliberate claims seemed to peel away layers until nothing remained between them except a vibrant connection. The closeness awed her, but the vulnerability made her tremble.

  Only at the end did he return to her embrace. Even then he cupped her head with his forearms and faced her, their eyes and breath mere inches apart as their rapture bridged every other gap.

  When Bride slipped from his bedroom the next morning, Ewan found himself floating in a very peculiar mood.

  He had brought a bad humor back to Belgrave Square the prior evening. Spending the day with an estate agent, finding Bride and her sisters a new home, had left him angry. As he viewed the houses to let, a tumult of resentments had flickered, then burned, and finally begun seething.

  He hated that propriety decreed she live elsewhere and that they pretend they were not lovers. He hated that she had refused his proposal when any sane woman would have grabbed it. He hated that he wanted her enough that her imminent departure from his home affected him like this.

  Ultimately, he had resented like hell her fascination with that damned looking glass. He sensed that in watching that reflection, she was making love to his image and not him. Last night that suddenly mattered to him.

  In a fit of annoyance, he had demanded it be he, totally and without compromise. However, he had never expected the result to be this hazy cloud on his consciousness that refused to disperse.

  Nor had he expected that the most ordinary sexual position would one day be the most stirring. Yet he could not deny it was true, and his reactions dismayed him. Last night had moved him profoundly and he did not know what to do about it.

  He was grateful, therefore, when Michael entered his bedroom, along with a servant bearing a coffee tray. He was glad to have Michael intrude into his daze with commonplace activity.

  “It appears you received an anonymous letter,” Michael said, after the servant left. He handed over the Times and the post.

  “Have you been reading my mail?”

  “Did not need to. The seal is plain, the paper ordinary, and the letters are blocked, not in script. Just how I’d do it, if I wanted to be a mystery.”

  Ewan slit the seal. The letter was indeed anonymous, and very brief. It only contained one sentence.

  The intermediary was Mr. Ramsey of Newcastle.

  Dodd had sent this. Whether Ewan’s questions had piqued the auctioneer’s own suspicions, or whether he feared Bonham’s losing future consignments, he had discreetly given Ewan what he requested.

  Ewan recognized the intermediary’s name. He had met Ramsey, several years ago. He had visited his print shop in Newcastle once. The offerings had been predictable and boring, and insufficient to provoke future visits, but there had been nothing to suggest Ramsey handled forgeries.

  It was possible that Ramsey did not know the “I Modi” were forgeries, of course.

  For that matter, Ewan was not sure that they were either.

  It was time to clarify the matter.

  “I will dress now, Michael.”

  “It is barely ten. Normally, after she leaves you—that is, you usually return to bed after coffee, sir.”

  “I know the time. Nor can I imagine whom you mean by ‘she.’ There is no ‘she’ here, nor has there been. Correct?”

  “Correct. I will be ready for you in the dressing room in a few minutes.”

  As the sounds of Michael’s preparations began in the next chamber, Ewan read the rest of his morning mail. A brief note from Mr. Nichols caught his attention. The stationer requested that Ewan call at his shop, to discuss the special paper they would commission.

  When Ewan entered Nichols’ stationery shop th
at afternoon, he carried a large, flat package under his arm. In it was the river god print, engraved by Thomas Waterfield.

  Mr. Dodd had been happy to extract it from the lot going up for auction at Bonham’s. Ewan had paid more for this one print than he normally would have bid for the entire portfolio that contained it, but he had decided he did not want to wait on the auction.

  Later today he would compare it to his “Modi.” He was fairly sure that he would find the same technique in them all. Then he would have to decide whether to ask Bride outright if her father had forged that series, and if so how they came into Mr. Ramsey’s hands a year ago.

  He had decided he did not care if her father had forged them. Bride, however, might care a great deal, and be afraid of the discovery. It would probably be best to raise the matter and get it out of the way.

  Mr. Nichols greeted him with a cat’s smile of contentment. “Lord Lyndale, I am delighted you could accommodate my request for your attention. I have found our papermaker, I am pleased to say.”

  “Have you now? That is good to hear. You are convinced he can form the coat of arms for the watermark? I would not want anything crude.”

  “I will leave it to you to decide.” Mr. Nichols led him to the table that they had used on Ewan’s last visit. He removed a piece of white wove paper about three inches square from a drawer, and placed it with solemn ceremony on the velvet-covered board.

  “I was having difficulty finding another to do it, so I visited him and asked if he would consider the commission,” Mr. Nichols explained. “He refused at first, until I explained it was for a peer. I did not give your name, of course. I will confess that I intimated that should you be pleased, and others learned of the commission, there might be more orders from others of your station. That changed his view quickly.”

  Ewan examined the sheet and gently ran his fingertips over its surface. Wove paper was finer than laid. Laid paper showed the subtle ridges created by its larger screen wires, and possessed a texture that was evident to the touch. Wove paper made use of finer, densely placed wires on the screens used to support the layer of sodden rag pulp, and was processed for a softer, even surface.

  “It is very good. Why is the sample so small?”

  “Our man made this for another commission. He did not want me to see the watermark he put on it, so he cut off a corner for me to show you. It was part of a very important commission, I suspect, and one of the highest prestige if he demanded such secrecy. It appears he has continued his craft in order to serve a patron of the highest esteem.”

  Nichols’ wide eyes and pursed lips insinuated that such demands for secrecy could only come from one place—the crown.

  “If he cut off the portion with the watermark, how am I to be convinced he can do my watermark?”

  “Look at the lines. Hold it to the light. I have never seen such skill. He makes the paper a work of art. If he can manipulate the screen’s wires such as you see there, he can form them into a very detailed watermark depicting your coat of arms.”

  Ewan held the paper up toward the window. Light penetrated the paper from the back. A vague pattern showed through, revealing the impression of the lines from the wire screen that had supported the pulp while it dried into paper.

  Not normal lines at all. Not the standard horizontal and vertical ones found in most paper. This piece displayed curving lines, fine and densely placed. The paper appeared to have one huge watermark of swirls and waves that covered it completely.

  “Is it not remarkable?” Mr. Nichols said. “I have never seen anything quite like it. I am sure he can do what you request. I had no idea he had continued his craft in this way, and become so innovative.”

  It was remarkable. However, Ewan had seen something quite like it. Those swirls and waves bore a resemblance to the lines found in old banknote paper.

  “I agree that the skill is extraordinary,” he said. “By Zeus, Mr. Nichols, we may begin a new fashion.”

  Mr. Nichols clearly hoped so. The potential profit had his eyes sparkling with excitement. “I did have to offer him a handsome sum, but for stock of such distinction it will be well worth it.”

  “Of course. However, since the sum is mine to pay, can I know this great artisan’s name since I am to patronize him? I promise to be discreet. I will never breathe a word to other stationers. Should a new fashion develop, the source will remain your secret to employ.”

  “Did I not tell you? Forgive me, it was not concern for my own future profit—”

  “I am sure not. His name?”

  “Why, it is Twickenham, the man I told you we used years ago, the one whose son near ruined him. He indeed uses a machine for common wares, but as you can see, he still plies his craft the traditional way as well, for very special patrons.”

  Ewan joined Nichols’ enthusiasm over their success for a few more minutes, then gave a very large order for the commissioned stock.

  “He will not be able to begin your paper for another week or so,” Nichols advised. “He must first finish the other one. I will approach him with the details in a fortnight.”

  “I do not mind waiting for the best, Mr. Nichols.”

  Ewan left the shop and told his coachman to take him to the City so he could settle on Bride’s new home with the estate agent.

  He looked down at the wrapped print on his lap. It appeared that both of his investigations would be finished soon. The one regarding “I Modi” might have started as a ruse to lure Bride into his company, but by evening he would know if it had revealed those prints were forgeries after all.

  The other, more serious investigation might conclude soon, as well. He would have to find out just how special and secret Twickenham’s recent commission was, since the man clearly possessed the skill to forge paper for banknotes.

  And if Twickenham had made the bad notes’ paper, then Twickenham could lead him to the engraver of the plates.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Bride strolled through her new home with her sisters and Jilly.

  It was a very fine house. Situated on a street near Portman Square, it held good-sized, airy chambers on the first two levels, and adequate bedrooms above.

  “The addition to the carriage house would suit your press,” Lyndale said.

  They all went outside and stuck their heads into the large chamber jutting into the garden from the carriage house. A merchant had owned this house previously, and used this space to store some goods.

  “It is perfect,” Bride said. “It was kind of you to find it so fast.”

  Not all that fast. Lyndale had taken a week to settle the lease. A week in which their pleasure had been very convenient, indeed.

  Not only in their linked chambers. Last night, knowing the convenience would end, they had spent most of the night in the private drawing room, first talking for hours entwined by the fire. Then Lyndale had told her to undress, and watched from the sofa as she did so, his gaze exciting her until she was breathless. When she was naked, he had stripped off his own clothes and led her to the swing. They had swayed forever, joined in the slowest, most elegant lovemaking she could imagine.

  “The light is excellent,” Joan said. “There are a lot of northern windows. No glare when we work, then.”

  While Bride had played, Joan had been busy. Her sister had found piecework employment with a publisher named John Murray on Albermarle Street. For the last three days, Joan had risen early and bent her body to the engravings that decorated the publishing house’s books.

  Joan said Mr. Murray was amenable to giving Bride work, too. If they were going to keep themselves in this house, they would need those wages.

  They returned to the house and her sisters went above to inspect the bedrooms again.

  As soon as the steps on the stairs faded, Lyndale drew Bride into his arms. “Will this do?”

  “It is too big. The furnishings are too fine.”

  “I will not have you in a hovel.”

  �
�Half this house would be more than adequate, and no hovel. I think you are misleading me on the cost, too. I think—”

  “Stop thinking so much.” He kissed her in a way to ensure she thought about nothing at all. “Now, this is your home. You will repay me from the income your sisters receive. Then you will take over the payments to the landlord yourselves in the future.”

  “Who is the owner of this place?”

  “Me, as it happens. Do not object. It was the easiest way. My solicitor said as much, and in the future you will deal with him, not me.” He took her hand. “Actually, I bought two houses.”

  “How many do you need?”

  “One for me, one for you and your sisters, and one for us. I can hardly make love to you here. You will not be comfortable arriving in Belgrave Square for assignations, so I bought a cottage to the west on a little land. We can meet there.”

  He had been good to his word. He had arranged for discretion, as she had requested.

  Gaelic leaked down the stairs. Mary was arguing with Joan about the choice of bedrooms.

  “You do realize that they all have guessed about us,” Lyndale said. “I can see it in their eyes when they look at me. Or do not look at me, to be more accurate.”

  Bride had noticed the signs. She was sure Jilly had not told them, but they knew. None of her sisters had said anything, but then, they had never said a word about Walter, either. Everyone had pretended ignorance about the way Walter climbed in her bedroom window. One night the wind had tumbled the ladder, stranding him, but she woke to find it back in place.

  “If they have guessed, it could be credited to your change in behavior,” she scolded.

  “My behavior toward you has been above reproach. When others can see us, at least.” His devilish smile had her blushing at the things that happened when no one saw them.

  “You were at every dinner the last week. You never went out at night. You even spoke to Mary as if she were other than a nuisance, and invited us all to tour the colosseum at Regent’s Park. They would have to be living in the clouds not to notice.”