And across the room, standing before one of the new Alma-Tademas…
A mass of curling ginger hair that couldn’t quite be contained in the tightly wrapped styles of the day, a height neither petite nor tall, a figure neat and fine, a dress so unobtrusive that it made her fiery head all the more striking.
Ginger hair was not fashionable. But it drew Sinjin like a roaring hearth in winter. It collected all the heat in the room and crackled with light.
“Ah. You noticed her, too.”
Mr. Leopold Erskine joined Sinjin, his tie somewhat wilted, his auburn hair disheveled and his tall, rangy body bent as if the heat were a physical burden riding on his shoulders. The second son of the Earl of Elston, Leo had been one of Sinjin’s best friends since their first meeting ten years ago as hopelessly foolish and naive young men. They’d spent considerable time together since, and Sinjin valued Leo’s opinion—though in many ways Erskine had never quite grown up. He spent months at a time either traipsing around the deserts of North Africa and Arabia, or with his head buried in one of his incomprehensible scholarly books.
He had also declined to become a member of the confirmed bachelor set of which Sinjin was undisputed leader. Erskine was constitutionally incapable of being a rake; he actually regarded women as friends and equals.
“Quite a beauty, isn’t she?” Leo commented, squinting his curious gray eyes.
Sinjin chuckled. “How can you tell? All I see is the back of her. And you’ve left off your spectacles.”
“It was you who advised me not to wear them. ‘Too bookish,’ you said.”
“So I did.” He slapped Leo’s back. “Someone must look after you, Erskine. You’re a little lost lamb. You ought to join one of our gatherings…you might even enjoy it.”
“Not I. I should rather read in my library.”
“Of course. How foolish of me to suggest it.”
Leo began to speak again, but Sinjin’s attention had already wandered back to the fire maiden. She had turned slightly, but her face was still not visible. Yet there was a lightness and grace about her movements as she bent her head to listen to one of the ladies standing beside her…a tall, dark-haired woman Sinjin recognized.
“I see that the lady in question keeps company with the widows,” Sinjin remarked.
“Widows?”
“You haven’t been living in a cave, Erskine. Those widows. The untouchables.”
“Ah, yes. I believe they call themselves the ‘Widows’ Club.’”
“The Witches’ Club,” or so some liked to call them: a half-dozen wealthy, well-bred and eccentric ladies who had vowed never to marry again. Sinjin felt a flicker of disappointment.
“Are you acquainted with them?” Erskine asked.
“One would be hard-pressed not to be aware of the dowager Duchess of Vardon,” Sinjin said. “She believes she is some sort of ancient princess.”
Erskine pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were pushing up his missing spectacles. “Eccentric she may be, but she is a renowned hostess. For the past two years she has wielded considerable power in Society.”
“Ha! As usual, you know far more than you let on.”
“As you said, I have not been living in a cave.” Leo smiled knowingly. “Even you cannot scorn such a formidable lady, Donnington.”
“I won’t kowtow to any woman, not even a former duchess.”
“It would nevertheless be unwise to let her know that you despise her, or her chosen companions, because of their sex.”
Sinjin ignored Erskine’s comment. With increased interest, he let his gaze wander over the other women standing near the fire maiden. There was another ginger-haired girl pressed so close to the painting that her nose almost touched it; she wore one of those odd Aesthetic dresses without bustle or stays. It would, he reflected, be a good deal easier to get a woman out of such a garment, especially if one were in a hurry.
But his gaze passed over her, pausing only briefly on the stiffly upright young woman in the severe gray suit, the plump blonde, the brown-haired girl in an unbecoming and out-of-fashion dress and the older woman with a good figure and what might accurately be called a “handsome” face. He lingered a moment on the very young girl with black hair and dull gray dress: she must be still in mourning. Too young, in any case.
And that brought him back to the fire maiden. If she didn’t have a horse’s face or spots, she would be nearly perfect.
You may have vowed not to marry again, my dear, he thought. But that does not preclude a little entertainment on the side.
“What do you know of her, Leo?”
Erskine didn’t ask which “she” he meant. “Lady Charles, wife of the late Lord Charles Parkhill.”
“Parkhill? Charles is dead?”
“Two years ago, of a longstanding illness.”
Sinjin shook his head. “I’m very sorry to hear it. I knew him at Eton…even then he was often in ill health.”
“Yes. Poor fellow—after so many years of isolation at his estate, he had few people but his family to mourn him when he passed on.”
“I didn’t know he had married.”
“Only six months before his passing. Lady Charles cared for him until the end. She was completely devoted to him and never left his side. Even after she was widowed, she remained in the country until this Season.”
“She is newly come to London?” Sinjin asked, surprised.
“Yes. The dowager Duchess of Vardon and the dowager Marchioness of Oxenham have been introducing her around town, but I understand that she has remained somewhat reclusive.”
“Who are her family?” he asked.
“That, I have not heard.” Erskine frowned. “Are you thinking of pursuing her?”
“I might have done, if not for Charles. I owe him a certain respect in light of our time together at Eton.”
“You owe him respect, but not his widow.”
“She does not seem particularly stricken.”
“You know nothing about her except what little I have told you.”
“Have you an interest, Erskine?”
“I need not be a member of your set to decline the pleasure of marriage,” Erskine said.
“And you would consider nothing less.”
“I am hopelessly old-fashioned, as you have so often reminded me.”
Sinjin snorted. “Someday your virtue will take a tumble, my friend.”
“And one of these days, old chap, you may find a woman who is your equal.”
“If such a creature existed, I would marry her on the spot.”
“May I take you at your word, Sin? Shall we make a friendly wager of it?” Leo suggested.
“You aren’t a gambling man.”
“The study of human nature is one of my favorite occupations.”
“I don’t know that I wish to be an object of study.”
Leo produced his wallet and counted out twenty pounds. “Surely you can afford this much. But if you are afraid…”
“Afraid of a woman?” Sinjin thrust out his hand. “Done.”
“Then I shall leave you to it,” Erskine said, smiling with an artless warmth that made Sinjin remember why they were friends. The tall man stalked away like an amiable giraffe and was lost in the crowd.
Throwing off a peculiar chill of unease, Sinjin returned his attention to the fire maiden. She was gone. He moved closer to the line of people observing the paintings and followed the flow.
There. She had stopped again and was examining a Frith with her head slightly cocked and her profile clearly visible.
No horse’s face, and no spots. Sinjin didn’t need to see the rest of her features to know she was lovely. He realized that her profile was familiar; he must have met her before he went to India, but he couldn’t remember the place or time. How could he not have noticed her then?
He began to move in her direction, walking parallel to the queue of observers. The second ginger-haired girl was expounding on some aspect of the painting,
her hands animated. The plump blonde nodded. The fire maiden suddenly turned around to face in Sinjin’s direction, exactly as if she had felt his stare.
Summer lightning broke through the ceiling and pierced the center of Sinjin’s chest. He ducked behind a pair of amply bustled women and waited until she had turned back to her friends.
Nola.
That had been the name she’d called herself four years ago at Donbridge, the Donnington estate in Cambridgeshire. He had never learned her surname, or if she had been acquainted with polite society. He had never ascertained how she had been able to pose as an ordinary chambermaid, barely out of childhood, only to transform into the mysterious beauty she had become just before she had fled Donbridge…this same beauty who stood before him now.
But she had introduced him to a world most men didn’t know existed: Tir-na-Nog, a mystical plane ruled by the Fane, a race of magical beings who were prone to interfering in mortal affairs.
Just as she had interfered.
Sinjin locked his hands behind his back, calming himself with a few long breaths. Why was she here? How had she managed to snag the son of a marquess?
He laughed under his breath. She could do anything she chose, couldn’t she? If she could change her very face, paralyze a man with a flick of her fingers and deceive those she claimed she wanted to “help,” she could certainly trick a dying man into marrying her. Her professions of “fading powers” had not rung true; she had certainly lied to Sinjin about her weakness, even as she revealed her true nature.
A witch. Not a crooked-nosed, hump-backed crone, but this. This female any man might desire. A creature neither Fane nor completely human. A woman whose motives were not to be trusted for a moment.
If he had been possessed of less discipline, Sinjin might have confronted her then and there. But he would have been walking into a situation he knew nothing about. She might very well have heard he was in Town; she obviously didn’t fear the prospect of meeting him again.
And why should she? She had used him just as she had the others. Yes, Mariah and Ash had found their happiness, but Giles was dead. And Pamela…
“Have you seen that girl?”
Wiping the scowl from his face, Sinjin turned. Felix Melbyrne, his latest protégé, was grinning like the fool cub he was, his gaze fixed on the very point where Nuala had been standing. Sinjin’s hackles began to rise.
“Which girl?” he asked.
“Which girl? Are you as blind as Erskine?”
Sinjin began to wonder how many of his friends were going to turn up to disturb his thoughts. “Enlighten me,” he said.
“That girl, right there, beside the ginger-haired one.”
His aching lungs reminded Sinjin to breathe again. “The dark one?”
“Who else?” Melbyrne’s blue eyes glittered. “I’ve already asked around. She’s a widow, Donnington, and well out of mourning.”
“She looks it.”
The boy frowned as if he’d noticed the girl’s drab gray dress for the first time. “Poor child. It isn’t right for such a lovely girl to suffer so.”
Sinjin passed over Melbyrne’s amusing reference to the young woman as a child, when the boy was scarcely out of leading strings himself. “What is her name?” he asked.
“Oh. I suppose you wouldn’t know…she’s been in seclusion for the past year, and before that she—”
“Her name?”
“Lady Orwell.”
“As in the Viscounts Orwell?”
“Precisely. Hardly anyone knew anything about the late viscount’s bride, since he had been living in Paris for a number of years and seldom crossed the Channel.”
“I never met the man.”
“Most knew him only by reputation. How that old curmudgeon could catch a beauty like this one…”
“Orwell was deuced rich, wasn’t he? Who are her parents?”
But Melbyrne wasn’t listening. “Isn’t she glorious? All that black hair. A man could drown in it.”
It was ginger hair, not black, that Sinjin was envisioning.
“I should say,” Sinjin said, “that she would not be the easiest lady to conquer.”
“Why not? She isn’t in seclusion now. She—”
“She is with that flock of widows who have vowed never to marry again.”
Felix blinked. “That girl? Preposterous. And who said anything about marriage?”
Sinjin smiled cynically. The boy was still green enough to think of binding himself to a female before he reached the age of forty. One misstep, and he might fall. And that Sinjin was determined to prevent.
“Perhaps you ought to set your sights a little lower,” Sinjin suggested. “The younger they are, the less likely that they will be able to conceal any…indiscretion. There are any number of experienced women who would be happy to accept your attentions.”
“But where is the challenge in that? You always say a good challenge makes it all the more satisfying when one is victorious.”
So he had. But Melbyrne might easily bite off more than he could chew…especially since it was clear from Lady Orwell’s attitude that she regarded Nuala as a friend. The girl was near the age Mariah had been four years ago, and, to judge by her eager reception of Nuala’s speech, just as trusting.
Don’t get tangled up with her, boy. No pretty young widow is worth the trouble.
But how could he tender such an opinion without explaining what Nuala was? The real events at Donbridge remained a secret, and would never come to light.
Best if he simply distracted the boy, pointing him toward a less perilous partner who would teach him what he needed to learn.
“Come, Melbyrne,” he said, gripping the young man’s arm. “Don’t make any sudden judgments. There are many other pretty pictures to see.”
Felix sighed. “If you insist, Donnington.”
Sinjin didn’t look behind him as he led his protégé away from immediate danger. He suggested several suitable partners, at least one of whom returned Melbyrne’s polite smile with a coquettish one of her own.
“Mrs. Tissier is an excellent prospect,” Sinjin said. “She is still young, a courtesan of the first water.”
“A courtesan? What is she doing here?”
“The prince has been known to favor ladies whom Society would ordinarily ignore. Mrs. Tissier is one such lady. As such, she enjoys a certain caché.”
“Have you had her, Donnington? Is that why you consider her such a prize?” Felix snorted. “Of course you have. You’ve had all of them at one time or another.”
The implied insult missed its mark. “You aren’t likely to find a married woman in our set who hasn’t taken at least one lover,” Sinjin said. “If a matron has borne the necessary offspring, she can always pass an additional child off as her husband’s. His own infidelity makes it unlikely that he would raise an objection even if he suspected the truth.”
“I know all that, Sinjin, but—”
“Of course your prospect need not be married at all. Mature widows are generally intelligent enough to recognize the danger of having their amours confirmed by an unexpected birth.”
“I know how to take precautions,” Felix said with a flash of uncharacteristic irritation.
“Precautions or no, there is always a risk. You must convince the lady that you have such matters under control, and then keep your word.”
“Which you always manage to do.”
“I have produced no children, to my knowledge,” Sinjin said mildly. “I avoid naive young widows just as I do girls who have yet to take their marriage vows. I urge you to follow my example.”
“I’m not so certain I belong in your dashed club.”
Sinjin yawned. “That is entirely up to you. But if you make a mistake and find yourself forced to marry the chit, don’t come running to me.”
Frowning, Melbyrne gave Mrs. Tissier a second look. “If you wouldn’t mind, Donnington, I’d like to do my hunting in peace.”
“As you w
ish.” Certain that he’d made his point, Sinjin walked out of the Academy and breathed in London’s not-so-fresh air. At least here, away from the crowd, he was able to think.
He’d told Melbyrne that a challenge was always most satisfying, and he’d faced more than a few himself. But there was one woman in the world he wouldn’t pursue for all the tea in China. Except to make her explain…confess…
He didn’t know what he wanted of her. He only knew that he couldn’t let her go until he finally understood who and what she was. Until she knew what it was like to be the one truly without power.
DEBORAH CLUTCHED at Nuala’s hand.
“Did you see him?”
Nuala looked away from the Frith. The prickle of awareness she’d felt earlier returned with a vengeance.
“See whom?” she asked a little too sharply.
“That young man who was staring at us.”
Nuala turned fully in the direction Lady Orwell was looking, her heart beating much too fast. “I don’t see any young man,” she said. “Can you point him out?”
Deborah stood up on her toes. “He isn’t there now.” She met Nuala’s gaze, her own filled with surprising disappointment. “He was…quite handsome, with fair hair and blue eyes.”
The sharp ache in Nuala’s chest eased. Not him. She had heard that he was recently returned to London from India. She knew their meeting was inevitable, but she was not ready to face the Earl of Donnington.
She forced her thoughts back to Deborah’s young man. Lady Orwell’s description might indicate any number of gentlemen in Society, and both she and Nuala were as yet unfamiliar with many of them. But Deborah’s tone was most interesting, most interesting indeed. It was almost as if she were amazed by the fact that she might be the object of a handsome young man’s attention.
“He must have noticed you,” Nuala said, relieved that her own feelings of being watched had proven unfounded. “Who would not?”
“Oh, no. It must have been you he was looking at.”
“You are by far the greater beauty, and I am past my prime.”
“But surely he noticed that I am in mourning.”
“Half-mourning. And even that will not prevent a man’s admiration.”
Lord of Sin Page 2
