Lord of Sin

by Susan Krinard

  They exchanged light kisses on the cheek in the Parisian style. Deborah took her footman’s hand and climbed into her carriage. Nuala watched the vehicle clatter down the road and turned for her own carriage.

  “You are good for the child,” Lady Oxenham commented, coming up behind her.

  “I hope I am,” Nuala said. “I hope that we can learn from each other.”

  “What has she to teach you, my dear?”

  Humility. Innocence. All the things Nuala had lost without realizing it.

  “Thank you, Lady Oxenham, for the pleasant ride,” she said, avoiding the question.

  “You are welcome at any time,” the marchioness said.

  Nuala smiled and stepped up into her carriage. Her coachman snapped the reins, and the victoria jerked into motion. Instead of going directly home, she instructed Bremner to drive toward Kensington and Melbury Road for her appointment with Maggie. When she arrived, Maggie herself came to the door. She was dressed in an oversize man’s shirt and trousers rolled up to her ankles, both garments liberally splattered with paint.

  “Nuala!” Lady Riordan said, waving Nuala into the vestibule. “I didn’t expect you until later this evening.”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I hope this is not too great an inconvenience.”

  “Not at all. Come in.”

  Nuala gave her cape to the rather odd-looking footman, whose melancholy face somewhat resembled that of a mule. His livery was less than spotless, but Maggie seemed not to notice. She never noticed such trifling things, and Nuala suspected that her servants took terrible advantage of her negligence.

  I was a servant many times. I have no right to judge.

  Without observing any of the usual niceties and small talk, Maggie led Nuala upstairs to the first floor, where she kept her studio. What might have been a large drawing room had been given over to everything a painter might require: easels, canvases, brushes, paint and many varied and curious objects Lady Riordan had found of interest.

  Maggie rushed to a large, blank canvas and stood before it, staring with a sort of ferocity as if a picture might magically appear by the sheer force of her will. “It will be marvelous,” she said, brushing an untidy curl away from her forehead. “Please sit over there, Nuala.”

  Lifting her skirts to avoid the suspiciously wet-looking smears of paint on the once-handsome floor, Nuala took the chair Maggie had indicated. The young woman hurried over, posed Nuala as if she were a doll, stood back, then readjusted Nuala’s position.

  “There,” she said, and without another word began to paint, her tongue pushing out from between her teeth. For the next two hours Nuala sat quietly. Her unoccupied mind continued to drift toward thoughts of Sinjin: the handsome but weary lines of his face, his superb seat on his black stallion, the way he had looked at her as if she were an enemy.

  I must explain. But how?

  “That’s enough for today,” Maggie said, standing back from her canvas with an air of satisfaction. She glanced past the painting and frowned. “You’re very tired, Nuala. Shall I get you some tea? Biscuits?”

  “I’ve merely been lost in thought,” Nuala said, rising. “I believe I shall spend a quiet evening at home.”

  “Hmm,” Maggie murmured, her attention focused one again on her painting.

  Nuala smiled, retrieved her things and walked toward the door, making no attempt to see Maggie’s work.

  “Nuala?”

  She half turned. Maggie was wiping her hands on a rag, her air still distracted.

  “Tameri told me to remind you about the garden party next week,” she said. “I almost forgot, myself.”

  The garden party. Nuala had almost forgotten about it, though Tameri had issued the invitations over a month ago.

  “Of course,” she said. “Thank you, Maggie. I’ll be there.”

  The young woman gave a most unfeminine grunt and began to clean her brushes. Nuala was escorted to the door by the doleful footman. She waited for her carriage to be brought round from the mews and closed her eyes.

  It must be soon. The next time she met him, she would make everything clear. Then, if he chose to continue to hate her, she would understand.

  LADY CHARLES.

  Sinjin bit down with such force that his cigar nearly snapped in two. Lady Charles Parkhill.

  “Good God, Donnington,” Lord Peter Breakspear said, blowing out a long stream of smoke from his own cigar. “One would think you had just learned that Poole had gone out of business.”

  Sinjin turned to look at his friend, letting his mouth ease into a cynical smile. “I’ve no fear of that,” he said. “My patronage alone would keep them solvent for another century.”

  “Ah,” Lord Peter said, nodding sagely. “Then it must be a woman.”

  A sharp and entirely unjustified retort came to Sinjin’s lips. He bit it back. “I never have trouble with women.”

  “Did I say anything about trouble?”

  Breakspear arched his brows. Sinjin ignored him, walked to the sideboard and stubbed out his cigar, glancing around the drawing room. Six of the Forties were present at this meeting in Sinjin’s town house: Breakspear, a gentleman in his midthirties who held a strong attraction for the ladies; Melbyrne; Harrison, Lord Waybury, a staunch Tory of traditional convictions; Mr. Achilles Nash, the most cynical of the group, ever ready with a quip; Sir Harry Ferrer, portly and often ill-tempered; and Ivar, Lord Reddick, as much a devoted Liberal as Waybury was a Conservative.

  Nash was regarding his glass of brandy with his usual bored expression; Ferrer was already drunk. Reddick was intently conversing with Waybury on the subject of politics and Melbyrne was in a corner, his face suspiciously blank. Watching everything with a curious eye, Erskine, who had refused full membership in the club but was welcome nonetheless, remained in the background as he always did.

  “I say,” Waybury said, stabbing the air with his cigar, “you’re wrong, Reddick. Salibury is doing an excellent job with his Irish programme.”

  “It isn’t the same as Home Rule,” Reddick insisted. “When Gladstone returns—”

  “He’ll never be reappointed,” Waybury said with some heat.

  “What is your opinion, Donnington?” Reddick asked, strolling across the room to join him and Breakspear.

  “I doubt he’s ever bothered to consider the issue,” Waybury said. “He may occasionally join us in the Lords, but his interest in politics is minimal at best.”

  Sinjin turned his smile on Waybury. “I happen to support Gladstone’s policies,” he said. “I believe he will eventually be vindicated.”

  Waybury waved his hand in disgust. “The Liberal Party will do this country in.”

  “I doubt it matters who holds the reins,” Nash said from across the room. “What do you think, Erskine?”

  Leo folded his arms across his chest. “I prefer to remain neutral.”

  “As neutral as you are on the subject of marriage?” Breakspear asked.

  “I am not eager to tie myself down, as Donnington will attest,” Erskine said mildly. “I simply have no objection to a man marrying before he reaches middle age.”

  “Perhaps Erskine is less stuffy than he appears,” Nash said with a cynical smile. “After all, it is not as if marriage need hamper one’s appreciation of other women.”

  “Some of us prefer fidelity after marriage,” Waybury said.

  Breakspear laughed. “And before. You’ve been pretty faithful to your current doxy. Do you think you’ll avoid temptation once you’ve found yourself a worthy wife?”

  “I should think it depends on the wife,” Erskine said before Waybury could reply. He poured himself a glass of water from a crystal decanter on the sideboard. “With the right woman—”

  “There is no female in the world who can tie me to her apron strings,” Sinjin snapped, remembering Erskine’s mocking wager at the Academy.

  The other men exchanged glances. “What is it, Sin?” Nash asked.

  “I asked him the same t
hing,” Breakspear said. “Woman trouble.”

  Ears pricked and nostrils flared as the pack closed in. Reddick chuckled. “Has Adele demanded a few too many fripperies this month?” he asked Sinjin. “Has she found a more generous patron? If not, I shall be more than happy to take her off your hands.”

  “Adele,” Sinjin said between his teeth, “is free to make her own decisions. I suggest we change the subject.”

  “But why are we here if not to talk of women?” Nash asked. “If it’s not Adele, who is it?”

  Leo set down his empty glass. “Have any of you been introduced to Lady Charles Parkhill?”

  “Erskine…” Sinjin growled.

  “We saw her at the Academy,” Leo continued. “Sin quite admired her.”

  “Ah, yes,” Breakspear said. “She has only just come to London this Season. Never been before, I hear. Parkhill hid her away on his estate.” He shook his head. “At least the unfortunate man had a fair companion to comfort him in his final hours.”

  “Is it true that she is a country curate’s daughter?” Waybury asked. “Poor Lord Charles wouldn’t have had many opportunities to meet potential wives, especially the sort who’d be content to give him constant nursing. Do you suppose he hoped to obtain an heir before he—”

  “Enough about Parkhill,” Sinjin said. “Let the man rest in peace.”

  “I wonder if his little widow is resting peacefully,” Nash said. “If she had so little enjoyment of her marriage, she might be—”

  “Enough.” Sinjin felt the irrational desire to plant his fist in Nash’s face. He must be going insane.

  And all because of her.

  “I see that we have struck a nerve,” Breakspear said in a loud whisper.

  Sinjin poured himself a brandy, splashing the liquor over the sides of the glass. “Melbyrne!”

  The boy looked up, his eyes dazed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you going to sit in that corner all evening?”

  Felix got up hastily, smoothed his coat and joined the others. “I’m sorry. Were we discussing Salisbury? I think—”

  Breakspear laughed. “The subject is the ladies,” he said, “and Sin’s nasty mood.” He peered into Melbyrne’s eyes. “I say, what’s going on in that head of yours, boy? Have you finally been stricken by some pretty face?”

  “I was never convinced that the initiation took with our junior member,” Nash said. “Perhaps we ought to repeat the exercise.”

  Felix drew himself up. “I may be young,” he said, “but I am not a fool.”

  “Perhaps you’ve also admired Lady Charles?”

  The boy flushed. Sinjin downed the brandy in one swallow. He knew exactly what Felix had been thinking while he’d been sitting alone, looking like nothing less than an habitué of an opium den.

  Lady Orwell. When they’d met Lady Oxenham and her friends in Hyde Park, Melbyrne had sat on his horse with his mouth agape, as tongue-tied as a girl at her first dance. He hadn’t listened to the advice Sinjin had given him at the Academy; to the contrary, his introduction to the lady in question had obviously increased his admiration.

  “It is not Lady Charles,” Melbyrne said with a false air of indifference.

  “Out with it, boy,” Nash said. “We have sworn to be brothers and keep no secrets amongst us.”

  Melbyrne looked at Sinjin and dropped his gaze. “Mrs. Tissier!” he blurted.

  Everyone laughed. “Was that your idea, Sinjin?” Nash asked.

  “Why should it be?” Sinjin said, his equanimity restored. “As Melbyrne said, he’s no fool.”

  “She’s already agreed, then?” said Breakspear. “It’s all arranged?”

  “She’ll take you on a long, sweet ride…won’t she, Sin?” Nash said.

  “One might ask you the same question,” retorted Waybury.

  They launched into a testy but civilized quarrel. Sinjin took Felix aside.

  “Has it been arranged?” he asked.

  “I haven’t asked her yet,” Melbyrne said, meeting Sinjin’s gaze stubbornly. “But from all you’ve said, it should not be difficult to win her.”

  “There are ways to go about this sort of thing. I’ll speak to you about it tomorrow, before the parade.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Sinjin slapped the young man’s shoulder. “You’ve made an excellent choice, Melbyrne.”

  Felix attempted a grin, turned to the sideboard and reached for a bottle. Sinjin left him to it. One by one the men departed, called to some dinner or other amusement. Melbyrne was last to leave, all studied nonchalance as if he were set on proving to the world that he was far older than his twenty-two years.

  Sinjin lit another cigar and sat in his favorite chair, alone with the empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. In a moment the parlor maid would cautiously knock on the door and enter to clean up the mess. Sinjin was in no hurry to summon her.

  Though there had obviously been some reluctance on Melbyrne’s part, he had finally chosen a wise course of action. Tissier would take him in hand, and when they parted, as they eventually must, he would no longer play the mooncalf with naive young widows who would only bring him grief.

  Sinjin’s unwilling thoughts drifted to Lady Charles, and instantly his cock hardened. There was no reason for such a reaction, none whatsoever; he had certainly felt no attraction to her when she’d posed as a maid at Donbridge, and their dealings after she had shed her disguise had not been cordial.

  But when they’d met again in Hyde Park, something had come over him. Something that flew in the face of every feeling he had nurtured since he’d seen her at the Academy.

  He closed his eyes and imagined Adele waiting for him, sprawled across her bed in the little house on Circus Road, her breasts creamy mounds, her nipples stiffening at his touch. He might forget his evening obligations and spend the night with her. Her skill would silence even the memory of Nuala and this new identity she had claimed for herself.

  But not for long. Lady Charles would still be there when he rolled out of bed.

  Sinjin stubbed out his cigar and got to his feet. The time for putting off their meeting was over. He went into his study, opened the drawer of his desk and glanced through the invitations he had received in the past several weeks.

  The dowager Duchess of Vardon’s garden party. He had intended to tender last-minute regrets, but no longer. Lady Charles was one of the eccentric dowager’s cronies. She would certainly be there. And in such a crush, no one would notice if he drew the lady aside for a friendly conversation.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “ARE YOU CERTAIN you wish to do this, Deborah?” Nuala asked.

  The girl nodded, a brief jerk of her head that seemed more an act of defiance than agreement. “I wish to help,” she said, “not spend all my time attending frivolous entertainments.”

  Frances looked at her curiously. “Did you not enjoy such pleasures in Paris?”

  “We preferred museums and the opera to balls and grand dinner parties,” Deborah said.

  Nuala wondered if the girl were speaking the entire truth. She had probably never thought to consider her own preferences at all; she had been a great deal younger than her expatriate husband, carried almost directly out of a sheltered childhood into the world of marriage. She’d had little opportunity for companionship from young people her own age, in her own country.

  If she were not yet prepared to admit that she might enjoy such companionship, she was beginning to change in spite of herself. Her undoubted interest in young Mr. Melbyrne was proof enough of that.

  He is not overly bold, Nuala thought, and seems quite amiable of nature. Deborah would do very well to call him her friend. Or perhaps, in time…

  “I’m ready,” Deborah said, interrupting Nuala’s thoughts. “Shall we go?”

  Realizing how close she’d come to slipping back into her matchmaking ways again, Nuala focused all her attention on Deborah. “You do understand that we will be entering the rookeries where the
murders took place?” she asked.

  “I am not afraid of the madman who killed those poor girls.”

  In truth, she had little reason to be. The man who had committed the horrible crimes had never been caught, but he had thus far attacked only prostitutes. Yet it took a great deal of courage to venture into a part of the city with which very few aristocrats were acquainted, and which even fewer would ever visit for any reason.

  “Stay close to me and Frances,” Nuala said. “Do exactly as we tell you.”

  The sun was only a little above the horizon as they climbed into Nuala’s carriage and left the clean, quiet streets of Belgravia. Nuala’s coachman knew the way; she and Frances had begun the work in Whitechapel two months ago, as part of the Widows’ ongoing scheme to carry out charitable activities that most ladies in Society would never think of attempting.

  As the coupé rattled along toward the East End, Frances picked through her surgical needles, bandages and bottles of carbolic acid while Deborah clutched the sack of patchwork cloth dolls she had made during the past two weeks. Nuala knew they had not brought nearly enough food; there was never enough, and never would be. But it would stave off the hunger of a few desperate children for one more week, and soon the new school would be ready. The children could be fed more regularly there, even if their hard lives would make learning a challenge.

  The coupé brougham continued through Cheap-side and finally drew up at Whitechapel High Street. It would go no farther. Nuala always left Bremner at the border of Whitechapel, where he would less likely be disturbed by those desperate enough to risk approaching the horses. She didn’t want to see anyone hurt, including the poor folk who would feel the bite of Bremner’s whip if they came too close.

  She, Deborah and Frances left the carriage, and the footmen, Harold and Jacques, removed the hampers of food from the boot. They were heavy, but Nuala didn’t mind the weight, and slender Frances hefted the baskets like a circus strongman lifting a barbell. Jacques and Harold managed four each, though Harold’s grim expression announced his opinion of the work for which he had been conscripted.

  Deborah took the remaining hamper and followed as they ventured onto Whitechapel High Street. The squalor was already evident. Deborah sniffed—struck, as any newcomer must be, by the stench of unwashed bodies, offal, human and animal waste, and rotten food. Featureless faces peered out from grimy windows, and children dressed in little better than rags ran alongside the three strangers, their small, gaunt faces as intent as tigers on the prowl.