Lord of Sin

by Susan Krinard

  No; it would be wisest to escape the city while Nuala was away. Once Deborah had reached Baden, she would write to Nuala and explain everything. Felix would also have to be told, of course, when she was well settled. If Society determined that he was courting Lady Orwell and she had jilted him, surely no one would blame him. Any embarrassment he might suffer would be short-lived.

  And Ioan wouldn’t have to worry about her any longer.

  Resolved on her course of action, Deborah entered her dressing room and began to consider which of her gowns she would take with her. She intended to live modestly; there would be no need for ball gowns or evening frocks. Two trunks would suffice for her journey; she would secure Stella another position before she left. There would doubtless be girls in Baden that Deborah could employ to help her in running her new household.

  She was examining one of her half-mourning gowns when Stella’s familiar knock sounded at the door. Deborah let her in, careful not to reveal any untoward emotion.

  “Mr. Davies has come to see you, Lady Orwell,” Stella said, a certain eager gleam in her eye. “He is waiting at the kitchen door.”

  Deborah studied Stella closely. The girl had known of Ioan’s first visit, and doubtless servants’ gossip had spread throughout the household. The world below stairs was a stratified one, in which the staff were very proud of their own ranks and the positions of their masters and mistresses, yet there was nothing but approval in Stella’s manner. She quivered like a hound on the scent.

  “No one will speak of it, your ladyship. I swear it.”

  Deborah believed her, but still she hesitated. Ioan had promised to return when he had proof that Bray’s claims were either true or false. He would only be confirming what she already knew, and her shame would be complete.

  But to say goodbye, and thank him again…that seemed the least she could do.

  With Stella’s aid, she dressed again and went downstairs. Ioan waited, cap in hand, his features picked out in moonlight and shadow. His solemn expression brightened when he saw her. Deborah’s heart turned over.

  “Lady Orwell,” he said. “I have good news.”

  She tried not to look into his eyes, tried not to think of the strong, warm body under the worn and humble clothing. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Davies,” she said.

  He frowned a little, as if he were wondering why she seemed so uninterested in his “good news.” “I have searched Whitechapel and talked with many people,” he said. “There is no evidence that anything Bray said is true.”

  If only that were so. If only…Deborah took herself in hand and managed a smile.

  “I am grateful for your efforts,” she said. “You have put my mind at rest.”

  But she knew he didn’t believe her. His frown, confined at first to his dark brows, reached his eyes.

  “If you will forgive me, your mind is not at rest,” he said.

  How could she possibly tell him that she thought him to be lying, if only to protect her? “I have reason to believe that this…episode is not over,” she said, feeling her way. “I have decided to leave London for a little while, until—”

  “Leave London?” His quiet voice rose to an angry protest. “Why? You have no reason to do so. Not while I—”

  He broke off. They stared at each other.

  “You think I am lying to you,” Ioan said.

  “No! Not lying. It is just—”

  “You’ve seen him again.”

  “No. Not since my last visit to Whitechapel.”

  He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I shall find him again. I shall do what I ought to have done in the beginning.”

  “No!” She began to walk toward him, stopped, tried to shake the confusion out of her head. “It has nothing to do with you, Mr. Davies. This is my concern. I have made my decision.”

  Never had Ioan Davies looked so close to violence. “And how will you explain this sudden departure to your own people?”

  Her own people. The cream of Society, to which Ioan could never belong.

  “Please understand, Ioan. Whether or not the story is true, I…need to return to the place I always considered my home.”

  “Where?”

  “In Switzerland, at Baden. My…Sir Percival and Lady Shaw left me a cottage, and—”

  “I will not let you go.”

  “We may be friends, Mr. Davies, but—”

  He moved too swiftly. His arms closed around her, and his lips caught hers…firmly, decidedly, with all the leashed force of determined masculinity.

  If she’d had any sense, she would have pushed him away. But she had none. She let him kiss her, and kissed him in return, captured by the joy of release.

  Ioan broke off as quickly as he had begun. He held her a little away from him, breathing fast, his eyes afire with passion.

  “You will not go,” he said. “I will take on any man who speaks ill of you.”

  Deborah leaned her forehead against his chest. “Please, Ioan. Let me find my own way.”

  “Never.” He cupped his work-roughened hand under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “If you must leave…” He swallowed. “Come with me, Deborah.”

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. “Come with you?”

  Hot color washed his cheeks. “I can take care of you. I will find a good job. You will lack for nothing.”

  But his words were halting, almost clumsy. He didn’t believe what he was saying. He hadn’t the faith in himself; he was poor and likely to remain so in a world with little sympathy for paupers.

  And she, the bastard daughter of a whore…how could she ever be worthy of him?

  His face burned under her fingertips. “Ioan, Ioan. If only things were different.”

  He broke away. “Forgive me, Lady Orwell. I forgot my place.” He bowed stiffly. “If I may be of any further service to you, send word to the Bull and Thorn on Commercial Street.”

  “Ioan! You mustn’t think…”

  He didn’t wait to hear her explanation. She began to follow, faltered, stopped. What would be the point? They both knew that he had spoken without thinking.

  They both knew that feelings weren’t enough. Not when she had rank and fortune, and he had his stubborn pride.

  She went back into the servants’ hall, her throat aching with grief. She must leave tomorrow, as early as possible. Finish packing tonight. No time for sleep…

  “Lady Orwell!”

  Stella was still in a state of high excitement, clutching her skirts and twisting the fabric between her hands.

  “What is it, Stella?” Deborah asked wearily.

  “There is another gentleman to see you, your ladyship.”

  Another gentleman? At this hour? “Send him away.”

  “But it’s Mr. Melbyrne, your ladyship. He refuses to leave.”

  Yet another disaster in the making. Deborah almost fled up to her room, knowing that Felix would have never risked such scandal if he did not have some vital reason for calling after midnight.

  “Show him into the drawing room,” she said.

  The maid tripped away. Deborah followed more slowly, each step sucking her more deeply into despair.

  Felix was on his feet when she entered the drawing room. His hat was very properly on the floor beside his chair, a concession to propriety almost laughable under the circumstances.

  “Mr. Melbyrne,” she said, remaining by the door. “It was unwise for you to come here. Lady Charles is not—”

  “Hang Lady Charles,” he exclaimed, his stare so wild as to be almost frightening. He made an aborted move toward her, shuffled his feet and suddenly dropped to one knee.

  “My dear Deborah,” he began, “my very dear girl…will you do me the profound honor…” His voice deepened. “Will you make me the very happiest of men, and consent to give me your hand in marriage?”

  Deborah’s knees buckled. She pushed Felix away when he would have helped her, and felt her way to the nearest chair.

  “Forgiv
e me,” Felix breathed, pacing back and forth before her chair. “I have…I have done this very clumsily. I have spent the entire afternoon and evening…” He stopped. “I did not wish to alarm you. It is only that—”

  “I am not alarmed,” she said, forcing herself upright. “Only…I did not expect…”

  “Surely you can never have doubted how much I adore you.” Felix knelt again, his hands spread. “From the moment I saw you, I knew you must be mine.”

  Oh, disaster indeed. “We…we have hardly known each other—”

  “We have known each other for eternity.” He reached for her hand, and she was compelled to let him take it. “My dearest, I know how strenuously Lord Donnington has sought to keep us apart. He could not prevail upon me. I have left the Forties. You are all I require for my perfect happiness.”

  “Felix, I—”

  “I have imposed upon you, I know. My love has got the best of me.” He grinned indulgently. “I will leave you now and return tomorrow, when you have had time to consider. But I know that when we are together again—”

  “I cannot marry you, Felix.”

  “It is only natural for you to hesitate. If you wish, I will wait another day. Even I can be patient with such a prize awaiting me.”

  Deborah moaned inwardly. She should tell him the truth. She owed him that much.

  But what truth? That he didn’t really know her at all? That he would surely turn his back on her if he knew of her true origins?

  That she loved a man he would never see as anything but a poor, indigent commoner not fit to kiss her feet?

  Courage or cowardice. She chose the latter. “It is too soon, Felix,” she whispered. “I…require more time.”

  His mouth relaxed. “Of course! What an idiot I have been. The incident at Whitechapel…it has disturbed you greatly.” He bent toward her, worried creases between his brows. “You are ill. I shall send my physician. He is an excellent man, and has some experience with women’s complaints.”

  “That will not be necessary, Felix. I am not ill.”

  “Of course you are. No woman should endure the experiences to which you have been exposed.”

  It was too much. Deborah stood, compelling Felix to rise and back away.

  “You must believe me,” she said as steadily as her trembling would allow. “I have no wish to marry. It has not been so long since Lawrence left me. I had never thought—”

  He searched her eyes, and she witnessed the moment when he accepted that she was quite in earnest.

  “Never thought?” he echoed. “You welcomed my attentions…and you never thought?”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “Friends!” He spun around, strode toward the far wall, and spun back again. “I shall not be content with ‘friends,’ Deborah.” His anger dissolved into a proud sort of pleading. “I know you have money of your own, but I can give you so much more. We shall be the envy of London. I shall be the envy of the world.”

  “It…it just isn’t possible, Felix.”

  He stood stock-still. “Are you…Can it be possible that you are refusing me?”

  God help me.

  “Yes. I must.”

  It seemed then that he might grasp her arms and shake her. Instead, he took several deliberate steps away from her, as if she had become a monster.

  “You have misled me,” he said hoarsely. “You have played me for a fool.”

  “No, Felix. You have never been a fool. I accept all blame for this misunderstanding. I ask your forgiveness.”

  He laughed. “Sinjin was right. He warned me not to be deceived by any woman. No, Lady Orwell, the misunderstanding was all mine.”

  “Felix, I—”

  He bowed stiffly, effectively silencing her second apology. “I shall leave you, Lady Orwell. I trust you will soon recover from your recent ordeal.”

  With military precision he turned on his heel, snatched up his hat and marched out of the drawing room. The front door slammed. Deborah fell back into her chair.

  It was over. A friendship she had treasured had ended, and it was all her fault.

  But it would have come to an end in any case. Best that Felix feel fully justified in his rejection, and not be troubled by conflicting emotions over her past.

  Deborah remained in the chair, listening to the long-case clock counting off the minutes. She knew she must have dozed, for when she opened her eyes morning sunlight was beginning to filter between the drapes. Some little time later she heard a carriage come to a stop outside, and Harold appeared to announce that Lady Charles had arrived.

  Nuala came directly to her, unpinning her hat as she entered the drawing room.

  “Deborah!” she exclaimed. “You look as though you have been up all night.”

  There was no question of telling Nuala the full truth of what had occurred, however much Deborah wished she might. “How was your holiday?” she asked.

  Nuala took a seat and studied Deborah’s face. “You are pale. What is wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She heard the anger in her voice and tried to calm herself. “I might ask why you so suddenly disappeared for the second time in less than a fortnight.”

  They stared at each other, both aware that a new tension had arisen between them. “I wished to visit my parents’ graves,” Nuala said without inflection.

  Deborah flushed. “I am sorry. I had not meant—”

  “I should have explained,” Nuala said. “I have been thinking about my family a great deal these days.”

  As I have. “Yes,” Deborah murmured. “I hope you are well?”

  “Very well.” Nuala hesitated. “Have you seen Mr. Melbyrne?”

  It seemed futile to conceal Felix’s visit, given that one of the servants would inform Nuala soon enough. “He called last night,” Deborah said.

  “Indeed?”

  “I have not been out in several days. He was concerned.”

  “He called upon you at night merely to express concern?”

  “Yes.” Suddenly the secrecy was too much to bear. “I shall not be spending time with him in future. We both think it best that we avoid encouraging the rumors—”

  “That you are destined to be married?” Nuala got up, her agitation plain in the abruptness of her movements. “But it has always been obvious that you and he—” She broke off and fixed Deborah with a probing stare. “You have quarreled. Why?”

  “We had a slight disagreement….”

  “He told you that he wished to scotch the rumors,” Nuala said with some ferocity. “Lord Donnington—”

  “Lord Donnington had nothing to do with it, Nuala. You must believe me.”

  But she wasn’t listening. “It is my fault. I had thought…I had believed that Mr. Melbyrne had finally cast off the earl’s pernicious influence,” she said, her voice all frost and sleet. “It appears that I was mistaken.”

  “It was my decision,” Deborah said, rising. “Mine alone.”

  She might as well have been speaking to a stone wall. Nuala strode from the drawing room, matching Felix outrage for outrage, and clumped up the stairs.

  Deborah closed her eyes. In attempting to keep her friends from becoming involved in her troubles, she had done exactly the opposite. If she were not a coward, she would tell Nuala everything.

  If she were not a coward, she would find Ioan and beg him to take her with him.

  She was lying sleepless in bed when she heard Nuala leave the house. Deborah could guess where she was going. There would be a terrible row between two people who truly did belong together.

  And it would all be for nothing.

  Deborah turned her face into her pillow and wept.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SINJIN WAS NOT AT HOME.

  His butler was vague about his master’s whereabouts, the old man’s face revealing not the slightest surprise that a female caller should arrive, quite alone, at Lord Donnington’s door in broad daylight. He was apologetic that he couldn’t say when the ea
rl might return, since Lord Donnington had an unpredictable schedule.

  Nuala was not put off. Heedless of the rumor mill, she inquired at Sinjin’s club only to find that he had not put in an appearance that day. She rode her mare in Hyde Park and saw neither Sinjin nor Melbyrne. Leo Erskine, whom she met on Rotten Row, admitted that he had not seen his friend for two days.

  She could feel Erskine’s stare peeling the skin from her back as she returned to Grosvenor Street. Let him speculate. Let all of Society think what it would.

  There was one last place to look.

  Dusk had fallen by the time Nuala called for the carriage. She banked her fury for the duration of the drive, trying to forget what Mrs. Simkin had told her.

  “Beware yer anger, gal. It lies at the root of the evil you fight.”

  But her anger was justified. She had been mistaken in thinking that Sinjin’s inexplicable behavior at their last meeting was a sort of madness he could not entirely control. It was all just a part of his game.

  She had hoped their next encounter would be different. She had knelt before her parents’ graves, the mouse in her hand, and thought she had found the answer at last.

  She had been wrong.

  The carriage rattled to a stop outside the cottage on Circus Road. A light burned in an upstairs window. Nuala instructed Bremner to wait and stormed up to the door.

  Sinjin answered her knock. It was evident at once that he was in a state of inebriation. His feet were bare. His hair was a wild mane, his face was unshaven, his shirt unbuttoned. The dark shadows under his eyes betrayed sleepless nights.

  “Nuala?” he croaked.

  She pushed past him into the entrance hall. “You could not be content with humiliating me, could you?” she snapped. “You never intended to keep our bargain!”

  Sinjin passed his hand over his face. “Nuala…”

  “If you wished to continue to punish me, you could have done so without ruining Deborah’s last chance at happiness.”

  He shook his head. “You’re wrong. I never intended—”

  “Stop.” Tears gathered under her eyelids. “You succeeded in frightening me, Lord Donnington,” she said. “I do not know how you devised such a method of doing so, but it was successful beyond your wildest dreams.”