Lord of Sin

by Susan Krinard

  Sinjin climbed the stairs, fingering his card. Perhaps she would not be at home. Perhaps she would not be inclined to see him, now that she had had time to reconsider her peculiar offer to a stranger.

  He hoped that she would turn him away. Then he might admit to himself that he had been foolish to the point of imbecility to come here, as if the woman could actually help him.

  But the door opened before he reached it. And there she stood, a mouse-brown young woman in a dress as unremarkable as her face and figure.

  “I knew you would come,” she said, and stood back.

  Sinjin paused, looking beyond her into the entrance hall. It was well past dark, and there was little traffic on the street, but his calling might be misinterpreted should anyone see him enter her house alone.

  “No one will see,” Mrs. Summerhayes said with a serenity Sinjin envied. “We are quite safe.” She almost smiled, but the expression quickly transformed into one of grave sobriety. “Please, Lord Donnington, come in.”

  He did as she asked. The hall smelled musty, as if it had not been properly aired in months, and it was unreasonably dark. Mrs. Summerhayes seemed unperturbed by the prospect of poor first impressions. Sinjin searched in vain for a servant as she led him through a corridor behind the stairs and to a heavy oaken door.

  “We are quite alone,” she said, as if she had literally read his mind. “I have few servants, and I have given them the evening off.”

  “Madam,” Sinjin said, “this is hardly proper….”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. She pushed open the door, which groaned on its hinges, and led him into an even darker space. Her skirts hissed as she moved about, lighting a single lamp.

  Sinjin didn’t know what he’d expected, but it was not what lay before him. The room was bare save for a round table and a number of chairs placed about it.

  “This is where I work,” Mrs. Summerhayes said. “I find it easier to concentrate without distractions.”

  He was about to ask what she must concentrate on when she gestured toward the table. “Shall we begin?”

  Sinjin’s jaw had begun to ache, and he realized that he had been clenching his teeth since he’d left the carriage. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Summerhayes, but would you be so good to tell me why I am here?”

  Her small, earnest face turned up to him. “You have come to learn, to understand, to dispel,” she said. “You have come to free yourself of the past.”

  He was one heartbeat away from walking out the door. “The past? If that has been your impression, madam, then I—”

  “Do you trust me, Lord Donnington?”

  The question stopped him cold. Trust her? He didn’t know her, knew nothing about what she intended to do. He wondered briefly if she, like Nuala, was a witch, capable of twisting his thoughts.

  But he suspected that she was something else entirely.

  “You are a medium,” he said.

  She inclined her head. “That is a term favored by some.”

  A spiritualist. Hadn’t she said that she spoke for those who couldn’t speak for themselves?

  “Do I understand that you intend to raise the dead?” he asked, hoping to overwhelm his unease with scorn.

  “I do not raise the dead. I only listen.”

  “What have the dead to do with me?”

  “Perhaps more than you can imagine.” She gestured toward the table again. “Please.”

  Almost against his will, Sinjin followed her to the table. She pointed him to the chair at the opposite end from hers and settled herself with unexpected grace. With a flash of insight, Sinjin realized that, in this room, she was fully in her element. Out there she might be plain and unremarkable. Here she was a queen.

  Mrs. Summerhayes placed her palms on the table. “Please, Lord Donnington. You must attempt to put all doubts from your mind as long as we remain in this room. I know it will not be easy for you, but you must do your best.”

  Sinjin didn’t bridle at her calmly commanding tone. He was the supplicant now. He closed his eyes and let his hands rest on the table.

  “You need do nothing else, Lord Donnington,” she said, her voice growing more distant. “Simply allow yourself to relax. The other is ready to come to us.”

  “The oth—”

  “Quiet your mind. And remember.”

  He didn’t know quite how it happened. In a matter of seconds a severe chill raced over his skin, raising gooseflesh beneath his shirt. His heart began to race, and perspiration broke out on his forehead. He opened his mouth but did not remember how to shape the words.

  “So you have come.”

  Sinjin jerked up his head. Mrs. Summerhayes still sat quietly at the other side of the table. Her head was slumped onto her chest.

  “I have been waiting a very long time,” the voice said, a deep rumble rising from the young woman’s throat.

  The ice in Sinjin’s blood numbed his fingers. He recognized the voice, though it spoke in a higher pitch than the one he had heard inside his own head.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  A pale fog rose behind Mrs. Summerhayes, an apparition that twisted and flowed and resolved into the shape of a man. Mrs. Summerhayes laughed softly. “I am one who has much to tell you, St. John Ware.”

  Sinjin tried to stand. His feet were welded to the floor.

  “You need not fear me,” the spectre said. “I am not your enemy.”

  As Mrs. Summerhayes spoke, the apparition darkened, gaining form and feature. The face was cut like a razor, with a sharp jaw and narrow nose. The eyes were hooded, their color concealed, but the brows were straight and dark. It wore equally dark clothing: a wide-collared doublet and breeches and buckled shoes, its head crowned by a wide-brimmed hat.

  Sinjin clenched his fists. “I know you.”

  “Yes. You have seen my face before, have you not?”

  God in Heaven. He had seen that face before, in his own mirror. Snarling, sneering. Filled with hatred.

  This was the other.

  “I see that I have little time, for the moment,” the apparition said, his voice gradually smothering Mrs. Summerhayes’s low tones. “She is strong, this little witch. She has paved the way, but I must walk the path.”

  “What have you done to me?” Sinjin demanded.

  “Patience, cousin. All will be revealed.” He lifted his hand, cuffed with white lace, and brushed at his doublet. “You took too much pleasure in your coupling. It was necessary to remind you of what she is.”

  The blood seemed to drain out of Sinjin’s body. This creature had been with them, with him and Nuala, since her visit to Donbridge. He, whatever he was, had used Sinjin’s voice, his will, to attack Nuala. The hatred Sinjin had felt for her…none of it had been real.

  “Do not deceive yourself,” the apparition said. “You despise her as much as I.”

  No. Sinjin pounded his fist on the table. “I don’t believe in you,” he snarled. “You’re a creature built of my own imagination.”

  “Ah. If such were true, would it not be confirmation of your own hatred for the witch?”

  “You’re not real!”

  The apparition gave a great sigh. “Watch, and learn.”

  The table’s leg jolted against Sinjin’s shin. The table itself began to heave, shuddering, rising inches from the floor.

  “I could do much more,” the apparition said mildly, “but too much might damage your mortal mind…as once mine was damaged by her.”

  Sinjin looked at Mrs. Summerhayes. She had begun to tremble.

  “Get out of her,” he said.

  “So you do believe.” The apparition nodded as if in approval. “There is so much I must tell you. About the great evil that befell your kin. About the bitch you took such pleasure in bedding, and your fulfillment of the vow that will save you.”

  “What vow?” Sinjin concentrated all the strength he possessed and pushed up in the chair. This time he managed to stand. “What evil?”

  “You k
now the answer, Sinjin Ware.”

  “She said you were out to ruin us.”

  “Ruin you? I intend to save you.”

  “From what? Damn you, what do you want?”

  But something was happening, something even the apparition appeared unable to control. His form became unsubstantial, dissolving back into the mist from which he had come.

  “You are cursed, Sinjin Ware,” the ghost said, his voice receding with his body. “She is poison. She will steal your soul and leave nothing but ash.”

  Then the apparition was gone. Mrs. Summerhayes jerked violently. Sinjin jumped from his chair and rushed to her side.

  “Mrs. Summerhayes!” he cried, not daring to touch her.

  Her head lifted. Her eyes were rolled back in their sockets.

  “Mrs. Summerhayes!”

  With one final shudder, the young woman slumped in her seat. Sinjin gripped her shoulder. She stirred, straightened and met his gaze.

  “Lord Donnington? Are you well?”

  Laughter was hardly an appropriate response. “It is you who are ill. I’ll send for a doctor immediately.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She sighed and rubbed the skin between her brows. “It was not an easy passage, but I am quite well. Did he speak?”

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  “I very seldom see or hear what occurs during a séance,” she said. She frowned, searching his eyes with obvious worry. “I knew it could not be pleasant. It is still so unclear to me. Perhaps I was wrong to think I could help.”

  For a moment, just for a moment, Sinjin wondered if she had devised the whole episode as a ruse, as many spiritualists were said to do. But she had not asked for payment, and she had no reason to speak ill of Nuala. Quite the contrary.

  “It…he came,” Sinjin said thickly. “I never thought it possible that I would believe in ghosts. But he was real.”

  “Yes. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know.” Sinjin leaned on the back of the chair next to hers, pushing the fog out of his brain. He couldn’t bring himself to repeat what the apparition had said about Nuala. “It seems…I am being haunted.”

  Mrs. Summerhayes offered no reassuring disagreement. “It is rare for a spirit to haunt a person rather than a place. There must be a powerful bond linking you to him, whoever he may be.”

  “But you have no idea why?”

  “I wish I might tell you. I only know that someone from the other side was attempting to contact you through me.”

  “The other side.” He shook his head. “It is most certainly no benign spirit of the sort who makes floorboards creak and doors slam shut.” He looked into her eyes. “You said I had to purge myself, or he would ruin us. What did you mean?”

  “I can scarcely remember what I said,” she murmured. “I am sorry.”

  He pulled in a deep breath. “I don’t think he is finished with whatever he’s doing.”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes. “I am sorry. So very sorry.”

  “But surely you can help me rid myself of him.”

  “If only I could. But there is a barrier, Lord Donnington. A force that prevents me from further interference.” She looked up, and Sinjin saw tears in her eyes. “You must find the answers yourself. You must learn who and what he is, and by what means you can stop him from fulfilling his purpose.”

  A purpose she could not illuminate. A purpose that had something to do with a vow. And a curse.

  “She is poison. She will steal your soul, and leave nothing but ash.”

  Sickened, Sinjin backed away from the table. “I am grateful, Mrs. Summerhayes,” he said. “I regret that I have brought this trouble upon you.”

  She rose, leaning on the table, making clear with the attitude of her body that she didn’t want his assistance. “Look to your heart, Lord Donnington,” she said faintly. “I must leave you now.”

  Sinjin followed her to the door, afraid she might fall, but she moved resolutely to the staircase and began to climb, clutching the banister. He was left alone in the hall with his own churning thoughts. No answers, only questions far more disturbing than any he could have conceived when he had come.

  Neck prickling, Sinjin went out to his carriage and instructed the coachman to take him home. He fell into bed, certain he would never be able to sleep.

  He woke from dreams of fire and unspeakable torment.

  His face was still his own when he stood before his looking glass; he dressed, forced himself to eat a few bites of breakfast and took Shaitan for a brisk ride in Hyde Park. He had hoped that the morning’s routine would banish last night’s visions, but a heaping dose of reality only made the ghost and its vile pronouncements seem all the more genuine.

  Go to Nuala. Tell her what has happened. Prove to yourself that the spirit was wrong.

  But he was afraid. Afraid to remind himself of Nuala’s capabilities as a witch, of her refusal to be “controlled.” Afraid of his own conviction that the ghost had not finished with him. That he might somehow put her in danger.

  The worst was yet to come, and he knew in his soul that he could not escape it.

  Putting aside all thoughts of calling on Mrs. Summerhayes again, Sinjin paced his room until his gaze fell on the newspaper he had left on his bed table. If he was not yet prepared to face Nuala, he might do something to atone for his mistreatment of another unfortunate lady.

  He walked to his club, considering the possibilities. Either the story had as yet been undiscovered by polite Society, or it had already spread beyond the servants who were most likely to have read it. Nuala had suggested that something had come between Melbyrne and Lady Orwell. Did Melbyrne know?

  The boy was at the club, sharing a drink with Breakspear and Nash.

  “…highly unlikely to have a jot of truth in it, of course,” Breakspear was saying. “Rubbish of the worst sort.”

  “But so little is really known about her,” Nash said, accepting a glass from an attentive waiter. “Her parents and husband spent nearly all their time on the Continent.”

  “But blood will tell,” Breakspear said, “and Lady Orwell has never proven herself to be anything but a lady. Isn’t that so, Melbyrne?”

  The boy shrugged. “I have never witnessed anything improper in Lady Orwell, but I have been mistaken before.”

  “It would not be the first time that a woman has set herself up as something other than she is,” Nash said. “In fact, I remember—”

  “I thought it was a gentleman’s part never to speak ill of a lady in public,” Sinjin said with a pleasant smile. “Or have I been mistaken my judgment of you, gentlemen?”

  Melbyrne’s shoulders went up in a defensive posture. Breakspear resembled a boy caught out with his hand on the biscuit tray. Nash lifted his glass to Sinjin.

  “It is no secret,” Nash said. “All of the club has heard the tale by now.”

  “From you?”

  Nash frowned. “No. I merely—”

  “It is rubbish,” Sinjin said between his teeth, “as Breakspear said.”

  “Indeed,” Breakspear murmured. He eyed Sinjin with a distinct air of caution. “The tattle will soon be proved false, I have no doubt.”

  “While Lady Orwell suffers the gossip you are so assiduously spreading.”

  “We did not spread it!” Melbyrne burst out. “It was Ferrer who showed us the paper. He was the one who—”

  Sinjin caught Melbyrne neatly by his lapels, half lifting him from his feet. “You disappoint me, boy,” he said softly.

  “Sin, I—”

  “Did you ask her to marry you?”

  Dumbfounded, Nash and Breakspear stared at Melbyrne. He twitched in Sinjin’s grip.

  “She refused me,” he said in a strangled whisper. “And now I have every reason to be grateful.”

  Sinjin let him drop, not gently. Melbyrne staggered and righted himself, jerking at his collar. Sinjin stared him down.

  “You insult a woman you professed to love,” he said. “I sho
uld like to find a suitable stable and horsewhip you.”

  Melbyrne went white. “But Sinjin, I—”

  Turning his back on the boy, Sinjin strode out of the room, leaving a ripple of stunned whispers in his wake.

  It was no good. He could do nothing for Lady Orwell. Oh, he might find Ferrer and give him a good thrashing, but it was too late to ameliorate the damage. Lady Orwell must suffer the humiliation of hearing her peers speculate as to the circumstances of her birth, knowing that even Melbyrne had betrayed her.

  But Nuala would be by the girl’s side. And he could defy the ghost and prove himself her friend by standing at hers…until he found the courage to tell her what he had seen.

  If she truly meant to steal his soul, best to learn sooner rather than later.

  THE UNASSUMING YOUNG MAN stood in the yard, cap in hand, speaking to Booth in hushed and urgent tones.

  Ioan Davies. Nuala recognized him at once, though she could not begin to imagine why he was in Belgravia. She drew back from the window and hurried down to the servants’ area.

  Booth turned in surprise as Nuala entered the yard. She curtseyed and glanced at the young man, who bowed as prettily as a gentleman in spite of his well-worn workman’s clothing.

  “Your ladyship,” Booth said nervously, “this man has come looking for Lady Orwell. I have told him she is not at home.”

  Nuala gestured for Booth to return to the servants’ hall and confronted the young man. “Mr. Davies,” she said. “This is quite a surprise.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” He met her gaze steadily. “I did not mean to intrude.”

  “Why do you wish to see Lady Orwell?”

  If the boy were taken aback by her brusqueness, his calm expression didn’t reveal it. “I beg your pardon, your ladyship,” he said. “I will not trouble you further.”

  “Wait!” She reached for him as he began to turn away. He stopped, giving her a view of his grim profile, and faced her again.

  “Perhaps you were not aware that I live here with Lady Orwell,” she said.

  He bowed again. “I did not, your ladyship, but I know you are Lady Orwell’s friend.”