Sinful in Satin

by Madeline Hunter

  Verity hooked her arm through Celia’s and encouraged her to stroll. “You really must bring an older woman into the house.”

  “I intend to. However, it is not my fault that I inherited property with a male tenant already in residence.”

  “No, it is not. However, you must take more care than most women who make such a discovery.”

  Celia thought about the altercation in the street outside her house the day before. “I am beginning to wonder if any care will be enough, and therefore unnecessary. You were good enough not to make assumptions about him immediately, and he was good enough not to comment on how you came to the garden door and not the front one, but the reason for both the assumptions and your entry is not to be avoided. I think there will be little difference in my reputation whether I repudiate Alessandra’s biggest legacy or not.”

  Verity’s face flushed. Her blue eyes moistened. “I did not assume he was your lover, Celia. Not ever. I was only teasing you. As for my discreet entry, I am sorry. I truly am. I will tell Hawkeswell that I intend to greet you in the park and have you call like any other friend. It is not fair that—”

  “I will not have it. I do not blame you or your husband. Please believe that. I always knew how it would be. I am not angry with you about that, or at all insulted. Sometimes I get discouraged when I realize that I gain little with my virtue, and it vexes me. That is all I am saying. I have lost just as much of my good reputation as if I had indeed agreed to accept my first protector at seventeen.”

  She regretted her impulsive honesty immediately. It surprised her, then, when Verity did not express any dismay, but merely strolled on.

  They returned to the shrubbery, near the well. Celia thought about the bucket of water outside her door. It had been very kind of Mr. Albrighton to do that when he realized she had not yet risen from bed. Kinder than she had been with him. Probably he felt sorry for her, after those boys had spoken of her as a whore.

  Verity finally gave the flower bed in front of the shrubbery her attention. “This spring, after we see what comes up, we can decide which new varieties to add.”

  “Now you finally speak of bulbs, Verity? Have you nothing to say about the topic I indiscreetly broached?”

  “I am still accommodating my discovery of your history, Celia. It is still news to me.”

  “I only informed Daphne. If anyone else learned the truth, it was by accident.”

  “I am not upbraiding you for not confiding. I am the last person to have any right to do that, considering the secrets I kept from all of you.”

  Verity referred to their time together, living at The Rarest Blooms. There was a rule in that household that one did not pry into the histories of the others. Daphne said that women sometimes have good reason to leave the past behind, and that had been true of all of them, to one degree or another.

  Verity, however, had been the most thorough in keeping her own counsel, to the point of assuming a new identity.

  It had been a shock to all of them to discover last summer that the most quiet and circumspect among them had affected the most daring break with the past. It had also been a relief when, after that past found her, Verity had not only reconciled to it, but found glorious happiness.

  “I am trying to explain how, since it is so new, I am still adjusting my own prospect, so to speak,” Verity continued earnestly. “I do not see you differently, dear friend. I do, however, see you in a different place from before. And—” She bit her lower lip, shrugged, and forged on. “And I find that your allusion does not shock me at all. Nor do I think it would shock Daphne. I cannot guess about the others.”

  Celia laughed, weakly. “I do not know if I should be reassured, or insulted.”

  “Not insulted, I hope. I am not shocked because for all your good humor and optimism, you have always had a practical outlook.” Verity slid her arm through Celia’s so they walked closely side by side again. “I expect any practical woman would assess her possible paths very frankly. That is all I heard you doing.”

  Celia stopped their progress and gazed in Verity’s blue eyes. No censure waited in them. They had learned to love each other without judgment at The Rarest Blooms, and it still informed the way they treated each other.

  “The paths open to me are few, and mostly unappealing, Verity. I have been pondering them for five years now. I can remain forever in Daphne’s sanctuary, away from the world’s eyes and scorn but also away from the world’s vitality, and risk hurting the reputation of every woman who lives with me. Or I can go far away, change my name, and hope my history never finds me. Perhaps, if I am willing to deceive a good man, I can even marry.”

  “Or you can live your mother’s life, which was not without its allure, I expect.” Verity smiled kindly. “Did you reject it as a girl because you thought it was wrong?”

  “I rejected it because it required a practicality that proved stronger than I could muster at age seventeen. And because I do not want to give my father, whoever he is, even more reason to reject me.” A wistful memory drenched her. She looked away, at the shrubs, the trees and sky. “And because there can be no love in that life. Affection, yes. But anything more is sure to break one’s heart.”

  Verity gestured to the house and garden with a wide sweep of her arm. “So, my bright, happy Celia is blazing another path for herself. How like you to find a way to do so.”

  Celia laughed. “I suppose in a way I am. I had better blaze it quickly too, if those plants will start coming this week.” She cocked her head. “The hammering has stopped. Perhaps Mr. Albrighton has finished.”

  Verity rolled her eyes. “We had best go and see the results. Your Mr. Albrighton means well, but I should have insisted he hand over that hammer, so I could have done the work properly myself.”

  They were almost at the garden door when Verity stopped in her tracks. “Albrighton. I knew the name sounded familiar when you first spoke it, and now I remember why. A Mr. Albrighton called on Hawkeswell that day you came to visit me, when Audrianna was there too. Hawkeswell mentioned it afterward. This was the Albrighton who was the magistrate in Staffordshire when they had that unpleasantness recently. I wonder if he is related to your tenant.”

  “Actually, I think it is the same man.” Jonathan had called on Lord Hawkeswell that day? They were in Verity’s house together at the same time?

  Was it possible that he had followed her there? There was no reason for him to do so. Yet the coincidence seemed most peculiar.

  “The same? Oh, my.” Verity spoke quietly, as if she feared someone in the house overhearing. “No wonder he has such nice boots. Not only is he not a carpenter; he is not even your normal sort of gentleman, Celia. According to my husband, Mr. Albrighton is the bastard son of the last Earl of Thornridge. He admitted as much when they were at university together.”

  Jonathan was gone when they entered the house. The hammer rested on one of the deep shelves he had just built. That he had bothered to complete this chore warmed Celia’s heart, much the way the waiting water had. He really should not have done this, however. Gentlemen did not do work that might callous their hands, did they? Even the bastard son of an earl should be more careful.

  “Let us examine your garden from the prospect of this nice window,” Verity said. “We will decide what plantings must be removed so this view can be improved.”

  While Celia joined in the planning, a part of her mind mulled over Verity’s astonishing revelation about Mr. Albrighton’s parentage. An odd feeling took residence below her heart and dulled her mood.

  Disappointment. That was what that sensation was.

  She had rather thought . . . In truth, she had not actually thought anything. But she had experienced a fresh excitement in his company. She had enjoyed the undeniable attraction that flowed between them.

  Now she could never experience that quite the same way again. If he was the bastard son of Thornridge, it would be normal for him to hope for more than he currently had, and for the soci
al advantages that his blood could procure. He had tasted what that could mean while at school, and through being received in houses like that of the Earl of Hawkeswell.

  Mr. Albrighton would not want to do anything that might interfere with crossing many other social thresholds that might open to him. He would not want to break any of society’s rules.

  Which meant if anything ever happened between him and her, if the silent thrum between them ever found fulfillment, she could not allow herself to pretend it was anything other than a gentleman amusing himself with a woman he saw as fit only for amusement.

  The best she could expect was what Anthony had planned, and the worst could be much crueler. And, just as with Anthony, all that passed between them would be affected by her birth and by his.

  Chapter Six

  The day had started late, and Verity’s visit delayed Celia’s plans even more. It was close to four o’clock, therefore, when she finally tied on her bonnet and donned her wool, copper-hued pelisse. She walked through the garden and down the mews to the stable that cared for her mare.

  She requested the horse be brought to her carriage house just as Mr. Albrighton arrived. He stood aside until the groom went away, but his high boots fell into step beside her as she left.

  “Is it wise to take out the cabriolet so late, Miss Pennifold?”

  “No less wise than your taking out your horse, Mr. Albrighton.”

  “My horse is faster than a carriage, and I am less vulnerable in its saddle than anyone in a small, open equipage.”

  “Your advice is well-taken, just as I am sure it is well-meant. However, I am determined to complete a necessary task today. I will take great care, thank you.”

  He did not turn back to the stable as she expected, but continued pacing beside her. “Allow me to accompany you. The streets are not safe at any time recently, and you may find yourself alone after sunset.”

  “I cannot ask such an inconvenience of you. You have already given up your morning to build those shelves. If you do more, I will be too much in your debt.”

  For the son of an earl, this man had a reckless streak. He risked his hands with a hammer, and now he seemed unconcerned about being seen in public with her. Perhaps he just assumed the latter would be interpreted as a man pursuing a liaison with the next goddess of the demimonde. Which, of course, was exactly what it probably was.

  “It is no inconvenience, Miss Pennifold. I insist you accept my aid. You know that you should.” They stopped at the carriage house. “Where are you going?”

  She looked down the mews. The groom led her mare toward them. “Covent Garden.”

  “Now I doubly insist that you allow me to accompany you. I will not hear any objections. There was a large demonstration at the river near there yesterday, and tempers are still unsettled in the poorer neighborhoods.”

  True to his word, he did not hear her objections. Ten minutes later he snapped the ribbons from his place beside her in the cabriolet. They began the little journey.

  “Where in Covent Garden are you going?” he asked.

  “I am not sure yet. I will start in the square, however.”

  Was that a disapproving scowl that flickered over his face? Why, yes, she thought it was. She hoped Mr. Albrighton was not going to be an inconvenience now.

  “It is not an area of town to wander aimlessly in the evening, Miss Pennifold.”

  “I will not be aimless. The person I seek will be in one of three places. I simply do not know which one.”

  “You do not seek a location, but a person?”

  “That is correct. You should stay with the carriage, and I will proceed on foot once we are there. It would be better that way.”

  He appeared skeptical, but quizzed her no more until they approached the large square that was home to the market. Celia bade him stop the carriage; then she stood and surveyed the crowds that still thronged the plaza from her elevated perspective.

  “May I ask, for whom are you looking, Miss Pennifold?”

  She narrowed her eyes on the faces near some distant flower stalls. “I am looking for a whore.”

  “Allow me to help you. It is a bit early still, but—Ah, there is one, not fifteen feet from this carriage. Right over there, wearing the—”

  “I am looking for a specific whore. I am sure you are not shocked to learn that the daughter of a whore has friends who are whores.”

  “You speak as though I should consider it not only unworthy of shock, but also inevitable. It is not, especially when the daughter in question is the friend of a countess. Why do you want to find this particular whore this evening?”

  “I intend to ask her to come live with me.” The silence beside her caused her to look down. “Now you are shocked.”

  “Not at all. I thought you were joking that first night, but if you were not, that is understandable.”

  She was not sure she would describe the secret weighing that she sometimes did as understandable. “Why do you say that? Almost no one else would.”

  “The only people who would deny the allure of security and comfort are those who are already assured of all three. It is understandable if you reconsider your prior rejection of that part of your legacy.”

  “That is very open-minded of you.”

  “I am the last person to pass judgment if you ultimately choose that path. My advice is of a different sort. It has to do with the standards you mentioned during our conversation in the library that night. You cannot raise up the particular whore you seek today, and she will only drag you down. I do not doubt that your mother explained all of this.”

  Of course Mama had. Just as she had explained that the social station of her first patron would go far in determining whether she plied her trade in silk-draped drawing rooms or beneath a bridge.

  She turned Mr. Albrighton’s frankness over in her mind while she cast her gaze along the flower stalls again. He was waiting for her to decide, perhaps. Waiting for her to conclude that the luxury, security, and comfort were worth the decision. Would he offer some arrangement then, and pursue this enlivening tension that existed between them even now, as she stood by his shoulder? Or did he also know that those standards she mentioned that night meant that he would never do, even if he had an earl’s blood in him?

  “There she is. I see her. Wait here, please.” She gathered her skirt and prepared to climb down.

  A hand clasped her arm. Her rump landed back on the seat with a smart thud.

  “I will take you to her, and I will wait where I will not lose sight of you. It is not too early for the more dangerous denizens of the night to be about.”

  She thought his protective inclinations both charming and unnecessary. She had survived this neighborhood at worse times than this, and knew how to discourage those denizens from approaching her.

  He maneuvered the cabriolet along the edge of the square until she told him to stop. He insisted on helping her down, but at least he did not attempt to accompany her to the flower stalls. She approached on her own, and stood in front of one for a solid minute before the flame-haired woman attending to customers saw her.

  “Celia? I thought perhaps my eyes were deceiving me.” The woman came out and embraced her with warm, motherly arms.

  “It is good to see you, Marian. It has been some months, I know.”

  Marian pushed away those months with a flip of her hand. “If you have brought me some of your flowers, I am afraid it is too late for today. You can see that I’ve a good number to sell as it is and time is passing.”

  “I did not bring flowers, Marian. I brought a proposition.”

  Marian’s green eyes reflected surprise, then humor. “You are a good girl to think of me, dear, but I’m too old and coarse if you have decided to take up the life after all, and are seeking other doves for your covey. My sympathies about your mum. I’d a been there, for old times’ sake, but—”

  “I thank you for your good thoughts, Marian. However, I am not recruiting the way you thin
k. You did me a very good turn five years ago, when you told me about Mrs. Joyes and her kind heart. I now would like to do you a good turn as well.”

  Marian gestured to the flower stall. “Already have, haven’t you? That bit of money you gave me let me start this, and the leftover flowers you bring sometimes help more than you know. I’ve been able to get off my back, but stay in the lanes that I’ve known since I was born.”

  Celia worried that Marian’s ties to this neighborhood would now interfere with the proposal. Nor did she believe that Marian had completely given up being a whore. Not forever, at least. Should the day’s flower sales not pay for fuel and food, it would be too easy to sell something else instead that was always in demand. Even in middle age Marian was a handsome woman who could catch the eye of a man looking for easy pleasure.

  “My proposal would require you to leave this neighborhood, but not go too far away, Marian. You would be able to visit often. I am in need of someone I can trust, and who better than the woman who befriended me when I was alone and lost?”

  “Not lost, dear. But for the tears in your eyes, you’d a seen clear enough where you were, and that it was no place for such as you.”

  Those tears had blinded her not only to the danger of these streets, but also to the impossibility of what she had just done. Running away had been necessary, but also foolish, considering she had no idea where to go or what to do once she left her mother.

  Nothing but hell on these lanes for you, dear. There’s procurers waiting on every corner to spy for such as you, and that face and hair of yours will fetch one of them a good prize from the abbess who buys you. I’ve a bit of money, and we’ll hire a carriage and you’ll go home now.

  That was what the red-haired whore had said, after shouting away one such persistent procurer. When Celia had refused to return home, Marian had told her about the beautiful widow who sometimes visited the flower sellers in Covent Garden, to give away the excess of her blooms to the poorest among them.