Sinful in Satin

by Madeline Hunter

  “I have inherited a house, Marian. I am going to become a partner to Daphne. I need someone to live there with me, and I thought of you at once. It will be a secure life, I hope, and I know that you will suit the situation perfectly.”

  Lights of interest sparked in Marian’s eyes while Celia further described her plans. Toward the end they dimmed, however, as Marian gazed out over the crowds in the square.

  “There is a young woman who would suit you better,” Marian said. “I am doing fine now. This woman—Bella, I call her—is half-starving. It is only a matter of time before she finds a way to eat.”

  Celia’s heart filled. She embraced Marian again. “I will not have her instead of you, but I will accept her along with you. If you care so much about her fate that you offer her as a replacement, then I hope that you will care enough to sacrifice the familiarity of these lanes to move a mere mile away.”

  Marian’s eyes misted. Her fear of this change became visible, but also sad; desperate hope showed in the way she looked at Celia. “It won’t be proper, you having a woman like me in your service.”

  “No one will know your history, Marian. You will only be the sensible woman who cooks for Alessandra Northrope’s daughter. Whatever scorn descends on our house, I think it will be due to me.”

  Marian drew herself tall and straight, and appeared as formidable as she had the night she faced down that whoremonger. “Is that how it has been, then? I’ll put an end to that, if such talk reaches my ears. I’ll be making a right understanding with them that speak against you.”

  “You must be with me in order to do that, so it sounds as if you accept my offer.” Celia laughed, took Marian’s hands, and pulled her into a little jig full of joy until Marian was laughing too. They bumped against flower buckets and danced until, out of breath, they fell into each other’s arms.

  “Let us go and collect your belongings, and get Bella too,” Celia said. “I have a carriage here, and a driver who will help us.” She pointed toward the cabriolet, and Jonathan.

  Marian squinted in that direction. “Is he as handsome in the daylight as he is in the dusk?”

  “More so.”

  “A gentleman, from the looks of him. What does he want with you?”

  Celia urged Marian forward. “Nothing. I will explain it all later, but he did not want me to come here alone, unprotected; that is all.”

  Marian cast a sideways glance her way. “Trust me, dear, from the way he was looking at you a minute ago, he definitely wants something.”

  Jonathan arrived at the door near the western end of Piccadilly Street at quarter past nine o’clock. The house’s stone façade loomed high above him, punctuated by rows of long windows aglow with lights that pierced the night.

  The servants, decked out in wigs, hose, pumps, and the rest of Castleford’s livery, expected him. One of them opened the door immediately upon his arrival and another right inside took his hat and gloves. A third, whose frock coat sported some gold embroidery that marked him as an important officer in this army, led him up the stairs.

  Ceilings soared above, covered with gilt moldings and inset paintings of Greek gods at play. More paintings decked the walls. As if to emphasize that the Duke of Castleford was one of the richest men in England, a Titian oil showing Zeus and Ariadne—a painting that would be the prize of most family collections—hung on an obscure wall in the stairwell. The message was that the gallery and drawing rooms sported better works by the Renaissance master.

  The servant escorted him through one of those drawing rooms, decorated, like the servants themselves, in the style popular during the earlier years of the king’s reign. The current duke had not redecorated much upon inheriting the title and the house. Not because he was indifferent, although his habits might lead some to assume that. Rather Castleford liked the excess of this precious chamber, and the allusions to royalty and privilege it communicated.

  Two servants swung two doors wide at the far end of the drawing room, giving ceremonial egress to another chamber of more intimate proportions and considerably less gilt. The large windows on three walls suggested this would be an airy retreat on warm summer nights, and have pleasant prospects of the town and river during the day.

  The servants left him alone in the chamber. Jonathan regretted being only fifteen minutes late, instead of at least thirty. His attempts to ensure he would not suffer Castleford’s company individually might have been in vain.

  The letter had been more a summons than invitation, and as presumptuous as the man who sent it. Its mere arrival had been the surprise, not its imperious tone. There was unfinished business between him and Castleford, none of it good, and he had never expected the duke to address him again.

  He busied himself by examining the paintings in this chamber. Crisply classical, and of newer creation, they presumably had not been inherited. For all the duke’s personal flamboyance, he seemed to prefer very organized compositions in the art he bought himself.

  “You are late, Albrighton.”

  Jonathan pivoted. Tristan St. Ives, Duke of Castleford, stood near the fireplace. One of the panels on the wall must hide a doorway.

  Castleford always seemed to mock his own station and wealth, even while he thoroughly enjoyed both. Now his very stance subtly spoke of boredom as well as privilege, and expectations of the deference that he professed to find irritating.

  Dressed in coats that probably cost hundreds of pounds, he managed, with his fashionably unruly mane of brown hair and his devilish, almost golden eyes, to remind one that among the rights enjoyed by a duke was the right to do whatever he damned well wanted, and anyone who did not like it could go to hell.

  From what Jonathan had heard, mostly the duke still damned well wanted to whore and drink. He appeared sober enough tonight, however.

  “It appears I am early, Your Grace. Not late. Whist, the letter said. The other two are not here yet, unless you intend to recruit your steward and groom to join us.”

  “The others are coming at half past nine. You received a special time.”

  “I am honored.”

  “It was not my intention to honor you.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “If so, why did you say it?”

  “To be polite.”

  “We are beyond such boring rituals, I would think.”

  “Then I said it to avoid an argument, if possible, while I pray that your other guests arrive very soon.”

  Castleford threw himself into a well-stuffed chair. His body and manner remained languid, but his eyes pierced Jonathan.

  Better if he had been drunk, Jonathan decided.

  “Hawkeswell will be late. He always is. He plans it, to emphasize that his title predates mine by two hundred years and he is not impressed by me. Summerhays is your best bet for a timely arrival, unless, of course, they are coming together.”

  “How good of you to bring us all under your very magnificent roof at the same time.”

  “Well, we all had our moments together years ago. Now, we were all a party to that business up north. We need to celebrate our success.”

  Jonathan hoped that was not really the goal of this evening’s party. They all assumed he had been investigating when Hawkeswell stumbled upon him in Staffordshire a few months ago. He had been, but he could not talk about it. “I have heard rumors that the Home Office owes all of you a debt,” he said. “The talk is that the matter was resolved much more quickly due to your help.”

  “Due to our interference, you mean. I suspect it would have ended differently but for us too. I don’t think you were sent there to ferret out the truth, but to hide it, and perhaps even to aid it. What say you to that?”

  “You may think what you please, and no doubt will, no matter what I say.”

  “Which won’t be anything useful, I can see. Typical of you. By the way, one of our esteemed peers from that region saw fit to blow his brains out last week. It will be called something else, of course. An accident o
r whatnot. One last detail to clean up in that mess before coming to London, Albrighton?”

  “Whatever you may think of me, I am not a murderer.”

  “Neither are soldiers. However, in the end, people end up dead by their actions. Do not misunderstand—I do not hold that last detail against you. Someone had to remind him of the only honorable way out. I was going to journey north myself to do so, if necessary.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Castleford stifled a yawn. “I did not think he would have the courage to do the right thing. Then what? It had to happen, for the good of England, but I did not fancy being one of those soldiers, if he required aid. It is a relief that he managed it on his own.”

  Except he had not managed any such thing, and Castleford had guessed as much.

  The man in question had been unable to fall on his sword, and had expected that Jonathan would take care of it, just as he had taken care of so much else in that sorry business. Evidently Castleford and many others assumed the same thing. There were limits, however, to what any man could justify, no matter how good the cause. Even a murky soul had a few moments of moral clarity.

  Jonathan’s refusal had been a shock to a coward wanting to die in an “accident” with his good name intact. Jonathan did not know who finally pulled that trigger after he left the man, the pistol, and the library smelling of despair and terror—He guessed it had been a sympathetic servant, or even a wife.

  “So you are saying that all is well that ends well, no matter how the end comes about.” He did not like the world-weary bitterness he heard in his own voice. “I am delighted that you had me here early, so you could reassure me of your approval.”

  Those eyes fixed on him. The smile hardened. Castleford had not missed the sarcasm. “Actually, I had you here early so I could tell you that I do not blame you for what happened in France two years ago. There has been little chance to say so since then.”

  “You mean that you no longer blame me.”

  “Hell, I never blamed you.”

  “I hope that you do not blame yourself instead. There was no choice.”

  “There is always a choice,” he snarled. Then he relaxed, and shrugged. “But duty called, and all that.”

  “Yes. All that.”

  Summerhays mercifully arrived then, not late at all. Castleford’s spirits lightened immediately on seeing him. “I hope you brought plenty of money, Summerhays. I plan to pair with Albrighton here, and as I remember it, he never drinks at cards, so that mind of his will remain razor sharp.”

  “Regrettably, he can’t play alone, but will be forced to contend with your own erratic play as his partner,” Summerhays goaded. He greeted Jonathan warmly. They had not seen each other in years. Another old friend from Jonathan’s university days, Lord Sebastian Summerhays, as the brother of a marquess and an important member of the House of Commons, had in the past known enough about Jonathan’s activities to avoid asking about them.

  “I am told you have been back from France for almost a year,” Summerhays said.

  “In England, yes. Rarely in London.”

  “But you will be in London awhile now?”

  “Awhile.”

  Summerhays flashed the smile that made women swoon and men want to check their purse strings. “You must call and meet my wife, Audrianna. She has asked about you.”

  Jonathan could not imagine why. His confusion must have showed, because Summerhays added, “She is best of friends with Lady Hawkeswell, who knows a bit about you. Rather more than I do these days, from the curiosity being expressed in my home.”

  Summerhays waited for Jonathan to fill in holes and satisfy his own curiosity. Jonathan wondered just what Lady Hawkeswell had and had not said about her visit to Celia’s new house.

  The silent impasse was interrupted by Castleford. “Ah, here is Hawkeswell, so we can get down to it. You and Summerhays can just save time and put your purses in my money box, Hawkeswell.”

  The Earl of Hawkeswell hooted rudely in derision. “Albrighton, we can draw for partners if you want. It is unfair to force him on you, since you can ill afford the losses that will accrue due to his besotted intellect.”

  “He appears sober enough. I will risk it.”

  “Thank you,” Castleford said. He lowered his eyelids haughtily at Hawkeswell. “It is Tuesday, or have you forgotten?”

  “Oooo, Tuesday,” Hawkeswell mocked, wide-eyed.

  “Tuesday? Does it matter?” Jonathan asked.

  Summerhays helped himself to some brandy offered by a servant, then took a seat at the card table. “Tristan here no longer drinks on Tuesdays. He gathers his faculties and concentrates on his duties then. The rest of the week . . .” He shrugged.

  “Do not assume it will make a difference,” Hawkeswell said. “The other days pickle him enough that one day’s sobriety will hardly reverse matters. Expect bizarre play and huge losses. You really should demand we draw for partners.”

  Castleford took the teasing with good enough humor. But then, the duke had always relished his reputation.

  Jonathan took the chair across from his host. “As I remember, even half of his brain was better than most that are whole, so I will take my chances. It was good of you to plan this for a Tuesday, Castleford, so I am not ruined without a fighting chance at least.”

  “Oh, he did not choose a Tuesday because of you,” Summerhays mused as he dealt the first hand. “He did it because of the whores.”

  “Tuesday is the only day they are not about,” Hawkeswell explained while he examined his cards. “On any other day a visitor is bound to run into at least one bared bottom somewhere in this house, poised for fornication on the chance our friend should wander by. Since Summerhays and I are now married, we would have to decline if he invited us here of an evening any day but Tuesday.”

  Castleford looked with resigned pity to his right at Summerhays, and to his left at Hawkeswell. Then he looked across the table at Jonathan.

  “I have a most clever retort on the tip of my tongue, relating to wives and bare bottoms. Alas, I dare not speak it because—”

  “Because it might get you called out,” Summerhays finished.

  Castleford sighed, dramatically. “See? They have become so boring it is a wonder I can stand them. The truth is that I will only entertain their company on Tuesdays because then I am somewhat boring myself.” He smiled, a devil recognizing with delight the potential demon in another man. “You, however, are welcome to call whenever you like.”

  Jonathan had not expected this old, vague friendship to rehabilitate itself at all, let alone so easily and thoroughly. He thought he could be excused for finding it all a little suspicious. From the glances Summerhays and Hawkeswell exchanged, they did as well.

  “I am honored. I do not know what to say.”

  “Your first bid will suffice. Make it a good one, so we can bury these two.”

  Chapter Seven

  “So, it is settled, then,”Marian announced. “I’llbe doing the cooking and care for the kitchen, and Bella here will clean and help you with your dressing and such.” She looked to Bella for agreement.

  Celia did as well. Bella had not said much since they had descended into the cellar beneath a stationer’s shop. Bella’s attempts at creating a home there could not banish the dark and damp, and Bella herself could not stand against Marian’s demand that she pack whatever she wanted to keep and follow them out.

  Tawny haired, and thin and wan in ways that spoke of lack of food, she had obeyed, expressing neither joy nor resentment. Mr. Albrighton, who had led the way down into that dungeon, showed her great kindness, taking the little sack she made of her garments and gently speaking reassurances, as if he suspected she needed them.

  Now Bella sat on a stool near the fireplace, her expression one of ecstasy from its warmth. She had not contributed to the discussions of the household, but she nodded at Marian’s division of work.

  “You and I should be going above soon,” Maria
n said to her. “There’s a good-size chamber that we can share, at the other end of the house from where that gentleman lives.”

  Marian had been startled to learn Mr. Albrighton resided here. Not given to trusting any man much, Marian would probably take on another duty now, as chaperone.

  “Before you retire, I would like to speak about a few house rules,” Celia said. “You may find them a bit odd, but my experience has been that they go far to ensuring peaceable coexistence among women. They were the rules by which we all lived with Daphne.”

  Marian nodded agreement. “If they suited Mrs. Joyes, I expect they will suit us.”

  “The first one is we do not pry into each other’s histories or lives. Not the past, and not the present. That means, Bella, if you never want to tell me about your family, or how you came to be alone, I will never ask it of you.”

  Bella cocked her head, puzzled by this right to keep her own counsel.

  “We will each contribute to the household as we can. You have both already agreed to that, in offering to help with its upkeep. And if we leave the house and intend to be gone more than the normal time, we will inform the others, so no one worries.”

  “That sounds sensible,” Marian said, nodding away.

  “As independent women, we must protect each other, and each learn to protect ourselves,” Celia said, explaining another important precept under which she had lived for five years with Daphne.

  “No problem with that. I’m well practiced in defending myself, and Bella here once or twice. Ain’t that right, Bella?”

  “Then we are all agreed on the basic rules,” Celia said. “There are a few others of less importance that I will explain later.”

  Marian stood. “I’ll be fixing baths for us down in the kitchen now. Best to wash the past off, so we can start fresh in the morning.”

  “Yes, that would be good,” Bella said. It was her first contribution to the conversation. Celia hoped it showed Bella had overcome her fear.