Sinful in Satin

by Madeline Hunter

  He followed the white wig up the stairs to the duke’s apartment. It sprawled on the level above the public rooms. The wig ushered him into a huge dressing room where Castleford was, surprisingly enough, dressing.

  Two valets fussed around the duke. He stood there like a knight being encased in armor instead of a peer being sheathed in superfine. Jonathan took a seat on one of the many chairs and watched the show.

  “Good of you to call,” Castleford muttered, with his chin high so valet number one could fix the top button of his shirt without creasing the collar.

  “You remember inviting me to do so, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Some men only remember sober utterances when they are sober.” Which Castleford was not at the moment. He stood straight enough and his speech did not slur, but his eyes were those of a man who either had already imbibed today, or still carried the effects of the night before.

  “I remember everything. The only difference with me is whether I give half a damn, or none at all.”

  Valet number two offered Hessian boots for approval. Castleford signaled they would do by sitting in a chair. With smooth moves that belied the effort, the servant slid the boots onto the waiting long legs.

  The other man approached with coats in hand, but Castleford shooed him away and told them both to leave. Then he sprawled, hooked one booted leg over the arm of his chair, and smiled at Jonathan like the devil eying the next soul he would steal.

  “You came too early. You are supposed to come at night. Ten o’clock would be good, tomorrow. There is a pugilist match to see, and we can find some whores later. I hope you like common ones. I have never understood men paying a hundred pounds for what can be bought for a shilling.”

  “I don’t like them too common.”

  “I do. Common and lusty and fun. No sad stories of being driven to sin by poverty either. There’s plenty who like the trade.” He eyed Jonathan thoughtfully. “Little Katy would do for you. You’ve spent a lot of time in France and have probably learned to use your tongue well. She fancies that.” He yawned and stretched. “Tomorrow night, then, unless you are occupied with your current mission.”

  That was the problem with a man half-drunk. He was wont to speak indiscreetly. Only this indiscretion had been planned, Jonathan suspected.

  “The war is long over. There are no more concerns about the coastline.”

  “There is always a use for men with your skills. Only it isn’t the Home Office this time, which intrigues me.”

  “How do you know whether it is or not, if there is any mission at all?”

  “I asked. They don’t like when I do that. It flusters so many people. However, I always get an answer. You would think I was a royal duke, the way it pours out.”

  “Perhaps they are afraid that you will kill them if they do not answer.”

  “Perhaps so.” He thought about that, and burst out laughing. “I think you may be correct. And here I thought it was deference to my title.”

  “It is useful that you collect all that information that you should not have. You probably know more political gossip than anyone.”

  He shrugged. “It is more amusing than the twaddle in the drawing rooms about whose fool of a daughter allowed herself to get compromised.”

  “It occurs to me that you may know who has set me on a mission, if not the Home Office. Not that there is one, of course.”

  “Of course. No, I do not know just who it is. I have not tried to find out. I haven’t decided if I give that half a damn yet, you see.”

  Jonathan hoped he would. If Edward did not have him poking into Alessandra’s past on behalf of the Home Office, then for whom instead? He did not like learning that he did the bidding of a man whose name he did not know.

  “I can see that I came at the wrong time,” he said. “Before I go, I wonder if you could dig into some of that useless information your curiosity has accumulated, and answer a question for me.”

  Castleford looked to the ceiling and groaned dramatically. “You sound like Summerhays. He is always boring me with his political questions.”

  “I promise it is only one question. Do you know anything about Anthony Dargent’s father?”

  “Dargent? The father left his family to do missionary work, didn’t he? Probably why Dargent turned into such an ass. Chased after that Northrope woman’s girl some years ago. There were some who thought he’d marry her, he was so besotted. There were others annoyed he seemed to have too clear a field.”

  “That was generally known, was it?”

  “I remember it well. All these men salivating over the pretty virgin. I have never understood the fascination with them. Virgins. For dynastic reasons it is wise to marry one, but that first night has to be clumsy.”

  “So you were not interested yourself?”

  “Hell, no. Nor in the mother, although she had something to her. You could tell she knew her trade. But if I wanted to swive a woman who subjects me to salons and assemblies and expects diamonds for the effort, I would just get married.”

  “I have heard that many others felt differently. Mrs. Northrope was famous for a reason.”

  Castleford leveled an unexpectedly direct gaze on him. “So that is what you are doing. Cleaning up after someone’s bad indiscretion. Only it sounds as if you aren’t even sure who he is, and that makes no sense.”

  “No, it does not, which should tell you the idea is ridiculous.”

  “It certainly is, but that does not mean I am wrong. As for the many others you cleverly encouraged me to remember, I assume they were all titled, like the ones who pursued her openly. Or from families of peers. It was said she was very strict about that, and only gave herself to the best blood.”

  “That leaves a lot of men in the pile.”

  “In the queue is more like it. And some of them had her while you and I were still boys. Unless she kept a list, you are on a fool’s errand.”

  Perhaps not, since the errand was to ensure there was no list. Jonathan had his own reasons for wishing one existed, however.

  “If Mrs. Northrope’s patrons were your reason for calling, I am sorry that I have been so useless.” Castleford’s tone did not carry the sarcasm that Jonathan expected. And so he pushed forward when he might have retreated.

  “That was mere curiosity, provoked by some coincidental meetings I have had recently. I really came to ask a favor of you.”

  “Of course you did.” His eyes glinted with both curiosity and resignation. “The price will be a good rout tomorrow night.”

  “The boxing and drinking only. I will pass on the common whores.”

  Castleford sighed. “It isn’t as if their vulgarity is catching, Albrighton. It is a hell of a thing that a man has to be a duke before he can freely follow his inclinations.”

  “It is not vulgarity that I fear catching, Your Grace.”

  That caught Castleford up short. The moment of sobriety passed quickly, however. “What is this favor? Will it amuse me, or be a boring chore?”

  “I want you to obtain an audience for me with Thornridge.”

  Castleford’s eyes lit with surprise, then dark humor. “So you are going to confront him? Finally?”

  “I want to have a conversation with him. That is all.” Castleford swung his leg down and looked at Jonathan long and hard. Jonathan got the sense that the duke was deciding his impulsive condescension toward the bastard had been inspired after all.

  “A conversation. Of course.” He grinned. “What fun. I will set my mind on how to trap him, but only if I can be present when you have this chat.”

  The next day Celia left the house early. More plants would be coming tomorrow, so she wanted this day for herself. She took her cabriolet and drove it east, toward the City. There she called on Mr. Mappleton, as he had written and requested.

  Some papers related to her mother’s estate required her signature. After she had completed those formalities, she inquired about th
e resolution of the debts.

  “All are covered, I am delighted to inform you,” Mr. Mappleton reassured.

  “No others have come to light? No indications in her records of others possibly outstanding?”

  “Not to my awareness. As you know, I never found any account books. It is possible, I suppose, that she simply kept it all in her head.” Rosy tints spotted his pale cheeks. “More discreet.”

  “How did you know about the debts now being settled?”

  “The lenders and shopkeepers sought me out. They presented documents. In most cases, your mother had her own copies. Even if she did not have an account book, she did have papers.”

  “But if a debt is presented to you as executor, how do you know it has not been paid already?”

  “Only a fool pays off a debt and does not procure documentation of the fact.”

  And Alessandra was no fool.

  She took her leave. As she emerged from the building, a tall, blond man approached her, smiling.

  Anthony removed his hat and made a deep bow. “Celia, what a happy coincidence.”

  She glanced down the street. His carriage waited fifty feet away.

  “Too much a coincidence, Anthony. I think that you have had someone follow me today, and perhaps other days. I will not tolerate that.”

  “I would never be so rude. I merely called on Mappleton, and learned that he expected you today.” He smiled the smile that she had once considered warm. “I thought to call on you again at Wells Street, but after the interference the last time—I do need to talk to you, Celia. I also want to show you something.”

  “It looks to rain, Anthony. I really must return to—”

  “I want to show you the little contract your mother signed with me. I have not given it to Mappleton, or pressed for repayment yet. I thought you and I should talk about it first.”

  She had been enjoying her day, but now he had ruined it. She wanted to walk away, but if he spoke the truth, she dared not.

  He swung his arm toward his carriage, by way of invitation.

  “I have my own, thank you. I would prefer to follow you, so retrieving it does not inconvenience either of us.”

  “As you wish. I will tell the coachman to proceed slowly, so you do not get lost.”

  The coach stopped on a street of tall houses just north of Grosvenor Square. Celia pulled up her carriage behind it. One of Anthony’s footmen hopped down and came to take her reins.

  “Do you live here now?” she asked Anthony, angling her head so she could gaze up the pale façades.

  He half smiled and half nodded, and escorted her to a door. He used a key to enter, which she thought odd.

  She understood as soon as the door swung open. The house was empty. Its high-ceilinged chambers echoed with their footsteps.

  “It is a fine house, in the best neighborhood. Your wife will find it very suitable,” she said.

  “She does not care for town much.”

  “Then you will find it suitable.”

  “I hope to.”

  She strolled through the library, then on to a chamber that would make a good morning room. It was not a huge house, but large enough for entertaining. One would not host balls in it, but dinner parties would work well, or more intimate gatherings. Its arrangement of chambers reminded her of Mama’s house on Oxford Street. It even had a chamber near the drawing room that would serve for a music room.

  She felt Anthony watching her reactions. She paused by windows with good prospects of a nice garden.

  “Have you purchased it?” she asked.

  “It is my intention to.”

  “Please do not on my account, if that is your thinking.”

  He did not respond. He did not move. She dared not look at him. The atmosphere in the chamber stilled in the worst way, as if the whole house held its breath.

  “Are you expecting me to pursue you, Celia? I remind you that I have already done so.”

  She turned to face him. “I expect nothing from you. I want nothing from you. I explained that.”

  “This house will be in your name, Celia. I will be settling a good deal of money on you as well.”

  Her gaze drifted to the ceilings and walls. She wished the proposition held no allure, but it was a very fine house, worth a good deal, and she was a very practical woman. Property, jewels, and money, Celia. Always demand things that last.

  “Why, Anthony? You could set up a mistress in style for much less. There are many women who would be happy to play the role, I am sure.”

  He advanced on her in that intense way he had. She stiffened and stepped back. He must have seen her caution, and it checked him. He stopped ten feet away and looked at her face as if he had to memorize every inch.

  “You were my first great passion, Celia, and still my only one. I have imagined our first night together for years, and time did not quench that desire. Rather the opposite. I said we would be together forever, and that is still my hope and intention—to be your first lover, and your only lover.”

  Pretty words again. She heard each one, and many more not spoken that were much less loving. “And if you are not my first lover?”

  He reacted as she guessed he would. His expression flexed in a vain attempt to hide his anger. It mattered to him a great deal, that first and only part.

  Mama had told her about men like that. In fact, Mama had counted on their competing to have the daughter of Alessandra Northrope. Only now this one had become rather fanatical about her virginity. That might not bode well for either his affection or his treatment of her after that first night.

  “Are you saying that there has been another?” His voice sounded more dangerous than mere anger could explain. “I asked at your house, and you avoided the question.”

  “As I intend to avoid it now. Does it truly matter, Anthony? You spoke of love when you called on me. If I am your only great passion, surely this is a little thing.”

  His lips folded in on each other. “I have a right to know.”

  “No, you do not, because I am not swayed by this house or the settlement.” She should have said that right away, of course. Only it was a good house, and considering his zealous ardor, she could have arranged a very handsome settlement before she accepted him. One had to give such things at least a little thought before rejecting them. She had even promised Mama that she would.

  He did not see it her way. Face flushing from insult and anger, he reached in his coat and withdrew a folded vellum page. He snapped it open with a sharp flick of his wrist, and handed it to her.

  “You are not responsible for it, of course. Your mother was, however, which affects her estate.”

  She took the page and read the scribner’s elaborate penmanship. She sickened at the words, and silently cursed Mama’s carelessness.

  It was not a bill of sale. Anthony had been too clever for that. Instead it took the form of a loan to Alessandra, for eight hundred pounds to be repaid in coin or in kind. Celia’s favors no doubt would be the “in kind.”

  “It appears you are not above coercing me to get your way, Anthony.”

  “It has nothing to do with you. I will go to Mappleton and settle it with the estate.”

  She imagined telling Marian and Bella that the house was lost. Marian would survive, and return to the lanes she knew so well, and perhaps to her whoring. And Bella—they could both go to Daphne, she supposed. Two homeless, helpless women looking for sanctuary among The Rarest Blooms.

  She had been happy there, and probably could be again. She should tell Anthony to do his worst. She should tell him to go to Mappleton, and then to go to hell.

  She looked at the vellum, then at the fine moldings on the chamber’s ceiling. She pictured the years passing in Daphne’s home, while other women came and went but she stayed there, suspended like an insect caught in amber.

  “I need to think about this, Anthony. Give me a week to do so, please.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jonathan turned t
he last page of the journal he read. As soon as he did, the shadows closed in again.

  He did not doubt that Castleford would find a way to put him and Thornridge together. Uncle Edward would be furious, but it was time to settle that matter one way or another.

  The expectation of that meeting kept conjuring up memories of the last time he had seen the earl. He had been hungry and tired and chilled to the bone by the time his cousin had agreed to see his mother.

  In a library of massive size, Thornridge had listened to his mother’s demands and threats, looking much older than his twenty-one years with his hard expression and cold, dark eyes.

  Jonathan set aside the journal and walked to the window. Most of that meeting was a blur now. A few other things remained vivid, however. He remembered all the books in that library, their bindings like so many jewels, row upon row. He recalled the earl agreeing to provide the education his predecessor had promised. And he remembered some of those threats his mother made, which had made no sense until he thought about them years later.

  So now he would force his way into another audience with his cousin. He had not decided yet if he would issue his own threats this time.

  Weighing that choice occupied him as he stood in the light of the window. It distracted him enough that he barely noted the movement in the garden until Celia was almost at the house. Once he did, all thoughts about the pending meeting with Thornridge flew from his head.

  He could not see her without wanting her. Even now, from this distance, memories of her joyous passion made him hard. He was not accustomed to the incomplete sensuality they had shared, and she was driving him mad.

  She appeared to be thinking as hard as he had been, and about something just as difficult to decide. He doubted she noticed any of her surroundings as she walked slowly, almost stiffly, down the path toward him.

  She stopped, and removed her bonnet as if its bow constricted her. She raised her head and looked at the house, inspecting it with a sad expression.

  Then her gaze drifted down. A profound distraction claimed her. She did not move. She just stood there, and, instead of the light finding her, it seemed that the garden’s shadows did.