A Season for Sin (4 page)

Mrs. Atwood dipped a curtsey and elbowed the maid, who bobbed one as well.

Bell sighed. “Please close the door, Mrs. Atwood.”

Afterward, the housekeeper drew in a breath. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but we have a situation that I felt necessary to report.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I expect you to resolve all issues involving the maids.”

“I do, my lord, but the new maid violated one of your rules,” she said.

“What rule was that?” he asked.

Mrs. Atwood straightened her spine. “She pried into your private possessions. Betsy, here, was supposed to be cleaning cobwebs in the attic.” Mrs. Atwood pushed the clearly frightened maid toward him. “Go on, now. Tell his lordship what you done.”

Betsy dipped a curtsey, looked at the carpet, and set the book on his desk with shaking hands. “I was cleanin’ the trunks and saw one of them had a loose strap.”

Mrs. Atwood intervened. “Then she took it upon herself to open the trunk.” The housekeeper regarded the maid. “You know what they say about curiosity killing the cat. Those are his lordship’s private things, and I told you more than once never to disturb them.”

“I thought there might be dust or c-cobwebs inside,” Betsy whispered.

“More likely, you meant to steal that book.” Mrs. Atwood regarded him. “I felt it best to report to you, my lord, before I sacked her, without a letter of character.”

Tears welled in Betsy’s eyes.

“Don’t start your crying, now,” Mrs. Atwood said in a harsh tone.

Bell sighed. “Did you mean to steal, Betsy?”

“No, m-my lord,” she said, wiping her eyes with her apron. “I shouldn’t have looked at the drawings, but they were so lovely.”

He vaguely remembered a sketchbook, but he forced the recollection away and folded his hands on the desk. “I see.”

“I’m very sorry for opening it, my lord,” Betsy said with a catch in her breath.

“You’re only sorry for getting caught,” Mrs. Atwood said in a snippy tone.

Bell focused on the housekeeper. “Other than this incident, has Betsy performed her duties to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, but she’s been employed for only a fortnight,” Mrs. Atwood said.

Bell regarded Mrs. Atwood through narrowed eyes. “It seems to me that Betsy had the best of intentions when she opened the trunk. From what she has reported, she did not intend to steal the book. No harm was done.” He returned his attention to the maid. “I trust that in the future you will conduct yourself with discretion and consult Mrs. Atwood about any unusual situations?”

The poor girl swayed a bit. “Y-yes, my l-lord.”

She was obviously terrified. “You may return to your duties, Betsy.”

“Thank y-you, your lordship,” she said, wiping her eyes again. “I promise to do b-better.”

“Mrs. Atwood, will you stay a moment, please?” Bell asked.

After the maid shut the door, Bell addressed the housekeeper. “Mrs. Atwood, I don’t like to interfere with your decisions, but you brought the matter before me. While I understand your reasons, I think a simple reprimand would have sufficed in this particular situation.”

Mrs. Atwood puffed up. “My lord, I believe I acted in accordance with the rules of the house.”

He disliked the housekeeper’s sanctimonious attitude. “There were mitigating circumstances. I have found your judgment to be sound in the past. However, I would remind you to be sure before making assumptions.” He paused and added, “Surely, you don’t wish to see the girl’s life ruined.”

A bright red flush suffused Mrs. Atwood’s face.

“We all make mistakes,” he said. “How we handle them afterward is a test of our character.”

Mrs. Atwood’s nostrils flared, and then she said, “Yes, my lord.”

“You may return to your duties,” he said.

Mrs. Atwood pinched her lips. Then she brushed past in a hurry, knocking the sketchbook to the floor. She halted and stared at it in horror. “My lord, forgive me. I didn’t mean to do it. I’m so sorry I—”

“That will be all, Mrs. Atwood.”

When she started to bend down, he said, “Leave it.”

She straightened and opened her mouth as if to say something, but he held up his hand. “Please attend to your duties now.”

Mrs. Atwood flinched, and then she quit the room.

After she closed the door, he walked around his desk. The book had fallen open on the carpet. When he retrieved it, his heartbeat thudded in his ears. The sketch depicted two small boys playing with marbles on the carpet. He touched the paper with his index finger, remembering the warmth of the sun and the smooth surface of the marbles. In the corner of the page, there was a notation:
Andrew and Steven, ages six and four.

A vision of his mother drawing in a rocking chair flashed in his mind like a mirage. He expected sharp, intense pain. Instead, something else welled in his chest. At first, he didn’t recognize the feeling. Then his mouth worked, because the happy memory was unexpected and far more wretched than all the bad ones.

Gritting his teeth, he closed the sketchbook, stowed it in a desk drawer, and shoved the past into the darkest recesses of his brain.

T
he bell rang in the middle of the night. Bell gasped and sat up. Disoriented, he wondered if he’d been dreaming, but the sound of voices in the corridor let him know that something was definitely amiss.

A series of raps on his door startled him. He quickly donned a pair of trousers, then he threw on his banyan and strode to the door, where he found the butler Griffith dressed in his knitted cap and nightclothes.

“Begging your pardon for my state of undress, my lord,” Griffith said.

Bell waved his hand. “I take it that there is an emergency.”

“A boy reported the fire brigade has been called to your town house in Cheapside, my lord.”

“The devil.” He wondered if Marguerite was still in residence and hoped she and the servants had escaped harm.

About that time, Porter stumbled inside wearing his nightclothes.

“Help me dress quickly, Porter.” Too bad he’d thrown out the ruined boots, but there was no use thinking about that now. Porter handed him a shirt, and Bell pulled it over his head. “Griffith, send two footmen to the town house with as many pails as we can round up—and be quick about it.”

When Porter pulled out the neck cloth for a cravat, Bell groaned. “Porter, it’s a fire, not a ball. For God’s sake, man, aren’t any of my old hunting coats available?”

“They’re all at the country manse in Devonshire, my lord,” Porter said. “Here’s a pair of scuffed boots.”

Bell pulled on the boots. “I’m off to fight a fire.”

“Do take care with your coat and trousers, sir. I’d hate to see them damaged.”

Bell pulled a face and then strode out the door. “There’s a fire, and he’s worried about my bloody coat and trousers,” he muttered as he ran down the stairs. “Griffith, is the carriage ready?”

“Yes, my lord. The footmen will follow shortly in a rig.”

His heart raced as he ran down the graveled walk and climbed inside the waiting carriage. Fortunately, the smell from the river hadn’t lingered. He knocked on the roof, and the vehicle rolled off. How the devil had this happened? He had strict rules about the use and disposal of ashes, oil lamps, and candles. Something had obviously gone terribly wrong. He prayed that everyone had managed to escape before the smoke got too bad.

He tapped his fingers on the leather seat as the carriage careened through the dark cobbled streets with only a lamp to light the way. He hoped the neighbors’ houses were safe from the flames and smoke. He covered his mouth with his fist as he imagined the worst possible scenarios. The destruction would be unfortunate, but he couldn’t bear the thought of injuries or worse. He knew he’d have to deal with whatever had occurred at the town house. But God, he wasn’t prepared for it.

When he looked out the window, a stray black cat ran across the road—a bad omen. Although he wasn’t given to superstition, he still didn’t like it. His breathing grew faster as the carriage approached the street. Bell grabbed the strap, ready to jump out the second the driver halted the horses.

At long last the carriage rocked to a halt. Bell shoved the door open and jumped down, only to find the fire brigade pouring sand and water over something smoldering in the street. Half a dozen curious neighbors stood outside their doors in their nightclothes.

“What is it?” he said, approaching the brigade.

“Sheets, my lord,” one of them said. “Rather, the remains of them.”

He coughed at the lingering smoky stench.

By now, the curious neighbors had wandered into the street and murmured among themselves.

“I suppose I asked for it,” Bell muttered.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” one of the brigade members said.

Bell stared at the blackened bits in the road. “I didn’t want to lie on them ever again.”

An elderly man scratched his head. “Fleas, I suppose.”

The woman next to him, presumably his wife, put her hands on her wide hips. “Next time, just have your missus instruct the laundress to boil them in hot water. That will kill the bugs.”

A man with red side whiskers stepped forward. “Sir, I’m the captain of the fire brigade.” Then he turned and shooed the neighbors with his hands. “Everyone go back to your beds. The show is over now.”

The neighbors retreated and watched from their stoops.

Bell looked up as Thompson gingerly made his way to the street dressed in his nightcap and robe. “Mrs. Lamant must’ve overheard you and anticipated the deed, my lord,” Thompson said.

The captain’s eyes widened. “You mean the missus burned them?”

Bell nodded as he recalled the odd, strangled sound he’d heard just before quitting the town house the night he’d quarreled with Marguerite. Then he turned to Thompson. “Is Mrs. Lamont still in residence?”

“No, my lord,” Thompson said.

Bell sighed. “Well, that’s good news.”

The dozen men from the fire brigade looked at Bell inquiringly.

“Women,” he muttered.

The captain removed his hat. “On the bright side, I suppose you still have the mattress, but you might want to have a talk with the missus about the severity of setting fires.”

“Right,” he said.

About that time, the rig arrived with his footmen. Bell addressed them. “The fire is out now. Thank you for coming. Please return home to your regularly scheduled duties.” He could swear by their expressions that they were disappointed to have missed all the excitement.

Bell turned his attention to the butler. “Thompson, can we provide these fine men of the fire brigade with a stipend for their hard work in putting out the fire?” Granted, the fire brigade had probably contained the fire in twenty minutes tops, but they had arrived on the scene in a timely manner—at least he assumed so.

“Yes, of course I will see that the men receive compensation, my lord. Gentlemen, if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll return directly,” Thompson said.

Bell strode with his butler up the walk and inside the town house. “When did Marguerite do this?”

“I’m not rightly sure, my lord,” Thompson said. “Apparently, she waited until everyone else was sleeping.”

“I don’t suppose she took the pagodas,” he said, unable to keep the ray of hope from his voice.

“I don’t know, my lord. Would you like me to check now?”

“No, thank you. But if you find that they remain here, please have them and the remains of the sheets delivered to Fenwick with my compliments.”

Laura Davenport, Lady Chesfield, straightened the daffodils in the vase once more as she spoke to her stepson. “Justin, you need not stay the whole of Lady Atherton’s call, but of course you will make yourself agreeable.”

He pushed a blond lock off his forehead. “Laura, I know how to conduct myself in polite company. What I don’t comprehend is why you are at sixes and sevens over a dowager countess’s visit?
You
are a viscountess after all.”

Laura sat on the sofa and resumed working on her embroidery. “I am not intimidated by her rank. I merely wish to make a good impression as she and Lord Atherton were your father’s close friends for many years. The countess does us a great honor by calling.”

“We’ve never stood on ceremony before. I don’t see why that should change now.”

“We’re in London, and if we wish to fit in with society, we must abide by the customs,” she said. “You would do well to remember that. One day soon you will come into your majority. The time to learn the proprieties is now.”

He slouched in his chair and crossed his boots. “I’m not an infant. You ought to have let me come to London with my friends.”

“We already discussed this. There’s no point in quarreling over it now.” She returned her attention to her embroidery. Truthfully, she had forbidden him to go with his friends, because she did not know their parents. While Laura had never had a London season, she’d heard plenty of tales about aristocrats who had no better morals than stray cats. So she had suggested a compromise and brought him to London, where she’d leased a town house. That way, she could oversee his activities. Since his guardian wouldn’t help, she had the sole responsibility of Justin’s upbringing, but she preferred it that way.