A Sense of Sin (15 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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“I thank you. Thanks to you, I have survived my encounter with the dreaded Vile Viscount”—she smiled to show him she thought it a jest—“with my reputation intact.” Yes, very much
virgo intacta
, though it might have been otherwise, if Viscount Darling had been the vile man he wanted them all to believe.
“Del has been my friend, my brother officer for many a year, Miss Burke. It pains me that such a temporary lapse in good behavior should form the whole of your opinion of him.”
“Del?”
“Viscount Darling. His family name is Delacorte. We have been . . . , that is, I have known him for a very long time. From his earliest time in the Marines, before he came into the title. It amuses both of us for me to call him by his name instead of his title.”
“I know of his anonymous enlistment in the Marines and his working his way through the ranks to become an officer. I imagine he is justifiably proud to remember he was Colonel Delacorte entirely on his own merit.”
“You see it exactly. That is what I mean by a temporary lapse. It is not in his true nature to be so cavalier with a person’s honor. With either his own or yours.”
“I understand, Commander, I do. You need not worry on the Viscount’s account. I am sensible to the fact that he was under a great deal of duress regarding his sister’s death. It was all a simple misunderstanding and it is done with now. You may rest easy.”
The Commander’s great chest heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you. You are kindness itself, Miss Burke.”
“You seemed surprised to see Commander McAlden this evening, but not unhappy.”
Celia had grown used to her mother’s recapping of the night’s activities in the coach. At least she did so in the relative privacy of the carriage, instead of in the house, where every servant, however discrete, could hear.
“I did not know he had left Dartmouth. He said he was here at the behest of the Admiralty.”
“You did not speak long.”
“Commander McAlden is even worse at making idle conversation than I am. I don’t think he is precisely shy, but he’s not comfortable being social. It was kind of him—and correct—to greet us, for we are old acquaintances from Dartmouth.” They had reached Widcombe house.
“Yes, quite correct,” Mama agreed as the footman saw to the door. “How can one expect him to be comfortable? He was not born into society, but has had it thrust upon him as a result of his success at his profession.”
“Do you think so?” Celia followed her mother up the short flight of steps.
“Undoubtedly. I have always said . . .”
Celia didn’t hear the rest of it. She saw the folded letter waiting on the silver tray on top of the console table. And she knew.
She went cold, shivering in the summer heat, and remained in place, frozen to the spot, not daring to move any closer. But she must. Perhaps it was all in her head, this ridiculous foreboding, the dramatic notion of doom pounding in her chest.
She picked up the folded parchment and saw her name,
MISS C. BURKE
in a plain hand across the front. No direction. It must have been hand delivered.
Celia’s hands shook as she broke the plain wax seal and unfolded the letter. It was almost exactly as the others.
To Miss G. Burke:
Miss Burke, you cannot run away from your debts. If you do not wish the news of your illicit relationship with Emily Delacorte to forevermore mar your reputation, and if you do not want her decried as a suicide to your love, then you must pay for our silence. Time is running out. We have been patient with you. If the sum of FIVE hundred pounds is not delivered
Five hundred pounds? Oh heavens above. How could he demand
more
when she hadn’t had the last?
by Tuesday next at the following address—Powell’s, George Alley—you will be ruined.
He still wanted to see her ruined. Because she hadn’t given him what he wanted, had she? She had run away from him and his ruinous seduction.
It had stopped being a game. She had come to trust him. She had come to think he trusted and cared for her. She had come to care for him too much. So much so, she had run away from him and from her feelings for him.
But he was back, to haunt and torment her again. God only knew what she was going to do.
C
HAPTER
15
I
f doing the pretty in Dartmouth had been unpalatable, moving again in London society was nothing short of torture. Del had forgotten that among the ton, openness and honesty were lost arts. He had already spent a couple of fruitless nights haunting the ballrooms and ducking desperate mamas and equally incautious young married ladies, in search of Miss Celia Burke, damning his unsavory reputation that kept some doors closed to him.
He had discovered she stayed at her uncle’s, the Marquess of Widcombe’s house on Grosvenor Street, but he could hardly walk up and knock on the brass-plated door after Lord Thomas denied his permission. Del had been very clearly warned off the man’s daughter. He would have to find Celia in a way that made it look entirely by chance.
He avoided examining his motive in this finding of Miss Burke. It was a compulsion, he knew, and an entirely illogical one. He had impulsively declared his intent to her father and been repulsed. If he continued to search her out, to press his suit, he had to understand what he was doing. He was making a legitimate offer for her, even though he’d already been turned down.
It made no sense, no matter how he looked at it. He shook his head to better concentrate on his driving, before he drove up the back of a brewer’s dray. Del had his pair of tall chestnuts under harness in an attempt to make his way across the busiest traffic in London. He was on his way to visit Gardiner’s Saddlery in Long Acre for new equipage for the curricle. Alexander Gardiner was too good a saddler to pass over simply for the sin of keeping the patronage of Darling’s estranged father. Not even Del’s sense of resentment could run so deep as to deny himself the services of a superior craftsman. And it was a good day for driving. He and the horses were enjoying the seasonably cool breeze, when he saw Hugh McAlden, resplendent in his blues, walking away from the Admiralty Building in Whitehall towards Charing Cross.
“Hugh!” Del called and tooled his team to the curb. “Well met. What the devil have you been up to?”
McAlden gestured inelegantly to his uniform and hitched a thumb back at the Admiralty. “Waiting upon Sir Charles Middleton, who has yet another dicey proposition for me. But I might ask the same of you. What brings you to London? I thought you had gone off to drink your way through Gloucestershire.”
“I decided to give London’s charms another try.”
“In July? You expect me to believe that?”
Del gave him a long, thorny look.
McAlden gave the thorn right back. “It had better not have anything to do with a certain charming young lady I had the pleasure of seeing last night.”
The hackles Del didn’t know he had rose along his spine. “I doubt it.”
“Do you? It was charming how Miss Burke asked after all our mutual acquaintance in Dartmouth. With one notable exception. You.” McAlden’s brow arched into its own abbreviated version of a sneer. “Care to tell me why that might be?”
“No.”
“Really, Del, you ought to have gotten over being such a complete ass. But I suppose I should thank you for making me look so much more the gentleman to the lady as a result.”
Del felt rather than heard the growl that came out of his throat. He was also halfway out of his seat in the curricle before he knew it. “Don’t even think about it, Hugh.”
“Why not, Del?”
Del wanted to wipe that superior, amused expression off Hugh’s face with his fist. “None of your sodding business.”
“I’m making it my business. Let’s just say, I’ve decided to use my conscience to make up for your lack thereof, so I’ve made Miss Burke, and specifically your interest in her, my business. You’re wrong about her, Del. Dead wrong.”
“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, McAlden, but I already know that.”
“Do you?” McAlden stepped back a pace to regard Del anew.
“Just stay away from her, Hugh.”
McAlden’s smile dawned so slowly Del almost missed it. “So that’s the way the wind blows, does it?”
Del could hear his friend’s laughter all the way past Charing Cross.
It had become imperative Celia sell her drawings for a book. Even if, because she had no text to accompany the illustrations, she had to sell the drawings to a Fellow of the Royal Society, so he could publish his own book with her illustrations. Or perhaps she should be offering, for a fee, her service in making the drawings. Sir James Edward Smith had had his illustrations for
English Botany
made by Mr. Sowerby of the Linnaean Society. She ought to be able to find an arrangement similar to that.
Thus, the day was more important than ever. She dressed plainly, in her best redingote, to help combat the clammy grip of her awkwardness, the panicky feeling of shyness beginning to worm its way into her belly at the thought of speaking before so many people. Not that she knew how many people were likely to come to the colloquium, but if she did well, and impressed the assembled scholars, she might be able to find her way out of this nightmare. She might be able to pay Viscount Darling off and be done.
Lord, she had no time for the mixture of disappointment, regret, and anxiety at the mere thought of him. She would get over him. She would conquer this seemingly insurmountable difficulty, if she would but concentrate on one step at a time. First things first.
She and Bains took the Widcombe carriage as far as Beaufort Buildings, and got out to walk the rest of the way. Bains had picked up Celia’s unease and could see her hesitation as they turned through the gates of Somerset House into the vast courtyard.
“I don’t like it, miss. You do this, you go in there and talk all official like and you’re sure to blow the gab. Your lady mother’ll have it in her ears in no time.”
“I know.” Celia let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “But I’ve no choice. Not that I want one. I want to do this, Bains. I want to be a renowned, published botanist, and this is what it’s going to take, mother or no mother.”
She tucked her head down and walked on resolutely. She would be resolute. She was even going to be daring.
The gray stone of the steps appeared before her eyes too quickly. She was there. It was time. There seemed to be an awful lot of people—men—brushing past, turning her this way and that, coattails flying by. She clutched her portfolio tighter.
“May I be of some assistance?” A soberly dressed porter stood next to his dais.
Celia took a deep breath. “I am here to take part in a colloquium on the merits of plant classification systems.”
“Ah, Miss Burke?”
“Yes, Miss Celia Burke.”
“Yes, Miss Burke, it is an honor. I’ve been expecting you. Welcome to the Royal Society.” He bowed to her. “Right this way, please.”
His business done at Gardiner’s Saddlery, Del headed back down Drury Lane for the Strand, so he might take advantage of the relative fresh—and in London the term
fresh
was definitely relative—breeze off the river.
As he turned his horses and wove into the traffic on the Strand, he passed the gates of Somerset House. Something familiar, the flap of a jacket and skirt behind the long-legged stride of a countrywoman, caught his eye. He recognized Celia instantly by her dark blue redingote. By God, it would be a long time before he ever forgot that ensemble.
Miss Burke was in earnest conversation with her maid, who stood still for a moment while Miss Burke, glancing left and right in a furtive fashion, marched across the courtyard directly into Somerset House by the East Gate. An assignation? God’s balls, it had taken her no time at all to forget him. But no, the maid was following, though reluctantly.
He drew the team to a halt and threw the reins to his tiger. “Walk them. I might be quite a while.” To hell with his visit to the coffeehouse. He’d discovered this was a far more interesting development.
Del strode after Celia and her maid, keeping an eye on Bains as she trudged after Miss Burke, up the stairs and into the home of the Royal Society. Of course. The realization burst upon him like a thunderclap. Utterly stupid of him not to have looked there first.
It was not a place for clandestine trysts. The corridors were filled with an odd collection of middle-aged men, most of whom seemed to be headed to the east side of the building, where he was soon informed by the porter, an important scientific discussion was about to take place. The placard outside the hall read:
A COLLOQUIUM ON THE COMPARATIVE MERITS OF CLASSIFICATION SYSTEMS OF PLANTS
.
Del peered into the hall. It was filled with soberly dressed, and no doubt, learned Quaker gentlemen and their more finely dressed counterparts in the aristocracy, with a vicar sprinkled in here and there, all listening attentively as the scientist with the foreign accent standing at the front introduced his colleagues and his topic. Bains sat in a corner, looking unhappy and bored, holding Miss Burke’s round-brimmed riding hat and gloves.
“The classification based solely on the Linnaean system is not sufficient . . . ,” the foreigner droned on.
If he hadn’t have been looking for her, Del might have missed her, she was so quiet and still. She sat at the front of the room, at the table of learned gentlemen. Miss Burke, the closet botanist. At the moment, not so closeted.
Del moved through the doorway and continued to watch Celia. She appeared as out of place amongst the men as a flamingo amongst crows. She was the youngest person present with the exception of one aristocrat’s exotic page boy, and the only female.
Perhaps she wasn’t such a flamingo. Not a hint of The Ravishing Miss Burke, great Local Beauty of Dartmouth could be seen. Behind the table, he could see none of the manifest curves the clever, tight tailoring of the jacket had revealed to him out on the moor. Her ensemble was dark in color, and severely masculine cut. She looked like the bluestockinged daughter of one of the sober, middle-class Quaker businessmen and not the granddaughter of a Duke and the niece of a Marquess.
She was giving the speaker her rapt attention. She brought to mind the look of the Renaissance painting of an enraptured Virgin Mary receiving the grace of God from the angel Gabriel. Her face was lit by an animation he had seen but rarely, the strange otherworldly glow of the true believer. And she was at a lecture, on the arcane nuances of plant classification.
“For an illustrative example of which I speak, I have the pleasure of introducing my talented colleague, Miss Burke, whose observational studies of the freshwater plants of Sussex, illustrate—”
There was his flamingo. Miss Burke turned an almost tropical color of pink as she leaned over to correct the speaker.
“Your pardon, Devon, the freshwater plants of Devon. As you can see here in this drawing of . . .”
And they were off again. Del wound his way into the back row and settled down to listen. His attention wandered, until the clear, low tones of Celia’s alto could be heard clarifying some particular point of controversy or debate.
“As you can see by the microscopic examination of the bladder, although it is composed of a cell structure typical to plants, it acts more like a muscular organ . . .” She continued, calmly discussing “the different organs of reproduction present in both sexual and asexual reproduction . . .” Though her neck was covered with a lovely swath of color that disappeared under the lace of her chemisette.
He found it all devastatingly arousing.
It proved a strange, quick two hours, during which time he shifted frequently to ease the omnipresent tightness in his breeches, kept occasional track of Miss Burke’s dozing maid, where she remained on her bench, and kept himself enormously entertained by imagining Miss Burke naked beneath him on that rather large polished table while she continued her low-voiced discussion about the organs of reproduction and the procreation of the species.
He did want to
procreate
with Miss Burke, didn’t he? It was why he had called upon her father, and why he pursued her still, despite her father’s pointed disapproval. Marriage.
At exactly two hours after the colloquium had begun, one of the gentlemen at the table rang a little bell and the discussion came to an end. The doors opposite were opened by the porters and the assembly began to filter out, some talking in groups, still debating the merits of whatever side of the argument they favored. Del stood and planted himself in the middle of the corridor where she was sure to see him.
When Celia appeared, carried along like flotsam on the slowly moving tide of sober Quaker gentlemen and scientific lords, a beaming, beatific smile on her face, he felt her pleasure and pride in her accomplishment. She was, as Emily had insisted, an accomplished scientist. The clues to her passion had been there the whole time, from the first time he met her, that first night in the small cabinet room behind the library.
He pictured that room, the shelves behind her filled with vanilla-colored paper pamphlets—extracts, he would wager—which had all been published by the Royal Society.
And he thought of the barn with the tanks and the gleaming brass microscope, the intricate drawings and the bowl of lemons. He could picture her there, bent over her work, spending quiet hours absorbed in her tasks, then rising to wash her hands and rinse them in the juice of the lemons, scrubbing and rubbing them raw to remove the stain of the ink from her hands. It all made so much sense.

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