A Sense of Sin (18 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

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

BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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“So I hope you will acquit me of blackmailing you, while I’m being blackmailed as well.”
“Oh, bloody . . . gracious. This is awful.” She sat abruptly, a little heap of muslin in his study chair, the wind completely gone from her sails. “How much did they . . . ? Five thousand pounds?” Her voice was an incredulous squeak. “My God, I don’t know if I should feel thankful or insulted they only asked me for a thousand.”
“Have you paid them?”
“Nothing yet. It was three hundred at first, then five, then one thousand. But I thought it was you. I thought you would give up the money in lieu of . . . And they still want it and I’ve . . .” She covered her face with her hands.
“Celia. I am not your blackmailer. And I was not attempting to coerce you into intimacies with me in lieu of the blackmail money. I wouldn’t do that to you.” Del pushed his unruly hair out of his eyes. The whole damn affair just kept getting more complicated. Except that it was also getting simpler.
“Celia, there is much more to this and we must talk, but not here, not now. You cannot be seen entering or, God’s balls, leaving my house during the day. We’ve got to get you out.”
“But if you’re not the blackmailer, who is? Nobody but Miss Hadley knew what . . . happened to Emily, and she would never do this. I’m quite sure of it. Oh, my God, do you think they are blackmailing her as well?”
Clever Celia. “I mean to find out.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“At the moment? Nothing, except get you home. Again.”
Celia’s mouth gaped open in amazement. She was deflated and incredulously irate, all at the same time, his lovely complicated girl. “Nothing? But they will ruin Emily’s reputation. They will say she was a suicide.”
“She was. Emily is already dead. Nothing else can harm her now. Only my family’s reputation will be harmed, and I hardly care about that now, do I?” He laughed ruefully. “But your reputation is another thing entirely.”
She regarded him solemnly for a very long moment. “Is it really?”
“I think it must be so. You must go.”
“No! I’m not going to go until—”
He reached across the desk and placed a finger against her mouth. God almighty, but her lips were soft.
“Celia, we will figure this out and put a stop to it. But this is not the time. If you had a greater experience of the world, or perhaps if you weren’t so stubborn, so bloody resolute, you’d have listened to your mother when she told you, young ladies never visit the home of a single man, no matter the time of day and no matter their business. And young, unmarried ladies have no business at all at the home of a rake. Now you will go. Gosling!”
“My lord.” Gosling was in the hallway. “With respect, my lord, I thought it best Miss Burke’s departure should be public. Cook will escort her out and we will put it about that you are not at home, sir.”
“Yes, all right. Good thinking.” He turned Celia by the shoulder to face him. That little taste of her had opened the floodwaters within him and he could not keep himself from leaning down and covering her lips with his. He fell into her softness, into the honeyed warmth of her mouth. She almost pulled back when he slipped past her lips to let his tongue taste her. He couldn’t let her go—his need was so great. He stabbed his hand through the soft mass of her curls to cup the nape of her neck and hold her to him, to keep her open to his ravishment of her mouth.
“My lord.” Gosling, the chaperone, spoke.
“We are not done, Celia. We will talk. I will arrange something. But be patient. Please, for God’s sake, promise me you won’t do anything stupid like this again.”
“Yes, but I had to.”
“Promise me.”
“All right.”
He squeezed her hand in farewell and put her into Gosling’s care, after which he retreated behind the library drapes to watch the theatricals.
In another minute, the cook, Mrs. Bobbins, led Celia by the hand up the kitchen stairwell with one arm around her waist and her other clutching a large flag of a handkerchief. There was much hand patting, bowing, and fond good-byeing, whilst Celia’s maid took her arm, and Bobbins and Gosling stood in the street waving her away.
Del noticed the housekeeper from next door, ostensibly with her market basket and a kitchen maid in tow, approach Mrs. Bobbins with a slight curtsy.
Mrs. Bobbins gesticulated dramatically and loudly. “. . . the lovely young lady just left. How nice it was to see her again, though I hadn’t seen her in many a year. Called to see me though I have not worked in her mother’s kitchen for many a year. She were always just the sweetest thing you ever did see and wasn’t that just handsome behavior. Oh, as long as I live, I’ll never forget this moment—all the way across Marylebone to see me. Well, I never. But I’ve a pie in the oven for the Viscount when he gets back. You have a lovely day.”
Mrs. Bobbins. Formerly of the Haymarket Theatre, London and currently of the household of his Lordship, the Viscount Darling.
C
HAPTER
18
T
hree days went by. Three long, boring, anxiety-filled days, in which she attended a number of amusements, danced mechanically with a number of unremarkable and unremembered gentlemen at a number of unimportant balls, and in the process made herself quite miserable looking for Viscount Darling, who, true to his word, did not come or approach her once. The first day had passed in nervous expectation of word from him, but when two more days passed with no sight of him, she began to relax into her disappointment.
The evening’s purgatory was being held at the Dowager Duchess Lucan’s huge mansion facing Green Park. Although the house was huge, it scarcely seemed capable of holding the immense crush of the Mid-Summer Ball. Celia had attended a number of mid-summer balls in Dartmouth and had always associated them with country pursuits: bonfires, village dances, and sing-alongs. Although the house was packed to the rafters, the evening held no such innocent promise.
Mr. Philip Haythornthwaite led her off the dance floor and she chanced to see Commander McAlden standing nearby. She left Haythornthwaite for her friend.
“Good evening, Commander.”
“I hope it will prove to be a good evening, Miss Burke. Delighted to see you. I wonder if I might escort you to the refreshment table?”
She agreed, glad to be free of Mr. Haythornthwaite and his detailed account of cattle breeding in the midlands. When they went out the passage, the Commander let go of her arm and stepped back.
“Celia.” Viscount Darling loomed out of an alcove.
At last.
“Viscount Darling, I
must
speak to you.”
“
Must
?” His smile fished up the corner of his mouth. “You look very serious, Miss Burke. Might I offer you some refreshment?” When she shook her head, he continued on grimly. “Well, at least paste a smile of some sort on your face, unless you want people to notice how vexed with me you appear to be.”
“Oh, yes. How do you do, Viscount Darling.” She curtsyed. “I had not heard you were in town.”
He bowed. “Good, and now we will walk out to the terrace, where we will part, and you will linger for a few moments before wandering down the garden path towards the mews. There is a cloak on a bench just down the path. Gosling will meet you and conduct you through. How long can you be gone?”
“It is a crush. Upwards of an hour, I should think.”
“We’ll aim for less. Count to one hundred slowly, then off you go.”
“Where do you go?”
“Out the front. Publicly. I’ll meet you in the carriage.” Then he bowed and moved away from her.
Celia closed her eyes so she wouldn’t follow his departure with her gaze, and began counting. It was impossible to go slowly, when every minute, every moment she was away from her mother was being wasted. She walked with as measured a pace as possible toward the back of the huge garden and took up the beautiful taffeta cloak with the huge, enveloping hood waiting for her on a bench. When she found the back gate Gosling was there to conduct her anonymously through the mews and across carriage-clogged Brick Street.
“This way, miss.”
The curtains had been drawn, and the carriage lit before Gosling handed her in. They were away in a trice, onto Piccadilly along Green Park. In another few blocks, the carriage slowed to a walk and Viscount Darling jumped aboard. Instantly, the once spacious carriage became immeasurably smaller. He took the backward seat and tossed his hat and evening gloves beside him. “All right? Everything went smoothly?”
“Yes. Where are we going?”
“Nowhere. In circles around Green Park. This was the best I could come up with for someplace private to talk. We’ll go round the park until it’s time to get you back.” He ran his hand through his hair, making shocks of it stick up straight. It made him look younger and much less intimidating. But she needed him to be worldly and experienced, did she not? That was why she had gone to him, for his help and experience in dealing with the blackmail.
“Thank you for taking all this trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. Comparatively speaking.” He smiled at her, a smile of such quick brightness and almost boyish chagrin, she had to laugh with him.
“It is quite ridiculous, isn’t it? Victims of the same blackmailer, spending all our time blaming one another. I’m quite ashamed of myself for it.”
“Don’t be, Celia. For if you are ashamed, then I must be also and we’ll waste all our time on apologies when we could be comparing our notes, so to speak. They were good assumptions, although false.”
She was warmed through by his use of her Christian name. They’d come a rather long way, hadn’t they? “Yes, all right. So what do we do?”
“I’ve had a Bow Street Runner, with the improbable name of Mr. Henry Younghusband, under consultation since I received the first letter back in May.”
“You made that up.”
“His name? I assure you, I did not.” He smiled as he angled himself into the corner and leaned back, making himself more comfortable. “To add insult to injury, the poor man is neither young nor married, as far as I can tell.”
It felt good to laugh. It felt especially good to laugh with Viscount Darling. They had had so much mistrust between them.
“He is very good at his job, and has traced the payment of the first note to an address in Bath. To Jonstone’s Tobaccanists.”
“In Bridewell Lane?” Celia was practically out of her seat. “That is the shop where Emily received your letters!”
“And you accompanied her. It is how Mr. Younghusband was given your description. And how
I
came to find you.”
“Oh, I see.”
“So, I thought I had found the blackmailer when the trail led to Dartmouth. Until I got this letter.” He pulled the missive out of his interior breast coat pocket and offered it to her. “You’ll remember, it differs from yours.”
“Yes, they ask for a monstrous amount of money, for one thing. Oh, and they say it is to keep you from having to marry me.”
“Yes, but that is not the point. The point is that they have given you a different address for payment. Now I can set Mr. Younghusband to the task of watching both Powell’s bookshop in George Alley and this address in Robin Hood Court. And making comparisons from what we learned in Bath.”
“I don’t even know where George Alley is. But I don’t have the money to pay anyway. That was the whole reason—”
“Yes. I don’t know whether to be flattered you offered, or furious with you for trying to sell yourself so cheap.”
“Cheap?” Celia felt heat blossom on her face. “I thought it was a monstrous load of money.”
“And so it is.” He smiled his tawny, sleepy lion smile. “Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Meaning, I should have been very glad to pay a thousand pounds for the pleasure of having you, Miss Burke.” It was his lion voice, low and purring, full of leashed menace and dark promises. He crossed his booted legs on the plush upholstery of her bench.
Celia felt heat blossom everywhere, down her neck and in the valley between her breasts. “But you didn’t. You didn’t want me.” Her voice sounded as thin as her confidence.
“Now, that is not correct. I did want you. I still do want you. I simply could not have you. Not under those circumstances. Not as things stood between us at that point.”
“Oh. And where do things stand between us?”
“Unsettled and unfinished.” He looked grim and unhappy for a moment before he lifted his brows. “But back to your question—George Alley is in Fleet Street and I will put up the thousand. I have every expectation of getting it back.”
Celia swallowed what little pride she had left. “I wish I could protest and say I won’t let you, say I’ll think of something. But the truth is, I can’t think of anything and I should be very grateful to you for it.”
“I like grateful. But we needn’t give the whole. I think it best to start out with the original three, and ask them for more time—a few days only. It will give us another chance to catch them out.”
“Oh, yes, that sounds very logical.”
“Do you think you can do it? Take the Marquess of Widcombe’s town carriage up to Fleet Street and drop your package off at Powell’s by yourself? Mr. Younghusband and I shall be watching.”
“May I take Bains with me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“All right then. It’s settled.”
The coach went round a bend and hit a rut. Celia grabbed for the hanging straps. Viscount Darling brought one of his booted legs off the bench and across her as a brace to steady her. For half a moment his leg was against her thigh. “Your pardon, Miss Burke.”
So he was back to “Miss Burke.” She let her fingers slide off his boot and he lowered his feet back down, flat onto the floor of the carriage.
“How shall we arrange for the money?”
“I have it here.” He took a small stack of fifty-pound bannotes out of his breast coat pocket. “Do you have a reticule?”
She held up empty hands. “I’m sorry, no.”
“Pockets?”
“Not in this gown.” It was one of Bains’ superb creations, a chemise dress style, made up of silk under lace.
“Very beautiful, but not altogether practical for our purposes. Well.” He shifted back in his seat, crossing one booted leg over his knee. The faint stirring of a grin began to curve the edge of his lips. “That leaves the old-fashioned method.”
“Old-fashioned?” She wrinkled up her nose. “What do you mean?”
The grin spread up toward his half-closed, sleepy eyes. “I mean, my dear Miss Burke, you will need to secure the notes”—he lifted his brows and nodded at her chest—“down your bodice.”
Her hand rose of its own volition to cover her chest where it showed above the lace edging of her gown. But she knew he was right. There was nowhere else.
“Will you turn around?”
“I should, shouldn’t I? A gentleman would turn around. But, I think we both know, Miss Burke”—he sat up and one at a time, placed his booted feet on the bench on either side of her, penning her between his legs—“I am, at heart,
not
a gentleman.
Not
in this area of endeavor, and
not
with you.”
The intensity of his look, his singular focus on her was unnerving and exhilarating. Her skin warmed under his gaze and her breasts began to feel full within the tight confines of her stays. She remembered the last time they had been together alone, what she had done for him. What she had done for herself.
Viscount Darling leaned forward and rested his forearms upon his knees. Placing a kiss upon the packet of banknotes, he slowly, smiling that tawny lion smile the whole while, slowly passed them to her.
“Handsomely now, Miss Burke. Slowly. Ease it down until it rests snug against the underside of your lovely round breast. There now.”
She knew she must be scarlet with heat as she pulled her fingers back out of her bodice.
“Well done, Miss Burke. Although I am tempted to . . .” He rubbed his thumb along his bottom lip.
She was predictably enthralled by the sight of his calloused thumb passing back and forth along his improbable, bow-shaped lips. “Tempted?”
“To make sure it is well secured. After all, it is a
monstrous
load of money,” he teased. “I am tempted to put my hands on your shoulders and push you back against the squabs, and run my finger”—he held up a single index finger—“down that fascinating line of your neck, and brush aside your lace so I could feel the soft slide of your skin. Down until it disappeared into your bodice and I could dip my fingers inside your always so-modest bodice and delve down until I could feel the tightly ruched peaks of your beautiful, sweet breasts. Then I’d tweak each pink tip, roll them between my thumb and forefinger until you cried out with pleasure. You would cry out, wouldn’t you? You would cry out for me because you’re so wonderfully responsive. Under all that demure packaging, wildly passionate. You’re responding right now, aren’t you? Your breasts feel tight and sensitive, just waiting for the bliss of my touch.”
God, yes, she felt it just as if he’d done it. Pleasure, warm and greedy, blossomed where his words touched her. Her body was arching towards him, helpless not to want what he offered. He played her as if she was his instrument, tuned only to his touch. But he was not unaffected. His breath was coming just as shallow and fast as hers.
“But you are only tempted, Viscount Darling?”
“Alas, my sweet Celia, I dare not touch what I am not yet allowed to have.”
Not yet? That sounded immensely hopeful. “What about me, Viscount Darling. What if
I
dare? You say
you
cannot, and will not, touch me because you fear, with your experience of the bliss to come, you could not stop. But I have not your experience, have I? And therefore none of your fear.”
She placed her hands on top of his knees as he straddled her. She felt the instant change from lazy pleasure to coiled tension, as if loose electricity had jumped through his body.

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