An Invitation to Sin (3 page)

A Dulcinea, in other words. No wonder Mrs. Jamison’s heroines were always of that type. But then why the doorway into the other house? Lady Delabury had her Roland.

Perhaps. Perhaps the poor lady had been married to Count Nacre and had dreamed of escape.

“What was Lord Delabury like?” Anna asked.

“Oh, a very handsome young man and a good employer. He gave up living here, though, after the death, and stays at his estate in the north nearly all the time. A sad tale … Maggie, come cut up these turnips … Look, miss, we’ve got to get on with dinner now.”

Anna took the hint, but instead of returning to the house, she chose to wander out into the garden, her mind churning with speculation. For Lady Delabury to have a room made in the image of a chamber in one of her books was eccentric but understandable. For her to incorporate a secret doorway into the house next door was another matter entirely. For one thing, it would surely require the consent of the owners of both properties.

And if the secret door was part of
the incident,
and Arthur had been right in what he said, then Lady Delabury had been the Earl of Carne’s ladybird even though she was quite recently married to a pleasant young man who adored her. And she had killed herself.

It was all deliciously intriguing.

Anna played with ideas as she wandered the uninspired garden, pulling up a weed here or there. At the limit of the garden she turned to look back at the row of houses. They told her nothing, however. Number 10, with its blinds drawn, was particularly uncommunicative.

There was a gate in the back of the garden and Anna saw that it opened onto the mews. There was a gate from the mews into the garden of number 10, too. She resisted the temptation to explore. The garden was unlikely to hold the key to the mystery.

She returned to the house and her unsatisfactory books, and waited for night.

To Anna’s frustration, her family was no longer tired from the journey, and they would never believe it if she claimed to be. If she tried to go to bed early, they’d send for the doctor.

It was very pleasant to play whist and read a little, but she was desperate to go adventuring.

The only progress she made with her mystery came from one comment by her father.

“I don’t think we need worry about the earl. The general opinion seems to be that he died on one of his wild adventures. In fact his heir, a cousin, has started a court case to have him declared dead.”

“I think that’s rather horrid,” Anna said, thinking of the young man in the portrait, for she suspected he might be the earl.

“It’s practical, Pippin. Servants are all very well, but a large estate should not be left unsupervised for so many years.”

Conversation turned then to another case of neglect and Anna learned nothing more.

At half-past ten, Lady Featherstone declared that it was time for her daughters to get their beauty sleep and they obligingly went to their bedrooms.

Martha came and went, Anna was officially in bed, and at last the adventure could begin. Even if the earl were dead, there was a mystery to be solved. She needed to do some research, and the library of number 10 was the place to do it. Anna had persuaded her conscience that if she didn’t take the books away it was not very naughty, and so she slipped through into the next house. Once there, she crept quickly, carefully, down the stairs to the library.

Safely behind the closed door, she placed her candle on the marquetry table and surveyed the bound copies of magazines and journals. Somewhere among them would be mention of
the incident.

She looked first at the yearly report called
The Annual Register.
It did not take her long to find a reference, though it was frustratingly brief.

May 25, 1809. On this night a great uproar was heard in the handsome environs of Carne Terrace, when a lady of gentle birth and fine family was found to have done away with herself by means of laudanum. This tragic event was made bewildering because the lady, wife of Viscount D******y, died not in her own bed, but in the bed of her neighbor, the Earl of C****.

Heavens! That certainly would have set the cat among the pigeons.

The noble earl, however, was not in residence at the time, being at his estate in Norfolk.

And that must certainly have saddened the scandal mongers. Still, many had clearly deduced that the lady was his mistress.

Unless it had been well-known before.

The circumstances were made yet more mysterious by the fact that the earl’s heir, Lord M********le, was hosting a bachelor party on a lower floor. Neither he, his well-born
guests, nor the servants saw the lady enter in her nightgown. A doctor was summoned, but life had long since departed.

Anna stopped to ponder that. Who was the present earl? The one whose bed the lady had chosen to die in, or the heir carousing downstairs? She suspected the latter, and a glance at Burke’s confirmed it. The current earl was now thirty years old and there was no Lord Manderville. What was more startling was that the earl had acceded to the title in May 1809, only days after Lady Delabury’s death.

Anna returned the Burke’s to the shelf and searched other publications for more details. She had almost given up when she found more in the
London Report.

The account of the event was similar to that in
The Annual Register,
but this one continued to cover the inquest.

… a doctor brought in by the lady’s grieving husband stated that certain bruises on the arms suggested that the lady could have been compelled to consume the cause of her death, but since it was equally impossible that a murderer sneak into the house, and as Lord M********le and his friends all vouched for one another, that none had left the room during the evening, and in view of the fact that the lady was found clutching a farewell note to her poor bereaved husband, a judgment of suicide was made.

Anna closed the book. No wonder people thought the worst of the current earl, the then Lord Manderville. The death had been suspicious, and it was more than likely that he and his cronies would stick together.

What puzzled her was that no one seemed to know about the secret door or they would not wonder how Lady Delabury gained access to this house. It was particularly strange that Lord Delabury not know of it. Could he, in fact, have been the murderer?

She would dearly like to know what was in that note. What reason had the beautiful, talented young woman given for taking her life? Guilt because she was Lord Manderville’s mistress?

But why had a recently married woman sought a lover? Anna assumed Lord Manderville was the young man of the portrait, so she could see the appeal, but it did seem strange behavior, even for London. It suggested that her husband must have been a monster beneath his charming exterior.

But what of Lord Manderville, the prime suspect? Anna could believe that the young man of the portrait—a few years older—would have taken a neighbor’s wife as lover. She could believe he had spent an evening carousing with his friends. She could not believe that he would have callously forced his mistress to drink laudanum.

She sat at the table, chin on hands, to ponder it all. What else might have happened? If Lady Delabury had been Lord Manderville’s mistress, then she might have been at his party. Had it been some kind of orgy? Anna had read enough ancient history to know about orgies. She understood that quite sensible people could be carried into extremes of vice and passion.

Perhaps the young man had gone into exile out of grief and guilt because his wild party had turned into fatal disaster—especially if the events had led to the death of his father, perhaps from shame …

The candle was shrinking and it was time for Anna to return to her own room. She replaced the books thoughtfully, informed but dissatisfied. There was surely a great deal more to
the incident
but she was no longer sure what questions to ask.

Before leaving, she turned to the shelf of novels, wondering if there might be answers there. There clearly was some connection between
Forbidden Affections
and the unfortunate death, since the author had caused that room to be made.

Anna opened the glass door and hesitated. She would have to take the volumes back to her room to study them, and that was the line she had drawn for herself—she would not remove anything from the house.

But she needed to know the truth. She reached out for the first volume of
Forbidden Affections
—

With a click, the door behind her opened.

Anna froze, wondering in wild irrationality whether staying very still would make her invisible. But it wouldn’t, so she turned slowly to stare, appalled, at the man staring back at her.

She was caught.

And surely she was caught by the wicked earl himself. Tall, dark, and authoritative, it was the young man in the picture some ten or more years older.

The astonished silence stretched, and then the earl closed the door and approached. “I was not aware that the Murchi-sons had hired staff. You do know you are likely to be on the street in the morning, girl?”

He thought her a servant intruding where she had no business to be. “Beg pardon, sir,” Anna mumbled, thinking furiously. If she could just get out of this room without revealing her identity, he might never know who she was.

She was going to die of embarrassment if this got back to her parents!

He came closer, and her heart raced with even more immediate fears. Gracious, but he was tall and broad. Of course, that could be the effect of his heavily caped greatcoat. But then he shrugged it off and dropped it on a chair and was still tall and broad. His dark jacket and leather riding breeches did not soften him one bit.

She remembered the portrait wistfully. That young man had seemed a friend, but this person was entirely different. There was no laughter in those blue eyes now and the lines of his face spoke of experience and ruthless ways. He even bore a scar down one cheek. Wicked or not, Anna feared the earl was most certainly a dangerous man.

Was he a murderer, though?

If he discovered that she had been looking into the death of Lady Delabury, would he kill again?

Anna was not of a nervous temperament, but she liked to think she knew when it was reasonable to be afraid.

She was afraid now.

He sat in a winged chair, stretched his legs as if he owned the place, and eyed her thoughtfully.

He does own the place!
Anna told her mind, which was turning giddy with fear.
Think. Think. We have to get out of here!

She considered running for the door but had no doubt that he could stop her. If she was to conceal her identity, she had to persuade him to let her leave peaceably.

He slowly pulled off his black leather gloves, watching her every minute. “Since you’re here, girl, you can make yourself useful. Pour me some brandy.” When she did not move, he added, “I suppose it’s to your credit that you don’t know where it is. In that table there. Raise the lid and there should be glasses and a full decanter unless my orders have been ignored.”

Anna swallowed and went to the table to do as he said. Other reasons for fear were occurring to her. She was here alone with a gentleman—a wicked gentleman—in her
nightgown.
With not a stitch under it! Even though it was of thick cotton, high-necked and long-sleeved, she felt as if he must feel her nakedness as she did, open to the breeze of her movements across the room. He would know from her bare feet that she wore no stockings.

Just see what a bramble-patch your curiosity has led you to, Anna Featherstone! And you knew all along it was wrong and foolish.

Anna’s hands shook as she opened the table to lift the heavy-based tumbler and the cut-glass decanter. She managed to pour the brandy without spilling any, then put the decanter down and turned.

His brows were raised. “Do you think you’re serving a dowager? Fill it up, girl!”

Anna looked at the glass, at the modest amount she had poured, the amount her father would drink. A full glass would surely deprive a man of his wits. But that might be good. She filled it almost to the brim.

Then she had to take it to him. She wished her arms would suddenly become ten feet long, but they didn’t and so she had to walk over to stand by his chair.

She waited, but he made no attempt to reach for the glass, and so she had to press against his stretched legs to put it in his right hand. His boots rubbed against her calves through the cotton and something—almost an emanation—set her nerves jumping with panic. As soon as he took the glass she stepped back but his left hand shot out to seize the front of her nightdress.

“Oh, no, you don’t. What’s your name?”

Anna leaned back, desperate that his hand not brush her body. “Maggie!” she gasped, plucking the first name that came to mind.

He gathered in more of the cotton, pulling her closer, bringing her body close to his fist. “Well, Maggie, were you going to steal the books, or can you actually read?”

“I can read, sir!”

He drank from the glass in his right hand. “My lord,” he corrected. A glint in his eye told her he knew just how uncomfortable she was.

“Sorry, milord,” she muttered, though she wanted to do the wretch a very painful physical injury. What right had he to tease a poor maid this way, even if he had found her in his library? And more to the point, what were his true intentions? Anna knew how the wicked part of the world behaved.

“You’ll have to prove it,” he said.

Anna jumped. “Prove what, milord?”

He abruptly released her. “That you can read. Choose one of those revolting novels and read me a passage.”

Anna thought again of running, but knew it was pointless. Instead she accepted the test. Once he saw she was in here in search of reading material, perhaps he would let her go even if he did intend to dismiss her in the morning. Once she was out of this room unescorted, she could be back in her bed in moments.