Something Sinful (11 page)

Charlemagne pulled his greatcoat closer around his shoulders and turned up Pall Mall Street. No, walking tonight hadn’t been his most brilliant decision, but in his defense he damned well didn’t want to listen yet to Melbourne commenting about his impression of the Carlisles.

He knew precisely what his brother would say about Hanover and family: that Lord Hanover seemed jovial enough, Lady Hanover practically rabid about joining the Griffin social circle, and Sarala—well, she’d changed her name in order to appear more English. Too tanned and too forward, she might at least have kept her own name, foreign or not, though neither choice spoke particularly well for her. All in all they were acceptable, but hardly worth overlooking the oddities and detriments in exchange for the friendship.

Why had Melbourne invited them over in the first place? People generally sought him out—not the other way around. It was odd, and considering his own dealings with Sarala, troubling. This negotiation didn’t need his brother’s interference.

A dark figure slipped along a brick wall and into an alley in front of him.

Charlemagne slowed, listening.
Bloody hell.
He hadn’t brought his pistol to the recital. His only weapon was his walking cane, though thankfully that wasn’t as useless as it might appear. Surreptitiously he loosened the neck with his fingers, ready to drop the hollow sheath and expose the razor-sharp rapier inside.

Aware and wary, he continued along his path. Equal to his reputation for wit and sense was his rare and short temper. And despite Sarala’s actions, neither she nor anyone else had roused his anger in some time. His heart rate sped—not from fear, but from anticipation. Being wealthy didn’t make him helpless, for Lucifer’s sake. Not even close.

At this time of night the streets were generally still fairly busy with people leaving the theater, gentlemen arriving at or leaving clubs, or ladies who did their best work by lamplight. Tonight with the cold and damp, he could have been in London alone.

He continued on to the next street, but nothing else caught his attention. No sound but the distant clattering of hooves on cobblestone, no movement but the light, chill breeze that bent the ends of the grass growing at the foot of the wall. And still every muscle and sinew told him that someone watched him.

The sensation followed him the remaining five streets to Griffin House. A night at the club and a brandy might be exactly what he needed, but he also knew the wisdom of a safe port and reinforcements. Those lay ahead of him. And whether this was all in his imagination or not, he didn’t take risks. Not of that sort, anyway.

Stanton pulled open the door as he reached it. “You’ve beaten the rain, my lord,” the butler intoned, stepping aside to let him pass.

“Close the door,” Charlemagne murmured, still facing the interior of the house.

The door clicked shut. “Is something amiss, my l—”

“Is Melbourne home?”

“Yes. I beg your—”

Charlemagne bolted the door. “Keep an eye out,” he said over his shoulder, and strode up the stairs. The billiards room lay at the front of the house, and he hurried to the window. Standing to one side of the curtains, he surveyed up and down the street. Nothing. “Damn,” he muttered.

“Shay?”

Without looking, he knew that Sebastian stood in the darkened doorway behind him. “Just an odd feeling,” he said, his gaze still on the dark outside.

“What sort of odd feeling?” Quietly Sebastian joined him at the far side of the window.

“I kept thinking someone was watching me.” Charlemagne turned from the view. His brother was studying him, his expression cool and alert despite the late hour. “It…Looking at it now, it must have been my imagination.”

The duke nodded. “You being so prone to flights of fancy and hysterics. What did you see?”

Charlemagne shrugged. “A shadow. Probably an owl or a stray cloud. I’ll tell Stanton to go to bed. Apologies for the disruption.”

“Don’t apologize, Shay. And I’ll see to Stanton.” Slowly Sebastian pulled the curtains closed, shutting the night out for both of them.

With a sigh Charlemagne led the way out of the room. Melbourne at least had the compassion not to make fun, but he might as well not have troubled with the restraint. “Which is worse?” he asked, “being wrong about being followed or having a herd of ruffians attacking the house?”

The duke clapped him on the shoulder. “The ruffians,” he answered. “Though anyone would have to be insane to attempt a siege on this house.”

And yet this morning someone had attempted to break into Gaston House. A coincidence? Logically, yes, but obviously it had been enough to make him uneasy. “It was an owl, Seb. Or a shadow.” As if on cue the rain began again outside, tapping quiet fingers against the windows. “Or perhaps I’m just getting old and forgetful.”

“You can’t be, because I’m five years older than you are, and I’m still young and vigorous. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night.”

Caine waited in his private rooms, but Charlemagne sent him off to bed. Unsettled as he felt this evening, he didn’t want a valet hovering over him.

He shed most of his clothes and blew out the bedside candle, then took a seat by the window. With the curtains partially pulled he had a view of the carriage drive at the side of the house and not much more. If he had a mind to sneak into Griffin House, however, the narrow drive offered the best way to the back of the mansion.

For a long time he sat unmoving, watching through the dark mist of rain. Whatever he’d told Sebastian, the shadow hadn’t felt like an owl. And for other than that brief moment of passing shade, he or it had been stealthy enough to completely avoid his detection.

When an hour had passed with no further shadows or even a damp, prowling cat, he rose, pulled on a dressing robe, and made his way quietly downstairs. No harm in making a quick check of the windows in case any of them might be open to the rain. Or he could tell himself that was the reason, though why he bothered with the self-deception, he didn’t know. Something had made him uneasy, and he simply wasn’t quite ready, yet, to ignore the prickling sensation along the back of his skull.

Charlemagne moved silently into the morning room. Just as he paused, he heard it—a swift, quiet intake of breath.

He ducked as a form launched at him from the corner. Twisting at the same moment, he shoved upward. With a yelp his opponent launched into the air and over the back of the couch. Growling, his blood up, Charlemagne charged after him. How dare anyone launch an attack against this house—his brother lived here. His seven-year-old niece lived here.

“Have at you, you bastard,” he snarled, coiling his fist around the man’s collar and yanking him upright. A table crashed over, dumping a vase of roses and one of his history of Greece books onto the floor.

Another figure galloped into the darkness. “Hold there, you scoundrel!” Stanton’s strident voice came, followed by the distinct sound of a pistol cocking.

“Thank God, Stanton! Help!” the other man yelped before Charlemagne could say anything.

Charlemagne jerked his attacker closer even as what the man had said began to sink in. The fellow knew the butler’s name. And further, Stanton was advancing on
him,
the pistol aimed in the general direction of his head.

“What the devil is going on?” he rumbled.

The butler froze. “Lord Charlemagne?”

“Get some damned light in here, Stanton!”

As if on cue, Sebastian thundered down the stairs and into the morning room. He held a lantern in one hand, and a pistol in the other. “Stanton, what—” His gaze locked on Charlemagne’s for a heartbeat, then the pistol lowered. “Oh.”

“Ah, my lord?” a half-strangled voice came from just beyond his fist. “If you don’t mind, I—”

Charlemagne loosened his grip and Tom the footman staggered backward. “Apologies,” he said stiffly, his gaze still on his older brother. “A word with you, Melbourne?”

Sebastian nodded. “As you were, Stanton.”

“Very good, Your Grace. Tom, get yourself a cup of tea and return to your post.”

With his older brother on his heels, Charlemagne returned to the hallway beneath the stairs. “You set guards.”

“I asked Stanton to have a few servants keep an eye on the house.” With a half smile the duke brushed by him and returned upstairs. “Try not to kill any of them.”

“I told you that I must have seen an owl.”

“Someone broke into your home. As you know, we have enemies. I’m not going to ignore the possibility that one of them might be desperate enough to attempt to directly do any of us harm.” Sebastian paused on the landing. “And even without all that, to paraphrase Hamlet, I believe you can tell a hawk from a handsaw.”

“Only when the wind is north by northwest, apparently.”

“Well, it’s blowing tonight. Go to bed, Shay. The house is secure.”

Slowly Charlemagne followed his brother upstairs to the first floor. The house might be secure, but he wasn’t so certain about his own mind.

“A picnic and a drive. That’s splendid. Do you think his brother might join you?”

She didn’t bother to ask which brother she might be referring to. “I hardly think the Duke of Melbourne would go on a picnic with his brother, me, or anyone else. And besides, everyone but you seems resigned to the idea that Melbourne will never remarry.”

“One never knows, my love. Wear your green muslin, just in case. And that pearl necklace of yours.”

“Mama, I am not wearing pearls on a picnic. I thought you wanted me to fit in, not become the female at whom everyone points and laughs.”

The marchioness sighed. “Very well. All I can do is try.”

She breezed out of the room again, and Sarala glanced at the clock sitting on the mantel. He would be by in just over two hours. A small flutter of nerves ran through her. Oh, she did enjoy a good negotiation.

Of course he would have to view this seriously and stop flirting with her before she could actually call it a negotiation. At the moment she wasn’t certain what this little meeting would mean, though she had to admit that the whole episode was rather fun. And different. And the most interesting thing she’d encountered since the family had left India.

Her mother didn’t reappear for breakfast, and her father had asked for eggs and ham to be delivered to his office. That couldn’t be good. Her late Uncle Roger’s debts were causing a continuing slow leak of the family coffers, and she knew the situation increasingly worried the new Marquis of Hanover. Doing well as a merchant and doing well enough to support three estates, a London house, and a London life, were completely different animals.

That was why despite her nerves this morning she’d volunteered to run an errand for her father. Luckily Uncle Roger had several rather valuable if hideous antiques she’d been authorized to dispose of.

The butler appeared in the doorway. “My lady, you have a caller.”

Immediately her heart began to pound. But Shay had said noon; of that she was certain. “Who is it, Blankman?”

The butler produced a salver. A calling card with a pretty embossed silver border of vines and roses lay in the middle of the silver tray. Ornate lettering spelled out the name of Eleanor, Lady Deverill. In the upper left corner a small, regal griffin perched. Interesting that the marchioness chose to keep part of her family’s ancient coat of arms, whatever her married name and status might be. And they were certainly nothing to sneeze at.

But why would Lady Deverill want to see her, and at half past nine in the morning? “Where do you have her waiting?” she asked, wiping butter from her fingertips and standing.

“In the morning room, my lady,” Blankman returned, his tone indicating that she should have known that. She supposed all the good guests were stashed in the morning room; where the inferior ones went, she had no idea. The cellar, perhaps.

“Very good. Please have some tea brought in for us.”

Sarala hurried down the hallway, made a quick check of her appearance in the mirror there, and strolled through the open morning room door. With perfect brunette hair, perfectly coiffed, and an elegant blue morning gown beneath a darker blue pelisse studded with what looked like sapphires, Eleanor Griffin-cum-Corbett looked like precisely what she was: one of the wealthiest, loveliest, and most influential young ladies in England.

“Good morning, my lady.” As the marchioness faced her, Sarala made a shallow curtsy.

“Lady Sarah,” the marchioness returned in her smooth, cultured voice. “I apologize for calling on you so early in the day.”

“Not at all. I was about to step out to see Mr. Pooley.”

“The antiques dealer?”

“Yes,” Sarala returned, covering her surprise. How would a wealthy marchioness know of a minor antiques buyer? Whatever the answer, Lady Deverill certainly didn’t need to know that the Carlisle family was selling heirlooms—even ugly, disliked ones.

For a brief moment Eleanor Corbett looked as though she expected an invitation to join the expedition, but she recovered her expression so quickly that Sarala might have imagined it. Instead the marchioness smiled.

“I enjoyed meeting you last night,” she said. “I thought since you’ve had such a short time to become acquainted with anyone, that I would invite you to join me for luncheon the day after tomorrow. Some of my friends and I meet once a week. I think you would like them, and they, you.”

Again Sarala was surprised, and deeply pleased. The circle of ladies whom Lady Deverill called friend was the most selective, well-respected, and sought-after in London. They certainly didn’t need an unknown almost-foreigner joining them, but she’d missed female friendship, and she had liked what she knew of the lady standing before her. Still, her negotiator’s instincts told her that she mustn’t appear too eager. “That’s very kind of you, my lady, but I—”

“Eleanor, please. And say you’ll come, at least once.”

So the marchioness was apparently sincere. That was some good news. Sarala nodded. “I believe I am free on Friday.”

The marchioness smiled. “Wonderful. I’ll send a coach for you at half past twelve.”

Sarala couldn’t help her return smile. Lady Deverill continued to seem genuinely pleased by her answer. “I’ll see you then, my la—Eleanor.”

For several minutes after the marchioness left, Sarala sat alone in the morning room. That had been odd, if opportune. In light of that, perhaps she should just be thankful and accept the gift of friendship offered her.

“Sarala? Oh, there you are.” Her father leaned into the room, glanced about the interior, and entered.

“Has my name reverted, then?” she asked, facing him. “Thank goodness.”

“Oops. No. You’re still Sarah. It was my mistake.” He cocked his head as she met his answer with a dour expression. “You’re not still upset about the moniker alteration, are you? It’s harmless, really.”

“Honestly, I still don’t see the point. If the plan was to Anglify me, it should have been done before we arrived here. At this point it merely seems to be causing confusion among those whose acquaintance I made during the first ten days of our residence here.” At least Charlemagne hadn’t yet bowed to her parents’ belated attempts to make her more…bland.

The marquis gave a half smile. “I don’t want to see
you
changed, you know. Not the important bits, anyway.”

“My thanks. Have you sent for Mr. Warrick yet? I want to get that old clock to Mr. Pooley before anyone else ventures into the streets to see what we’re doing.” Though if Lady Deverill was already making calls, the rest of Mayfair might very well be, too.

“That’s why I came looking for you. There’s no need to go see Pooley this morning, after all.”

“No? Did you find money buried beneath the stairs?”

“If only. No, the Duke of Melbourne’s youngest brother, Lord Zachary—do you remember him from last night?—sent over a note asking if I’d be willing to rent him that pasture land we inherited outside of Bath. He’s breeding cattle there, you know.”

Sarala stifled her quick frown. “Yes, I’d heard something about that.”

“What a coup that a Griffin wants to do business with us. We—or you—must have made quite an impression last night.”

She’d barely spoken with anyone but Shay last night. Apparently
someone
had been impressed, however, because in one morning she’d gone from a rivalry with one Griffin to entanglements with two additional members of the family. What were the odds of it all being coincidence? “Can’t we get rid of the clock anyway, Pati?” she asked, because he would expect her to say something. “It’s covered with all those very well-endowed hunting dogs.”

Her father snorted. “I’ll see if I can relegate it to the attic collection. We may need it again, eventually.” He pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. “I have to go and meet Lord Zachary. This rental money won’t save us, but it should stave off the wolves for another few weeks. Which reminds me—do you have good news for me yet about those silks?”

She nodded. “Three merchants so far have expressed an interest. I’d like to wait another few days to see what else comes in before I set a price. And I still have that offer for seven hundred and fifty guineas, though I wouldn’t dream of selling for that price.”

The marquis chuckled again. “So you have that worm still dangling on your hook? I wish I had time to sit in on the negotiations. You are an artist, my dear. If you decide to deal, just don’t take every guinea he owns.”

“I promise, Papa.” She only wished she would have that chance.
That
would be something to see.

“Good, my love. I’ll see you for dinner, yes?”

“And the theater. Remember, the new production of
The Tempest
premieres tonight at Drury Lane.”

“How could I forget?” He smiled again. “You see, there is something about London you appreciate.”

Sarala sighed. “Yes, one something.”

“It’s a starting point, though.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

After her father left, Sarala returned to her bedchamber to work some figures. Once again she wished for her own office, but she knew as well as anyone that that would never happen. As she’d expected, Madame Costanza had made an offer for ten bolts, at two guineas apiece. The other two shops had offered a bit less and were in for only two bolts of silk each. It was a poor way to dispose of such a large shipment, but unless she could hook a large distributor, it seemed the most practical way to go. Unless of course Charlemagne decided to be reasonable.

She tucked the letters into her reticule in case he needed proof that she wasn’t simply sitting about waiting to play with him. The minimum price she would accept for the entire shipment was twelve hundred guineas. Charlemagne Griffin could easily afford that, but would he pay it? He’d scoffed at her price of five thousand pounds, but in all truth she’d expected him to. Today, though, she meant to be serious; fun as the bantering was, her father needed the money.

With that new determination in mind, she summoned Jenny again. “Will you please fetch my brown and yellow muslin?” she asked as soon as the maid arrived.

“Your mama said you were to wear the new green one today, my lady.” It had already been laid out for her, in fact; a low-cut, slim-waisted creation perfect for attracting a man’s attentions. Of course the man her mother had in mind was the Duke of Melbourne, and she wasn’t likely to see him today—and even if that weren’t the case, she knew as well as anyone that if he did ever mean to remarry, his eyes would be raised toward a much loftier prize than she represented. As for his brother, after those surprising kisses and considering her family’s need, she meant to make it very clear that she had nothing on her mind but business.

Frowning at the green confection, Sarala picked up her embroidery scissors and walked to the bed. Ignoring Jenny’s gasp, she cut the seam along the front six inches of the dress’s hem. “There. I can’t wear it like that, and you can’t be blamed for not carrying out my mother’s instructions.”

“Oh, dear,” the maid muttered.

“We’ll say I was putting it on and accidentally stepped on the hem. The brown and yellow dress, if you please.”

“Very well, my lady.”

Despite the simple and conservative look of the gown she’d chosen, it took her an inordinately long time to dress. Thank goodness she hadn’t had to go to Pooley’s, or she never would have been ready in time. She turned this way and that, checking to see that from every conceivable angle she looked like a serious business woman—competent, confident, and not to be trifled with. No more of that kissing, for heaven’s sake. Besides being contrary to the practices of fair negotiations, it had nearly accomplished what Lord Charlemagne had intended—to leave her befuddled and confused and far too amenable to any offer he might make.

“Are you certain you won’t at least wear the gold comb in your hair, my lady?” Jenny pleaded. “Please forgive me for saying it, but this attire looks quite…plain.”

“Plain is my aim,” Sarala said firmly. “And I shan’t need a comb, because I will be wearing my brown bonnet.”

“Your brown…Yes, my lady.”

Even she couldn’t claim to be particularly fond of the brown oversized monstrosity of a hat, but it had been a gift from Nahi’s grandmother. At the moment she was glad she’d kept it, despite her private assessment that it could be used as a dwelling for a small family.

There. Hair pulled back into a tight knot, any loose strands around her face both minimized and hidden by her plain brown bonnet, and a simple, high-necked brown and yellow muslin covered by an equally plain brown pelisse, all up to her throat and down nearly to her fingers. Clearly she wouldn’t welcome or tolerate any nonsense. And in her private opinion, she’d never looked more English.

With a last turn in front of the full-length mirror, she went downstairs to await Lord Charlemagne and pretend that she was as composed on the inside as she looked on the outside. No fluttering nerves for her. She wondered which strategy he would attempt today: whether he meant to flatter and seduce, or bully, or actually be logical and fair-minded. She felt ready for anything her rather sneaky opponent might attempt.