Something Sinful (2 page)

“My father’s idea. Mother thought it was too native, but we never expected to leave Delhi.”

“Sarala,” he said again, savoring the way it rolled along his tongue. Just the sound of it conjured images of brightly colored saris and spicy curry and naked, sultry nights. “Lady Sarala. It suits you.”

“Hm. As I’m beginning to believe Charlemagne suits you. You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

Shay lifted an eyebrow. Obviously she didn’t have the least idea who he was. “I’m not certain that’s a compliment, though some members of my family might appreciate it.” He chuckled. “My older brother, especially.”

“The one with the family’s traditional Christian name. Who might he be? I’ve told you my family history. It’s only fair that you divulge yours.”

He hesitated. Charlemagne had no objection at all to being the second son and heir-presumptive to the Melbourne title. But if Lady Sarala Carlisle knew his heritage, she might not speak to him with the same refreshing freedom.

“Come now. Don’t tell me you’re a tailor masquerading as a nobleman,” Lady Sarala cajoled.

“Hardly.” The orchestra began a waltz, and he took her hand again, placing it over the dark blue sleeve of his superfine jacket. “I’ll tell you while we dance.”

“That’s very forward of you. What if I’ve given this dance to someone else?”

He looked down at her. “You haven’t.”

“And you know this because…”

“Because you barely know a soul in London. You just said so.” So she wasn’t the sharpest knife on the rack. Something about her conjured images of warm nights and soft silk sheets.

“I’m not at all certain this is proper.”

“It is,” he returned, drawing her closer. Whatever odd sensation had overcome him this evening, he intended to enjoy it. Charlemagne slid his hand around her slender waist—and stopped as a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“I’m occu—” he began as he looked behind him. “Oh, it’s you.”

Sebastian glanced from him to Lady Sarala and back again. “What’s amiss?”

Charlemagne tried to set aside his own mental debate over whether Melbourne had fantastical or abysmal timing. “Nothing’s amiss. I told Shipley I’d speak with him at nine o’clock, and you were naming offspring.”

“I believe you were going to tell me about that silk sh—”

“Later,” Charlemagne interrupted, flashing an unfelt grin at his brother. “As I said, I’m occupied.”

With a lifted eyebrow and one of his unreadable looks, Sebastian backed off.
Ha.
Shay didn’t need to be placated like an infant. And if Melbourne genuinely wanted to know about the silks, he could wait until after the waltz. Charlemagne swept Lady Sarala into the dance.

“Who was that?” Lady Sarala asked, looking from him to Sebastian.

“My brother, Melbourne.”

Her green eyes widened a little. “Melbourne, as in Sebastian Griffin, the Duke of Melbourne?”

So the foreign princess
did
know something of London Society. “I told you I wasn’t a tailor.”

“Yes, but I didn’t realize you were one of
those
Griffins. You’re famous. Your brother married a painter last year.”

“Not
that
brother,” Charlemagne returned, indicating Melbourne, “but yes. Zachary did.”

Her gaze went to Sebastian again. “He doesn’t look very pleased with you. It’s not because we’re dancing, is it?”

“I daresay I may dance with whomever I please,” he noted, sinking back into the humming, expectant energy between them. Damn Melbourne, anyway. At three-and-thirty Sebastian looked precisely like what he was—the very wealthy head of a powerful and well-favored family, and obviously a distracting personage to a naive and exotic foreign beauty. “He’s only annoyed because tomorrow I’m going to make a very lucrative business deal that he doesn’t know the least detail about. He hates being kept in the dark.”

Green eyes gazed at him luminously. “How exciting,” she breathed, her chest rising and falling with her quick breath. “Is this deal a secret, then?”

So now she found him more interesting than Melbourne again.
Good.
“No,” he answered, considering. “Not really.”

Her lips formed a slight, disappointed pout. “Oh.”

Damnation.
“I mean in a sense, I suppose it is a secret,” he amended hastily. Zachary was right; sometimes he could be very obtuse about women and their flighty imaginations. He hardly considered it to be his fault, however, that most females found business far beyond their ability to comprehend or appreciate. In this one instance he could decorate the canvas a little, he supposed. “If the wrong people should hear about it, the price of the shipment would treble.”

“‘Shipment’?” she repeated in a low voice. “Is it from America?”

“No, from China.”

“Oh, I’ve always longed to visit China,” she exclaimed, though she kept her voice low.

She was taking this “secret” silliness seriously. Charlemagne smiled at her. “Just between you and me, then, the ship
Wayward
docked at Blackfriar’s this afternoon. Her cargo is five hundred bolts of the very finest Chinese silk I’ve ever set eyes on. The captain’s sold cargo to me before, so I’m the only one he contacted.” He lowered his voice still further, though with the noise from the orchestra and the guests around them, he doubted anyone could overhear even if they wanted to. It sounded very conspiratorial, at any rate, and it gave him an excuse to hold her a little closer in his arms.

“Blink,” he continued, “bought the bolts outright rather—”

“Blink?” she broke in at a whisper.

“Peter Blink. The
Wayward
’s captain. He bought the shipment outright rather than taking a percentage for the transportation of the cargo…” Charlemagne trailed off, realizing that he was getting carried away again. She probably had no idea about the intricacies of business, and even less interest in them. She wanted to hear about intrigue and secrets. Little as he liked pointless flights of fancy, tonight he definitely felt in the mood to indulge this particular Indian princess.

He drew a breath. “So our captain is very eager to sell and recoup his expenses so he can pay his crew before they mutiny.”

“A mutiny?”

“Oh, definitely, if he can’t pay them. But since I am very eager to take possession of the silks, I doubt anyone will be gulleted.”

Lady Sarala clutched his fingers. “And when is this duel to prevent a gulleting to take place?”

“At ten o’clock tomorrow, which is why I won’t make an appearance until three-quarters past.”

“Goodness,” she breathed. “And that will make Captain Blink even more anxious and cause him to lower his price further.”

“That’s the idea,” he responded. Women might not have an interest in business, but they did appreciate power and confidence. Lady Sarala obviously realized that he had those qualities in spades.

“That’s brilliant.” She smiled again, her teeth white against skin tanned by the Indian sun. “And you do this sort of thing all the time?”

Charlemagne nodded. “All the time,” he murmured.

“Your brother the duke must rely on you for so much.”

And now back to Sebastian, damn it all.
“He does rely on me, but these silks are my affair. I have my own business in addition to shares in the family enterprise.” In fact, this wasn’t part of the general Griffin family business. It was his own venture, his own risk, with his own blunt.

She continued to gaze at him admiringly. “Your mother did name you well, Lord Charlemagne.”

If he’d been a female, he would have blushed. For the briefest of moments, though, Charlemagne wished the Indian princess had more to contribute to the conversation than compliments and a pleasantly heaving bosom. True, he didn’t expect much of most women—his sister Eleanor and Zach’s Caroline being exceptions to the rule of the prettier the face, the emptier the head—but that was exactly the reason his affairs tended to be brief and of secondary importance to the rest of his life. She would look very fine spread on his bedsheets, but if she could actually have comprehended his plan in more than the broad terms he’d laid out for her, this one would have been difficult to set aside.

The waltz ended, and at her request he escorted her to the refreshments table. Whatever doubts he had about her mental acuity, he still couldn’t seem to make himself bid her good evening. “Are you residing at Carlisle House, then?” he asked.

“We are.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t object if I called on you there.”

She lowered glittering lids. “Perhaps I wouldn’t.”

Charlemagne’s partner for the country dance cleared her throat from a few feet away, and he blinked. “Then perhaps I shall see you soon, Lady Sarala,” he murmured, kissing her knuckles again before he reluctantly released her.

As he moved through the country dance he noted that his princess remained unpartnered by the sweetmeats. It made sense; as she’d said she’d hardly had the time to become acquainted with anyone. And her appearance, while definitely…stimulating, could be a bit off-putting to some of the younger bucks. He definitely wouldn’t classify her as demure. Electrifying, perhaps, but not demure.

When he’d discharged his obligation for the next two dances, Charlemagne went out to the balcony for a breath of air. All evening long he could swear the scent of cinnamon clung to him, and it continued to leave him distinctly and uncharacteristically distracted.

“I’m not going to resort to dancing with you to get an answer,” Sebastian said, joining him at the balcony railing.

“Good God, I should hope not,” Charlemagne retorted.

“If you’d stayed home for another five minutes, I would have gotten to you, you know. A child for Eleanor is somewhat significant to her—and to all of us.”

“I’m aware of that.” He gave the duke a sideways look. “And I hope I haven’t given the impression that I require your approval before I venture any of my own blunt.”

“You never have before,” Sebastian conceded. “You’re a fine businessman, Shay, as if you needed the reassurance.” He sighed uncharacteristically. “Honestly, with the way Zachary’s been cornering me about his cattle breeding program, and now Nell with baby names, or ponies from Peep—well, my daughter comes first, of course—or
your
exploits, it’s not much of a contest.”

Charlemagne grinned. “So I may tell Zach and Nell that other than Peep, I’m your favorite?”

“Very amusing. At times you are the only one with any sense. I’ll grant you that. So tell me about the silks.”

“Not much to tell yet,” Charlemagne returned, shrugging, “except that I should be the proud owner of five hundred bolts by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.” He glanced at his older brother. “And I did have to meet with Shipley. I put him off until luncheon tomorrow. I wasn’t sulking.”

“I didn’t think you were, but your disappearance did surprise me a little.” The duke put an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s find some port to toast your success-to-be then, shall we?”

“By all means.”

And if Lady Sarala’s “perhaps” meant what he thought it did, they might very well be toasting his private success-to-be, as well. At any rate, he intended to have cinnamon in his tea in the morning.

“
What
other gentleman?” Charlemagne demanded, his voice clipped as he struggled not to strike the
Wayward
’s captain.

“The one—he was just here. Surely you passed him on your way in. I didn’t know—well, he said you—”

Snarling an expletive, Charlemagne strode out of Blink’s ramshackle warehouse office and back outside into the bright morning sun. Narrowing his eyes, he cast about for the man he’d barely given a first thought, much less a second. Tall, wearing dark, not terribly well-tailored clothes, a satchel—

There he was. Clenching his jaw, Shay started after him. This damned interloper and Blink had both just earned themselves a very large problem with a very angry Griffin.

A half-dozen sailors and dockworkers had begun loading bolts of silk—
his
silk—into a pair of wagons. Just in front of them, the tall man leaned into the window of a closed coach and handed over some papers to the occupant. Charlemagne slowed his approach to watch. Angry or not, he wasn’t a fool; the more he knew about the circumstances, the better his position would be. And damned Blink was the one who had blundered and sold the shipment out from under him; this fellow and whomever he worked for had merely taken advantage of that fact.

After a short conversation and a nod, the tall man pulled open the coach door and climbed in. Shay moved closer, dodging the workers who carried away his bolts of silk. He was rarely outmaneuvered, and he had a perverse desire to have a word with the fellow who had accomplished that feat today.

The coach began to rumble off, and he quickened his pace to a half run. “You there!” he shouted. “Stop that coach!” With a look back at him the driver pulled the team in, and Charlemagne drew even with the door. “Look here, there’s been some sort of mis—”

He stopped dead as all three of the coach’s occupants looked up at him. The tall man, a female clearly dressed as a maid, and the third one.
Her.
The Indian princess. The subject of the rather heated dream he’d had last night.

“You?”
he stammered.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said coolly, and rapped on the window with gloved knuckles. “Driver, carry on.”

“Just a damned minute, Sarala,” Charlemagne returned, striding after the coach. “You are not—”

She leaned out the window. “Oh, and thank you for the very helpful information, my lord,” she called, and disappeared inside again.

Several distinct and unpleasant thoughts roiled through his mind. So the chit thought she could best him—and taunt him. Charlemagne began to curse again. Moving fast and barely refraining from shoving people out of his way, he returned to where he’d left his horse Jaunty and his secretary Roberts, along with the men he’d hired to transport the silks.

“That was very quickly done, my lo—”

“Wait here,” he snapped at his secretary, swinging into the saddle. Not even the profanity spewing from beneath his breath could cool his temper. Sarala Carlisle hadn’t just thought to—she actually
had
bested him. And his first impulse was to ride down her damned coach and break her bloody neck.

Before he’d ridden beyond the end of the warehouse, though, Charlemagne slowed Jaunty to a halt. Angry—no, furious—as he was, first and foremost he was a Griffin. And Griffins didn’t kill people over business. Not unless they truly deserved it. And technically this was his fault. He’d discussed business with a lovely, simple chit only to discover that while she was indeed beautiful, he’d apparently erred in his assessment of her intelligence.

He pulled out his pocket watch.
Damnation.
He had a perplexed secretary and several laborers waiting for him, and a luncheon appointment with two commerce ministers. Slowly he turned the chestnut around and walked back to where Roberts waited. After luncheon, however, he had every intention of tracking down that blasted woman and getting his bloody shipment back.