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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

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BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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Del moved through the crowd slowly, pausing here and there to speak when he was acknowledged. He let his eyes wander, noticeably looking for her, before he politely excused himself to move on, so everyone might watch, take note of his passage, and wonder to whom he was going. So everyone might make conjectures and bandy his filthy reputation about until he moored up next to her, snug and familiar, as if they had long ago been introduced and were more than acquaintances. As if they were intimate.
He would smile at her in a way that would tell he had seen everything there was to see beneath that concoction of silk and embroidery draping her frame and been very pleased, indeed. Her reputation would be linked—and tarred—with his. The mere fact of his notice, his singling her out, would stain The Ravishing Miss Burke’s porcelain reputation before he even had to charm her into relinquishing the last of her good name.
As he prowled closer, the whispers began. He heard snatches of his denouncement from every quarter, especially from the Gorgon’s group of matrons.
“. . . ought to keep to London. He and his friends act in the most scandalous fashion.”
“. . . reputation quite beyond the pale. This past year, when he ought to have been in mourning . . .”
“. . . carousing in public with sailors and ruffians of all sorts . . .”
“They say he delights in prizefights! The other night at the Heart of Oak tavern, dreadful place on the waterfront, they say he fought . . .”
“Though he
is
a Viscount, he doesn’t normally move in polite society.”
“. . . heard of one drunken rout out at Glass Cottage . . .”
The Gorgon herself, Lady Caroline Burke, was one of the few to actually meet his gaze. She gave as good as she got, fixing him with a gimlet, disapproving eye. “I’ll have nothing to do with the likes of him, Viscount or no. Libertine, that’s what he is. He ought know he’s not wanted here, amongst civilized people.”
Oh, but he was definitely
wanted
there. By any number of women who were at that very moment casting looks as sharp, delicate, and subtly dangerous as fly lures in his direction. Angling they called it. Del lowered his chin and smiled through half-closed eyes at their flutterings of eyelashes and knowing, come-hither smiles. He had not spent all his time since he had arrived in Dartmouth thinking only of vengeance and retribution. The local ladies had been more than accommodating and deeply appreciative of his diligent attentions.
But, he gave the ladies no more than a knowing smile and a passing glance. He was saving his lethal brand of charm for The Ravishing Miss Burke. He was stalking her like prey through this heated jungle of silk and feathers. He would track her down and ruffle that carefully preened plumage of hers. He would pin her down with nothing but his eyes and his words, and devour her.
But he was too late. McAlden had stolen a march on him and was dancing with her. Maybe even warning her. But Del could turn it to his advantage. McAlden’s reputation was not as a libertine or a ladies man. Quite the opposite, but he was still known as a dangerous and not-altogether civilized man—who never danced. His dancing with Miss Burke might not shake her reputation, but it would certainly stir it up a bit. The Viscount Darling’s own presence beside her would finish the trick McAlden’s dancing had started. She would be talked about.
Del kept up his steady path through the crowd, still pausing here and there to speak, until the music came to an end with a smattering of applause. He stepped to the edge of the dance floor to intercept them, but his quarry had flown. Celia Burke was nowhere to be seen.
A few moments ago she had been floating above the dance floor, a beautiful, untouchable ice princess, her dark eyes unlit, her face bearing the slightest of smiles and her arched brows giving her a haughty demeanor. But, she was gone. She had thwarted him.
The Ravishing Miss Celia Burke.
Fuck her
.
With a hunter’s instinct, Del turned towards the far end of the room, where glass-paned doors led to the ubiquitous terrace and country garden. He knew McAlden would need air after the purgatory of dancing. Perhaps he could find Miss Burke attempting to amuse Hugh, languidly fanning her pale, haughty cheeks in some conveniently darkened corner. Yet, as he strolled across the flagstones and down the gravel paths, neither Miss Burke nor McAlden was anywhere to be seen.
Damn her for a clever jade. He would have to regroup. Del turned his feet and his thoughts back towards the house. His friends should have already found the Marquess of Widcombe’s stash of smuggled French brandy in the library—somewhere across the house in the opposite wing.
If he went back through the ballroom, there would be more censorious looks and disapproving stares. He found he was no longer in the mood for them. He felt thwarted and caged—in the mood to bash heads together the way he had at the local Heart of Oak tavern three nights ago. Best to avoid the ballroom altogether.
He set off across the inner courtyard to the wing opposite the ballroom that housed the library. The curtains were drawn and the outer doors locked. He might have gone on, rattling doors until he was heard, but he noticed a window open to the evening’s breeze at the very end of the wing. A lamp was lit inside. In the warm glow of the light, it looked to be a part of the library—perhaps the Marquess’s personal book room—with a desk and a chair, most likely giving into the library. If he couldn’t have Celia Burke, at least he could have a decent drink while he pondered his next move.
C
HAPTER
3
C
elia was beyond hesitation. Every pair of eyes felt unfriendly, every stranger a threat. She tried to catalogue and keep track, separating them into their respective identifications of relations, friends, acquaintances, and others—those who were unknown and therefore unclassified, their characters and motives a mystery to her—until the ballroom felt close and constricted, and she couldn’t stand the scrutiny any longer.
She skirted the dance floor and hurried in the general direction of the ladies withdrawing room before ducking out of sight into the servants’ corridor. Thank God the ball was at her uncle’s estate, and she could find her way without assistance. She knew Widcombe Court almost as well as she knew her own house.
In another moment, she was safely hidden behind locked doors in her uncle’s book room, leaning against the table to catch her breath. It was a small room with bookshelves, a single table, and one armchair before the fire, but it had always felt safe and comfortable, a place where she could read her uncle’s collection of the
Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society
without fear of detection or interruption. Even cousin Ronald never thought to look for her there.
Celia sat down and drew another calming breath. She had to get a hold of herself and her runaway fears. She had to rise to the challenge. If not for herself, then for Emily’s sake. Resolution steadied her.
What on earth could Commander McAlden have discovered that he was not willing to say? Unworthy men? His warning was vague at best. According to her mother,
most
men were unworthy.
Celia reached through her skirts into her pocket and pulled the wretched piece of paper out to study anew. Emily had taught her to observe the many minute facets of life. Everything—people, animals, plants, insects and even clouds—almost everything under creation had something, some characteristic that set it apart from the rest of creation. It all depended upon how closely one looked.
She schooled her heart to beat more slowly so she could look. And think. And approach the blackmail logically. She read the terse note again.
We know what you did in Bath with Emily Delacorte.
The implication was chilling, more so because it was a lie. The blackmailer could not possibly know what they had done, because they had
done
nothing. Their work—the collecting, cataloguing, and drawing of plant specimens—had been undertaken with the utmost discretion, and with concern for the reputation of the school and their beloved headmistress, Miss Hadley, lest her establishment be labeled a haven for blue-stockings.
But the letter was not referring to science. Its filthy implications were about Emily and the reason she had died. And how she had died. That she had drowned herself over a love affair with Celia.
A wave of dark, bitter guilt and shame washed over Celia, pushing her momentarily under, leaving her chilled to the marrow.
It was all so cruel. She had never suspected, never seen any indication Emily had felt such unrequited passion. Surely if Emily had felt so deeply as to kill herself, there would have been some sign, some word. But try as she had, for over a year, Celia could recall nothing. She had loved Emily as a sister and been deeply grieved and horrified by her death.
But most important, Celia could not fathom how anyone else could have knowledge of such a thing. The suicide note found in Emily’s room was known only to Celia, Miss Hadley, and Emily’s father, the Earl of Cleeve. At the Earl’s direction, Miss Hadley had put it about that Emily had died of a putrid fever, had closed the school immediately, and sent the girls home for the rest of the term.
Miss Hadley would never attempt to blackmail Celia with a threatening, anonymous note. The idea was preposterous. When she looked at the paper with a more analytical gaze, the writing, while clear and steady, lacked the elegant flair of Miss Hadley’s hand.
The thought prompted Celia to cross to the low cupboard and extract a quill, paper, and ink. If she could identify all the unique characteristics of the letter and list them down, she might be able to discern the hand behind it. Of course, even if she could discover who was blackmailing her, it did not follow she could make them stop. And it certainly wasn’t going to get her the necessary funds. But at least it gave her a semblance of order and control. It was a start.
Miss Hadley’s school was situated in Bath and the note mentioned Bath specifically. The blackmailer had to be someone from Bath, or at least someone who had been there at the same time Celia and Emily had attended school.
Celia turned her attention to the pen strokes. Again, she doubted it was Miss Hadley’s, nor was it the cursive style Miss Hadley’s pupils were taught. It was what Celia could only characterize as a strong hand. Not elegant, but not heavy on the downstrokes like her father’s style, nor quite like that of his secretary, Mr. Hodgkins, whose pen strokes were always very precise. All told, the blackmail note didn’t seem feminine. For some reason, she had already conceived of her blackmailer as a man—as
He
.
Celia moved the note closer to the lamp and noticed the quality of the paper as the light shone against it. She held it up before the lamp and, lo and behold, she recognized instantly the paper’s watermark. It was that of the Dartmouth stationers Asquith and Sanders. Her mother purchased papers from them on a routine basis. So did all of Dartmouth society.
Illuminating facts, but hardly revelatory: a man who had been in Bath more than one year ago, or knew someone who was, who bought paper in Dartmouth’s most exclusive stationer for the purpose of blackmailing her. That left half the gouty population of Devon.
Then there was the money. Three hundred pounds seemed like a monstrous amount of money. At least to her. And to whom else? Who else would think it a large amount of money—the kind of money a lord’s daughter would be able to put her hands on? Not one of the lordlings. They wagered such sums carelessly and routinely. She had heard them, at card parties and on the edges of dance floors, wherever there were two or three of them gathered. Wagering was part of their way of life.
Celia had never held more than five pounds in her hand at one time. And now she was to get three hundred. It seemed impossible. What little allowance she had of her own she spent on paints and heavy paper. Her mama paid the few tradespeople from whom she bought materials for dresses out of her own funds set aside for the purpose. Her only assets were her clothing and jewelry, but she knew from Bains that castoffs had good value at the rag traders down near the quay. It was another good start. In the morning she would confer with Bains and see which of her clothes they might part with most easily.
The thought of taking action steadied her somewhat.
Celia looked at the letter again, worrying and chewing on her lip, until the paper was covered in shadow.
Del climbed through the window, only to find himself enveloped in scent. Not the comfortable rich tones of paper and leather bindings, but a garden full of summer jasmine and citrus with something else uniquely the scent of woman.
Somehow, he knew before he saw her. Celia Burke.
“Oh!” She jumped up—quite literally, jumped out of her seat at the table—and in the process managed to upend a pen and an inkwell all over herself. She flailed, trying to catch the thing but then hid her ink-covered hands behind her back, looking at first frightened, and then entirely guilty. She was flushed and discomposed, with her mouth open in a horrified little
o
of surprise. A huge, black ink stain dripped down the front of her dress. Not at all the serene ice princess of the ballroom.
Had she been waiting for him? Seeking him just as assiduously as he had been stalking her? Had she engineered this moment to catch him off guard?
He
was
off guard, damn it to hell. Here was his first opportunity to intimidate her, though there was no audience of dancers to see his interest in her and set her reputation on its ear, and all he could think—although
think
was not the operative verb—was how intoxicating she smelled, even covered in ink. And how much more incredibly beautiful she was close up.
How . . .
real
she appeared.
It had been one thing to think badly of her from across the room. At a distance, she had appeared like a doll, untouched by any humanity. But up close, up close she had dark smudges under her wide, dark eyes and bruised, bitten lips. Lips that were the color of summer plums. Lips still before the full flush of ripeness. Lips that looked as though they had never been kissed.
Del fought the urge to shake off the thought like a wet dog.
Damn his eyes!
He had no business looking at her lips. He had no business noting the dew-soft texture of her skin, or the dusting of freckles hovering just below the translucent surface, nor the depth of her dark, almost black eyes. Eyes the color of the stormy North Atlantic, fathoms deep.
He had not expected her to be so beautiful and so human. He had certainly not expected his body to react so strenuously to her appearance without asking his brain for permission.
The luminous, fey creature in front of him was the bluestocking friend of Emily’s letters, the girl he had fallen in love with, not the coldhearted woman he had conceived in the wake of the blackmail demand. He had forgotten those long-ago feelings, pushed them aside from the moment he had received the blackmail letter.
But he would be foolish to trust her appearance. Emily had done so. Emily had thought them two peas in a pod. Until it was too late.
He stared at her without a lucid thought in his head. Maybe the stare would work all alone. Maybe she could feel the weight of condemnation in his eyes.
He marshaled his voice into a harsh command. “How did you get in here?”
“
I
used the door,” she answered quietly. She gestured with her ink-splotched hand, a small economical motion, but she kept her watchful eyes focused on him the way one might keep a wary eye on a stray, wet dog.
Points to her for perception. Damn right, he bore vigilant watching. As did she.
After her guilty start, The Ravishing Miss Burke seemed to give way to a rather thorough, wide-eyed curiosity. Her dark eyes scanned over him, as if she were examining him for flaws in his confirmation, like a horse at a country fair. She was, in that moment, every bit the scientist Emily had thought her, noting his characteristics, cataloging his individuality, if only as a means to distinguish him from the myriad of other sandy-haired English gentlemen standing about. So determined and serious. And ink stained. And flushed and lovely.
Not at all as he had expected.
“What are you doing here?” He wondered how had she planned their encounter, when he had chosen to go to the library only on the spur of the moment.
Her dark eyes became wider, if possible. “Reading.”
Her voice was so low and soft, tentative even, he had to turn his head slightly to catch the words. A small, reasonable feminine voice. His own blunt demands sounded crass in comparison.
All he had seen, when he had looked across the ballroom, was a woman he wanted to crush and humiliate. But from less than two feet away, he could hear the uneven, fragmented cadence of her breathing and smell the beguiling scent that rose off her. Up close, the combined effect of her beauty was all the more stunning for the strength of personality it revealed. She was the wondrous girl of Emily’s letters. The girl radiated wonder and intelligence. And something even more dangerous. Innocence wreathed her the way incense clung to a nun.
Del backed away, fumbling for the door. He had to get away from her, he had to think things through before anything happened, before they were caught in a compromising situation. He wanted to ruin Celia Burke, yes, but he did not want to spend the rest of his life married to her.
She shot out her hand to forestall him. “Forgive me, you must be Viscount Darling.”
He moved away before she could reach him. “
Must?
” He drew himself up to his full height, for the haughty effect, and to keep from being touched by her. And to keep from inhaling any more of her scent, or feeling the intensity of her regard.
She seemed not to notice anything he did. Her eyes continued to search his face. “You are Viscount Darling, are you not? I should introduce myself. My name is Celia Burke and I was at school with your sister, dear Emily. How strange you should come when I was just this moment thinking of her.”
He reacted before he could control himself. His head reeled back as if he’d been slapped. Her words had been a blow. How dare she even pronounce Emily’s name?
“Miss Burke,” he managed. His voice sounded cold and abrupt even to his own ears. He had nothing of his usual, lethal brand of charm, he had nothing of the self-possession with which he had originally started his ludicrous passage across the ballroom towards her.
“I know it is not done, sir, as we have not been introduced,” she continued on, “but I could not let you pass without giving you my deepest, most heartfelt condolences.”
Every sound, every sensation faded and there was only her voice, soft and low, and her words. Condolences had been few, and only from his closest friends. Even his family could not bear to speak of his sister’s death. His father had seen to it that Emily had not been declared a suicide, but her death had nevertheless been hushed up. No one had spoken of her, and no one had approached him in the intervening months with anything like condolence.
BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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