Lord of Sin (7 page)

“At the cost of Ash’s life.”

“You couldn’t even help Ash in the end. You left it all up to Mariah.”

“Because she had become strong enough. She didn’t need me anymore.”

“You were so certain of that, yet so ignorant of everything else?”

She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t explain what she didn’t fully understand herself: how she had always depended upon her witch’s instincts to tell her when to take direct action in the lives of those she watched over, and when to leave them to determine their own ultimate fate. It had always been a fine balance, and she had utterly failed to find it at Donbridge.

Sinjin’s footsteps moved about the room, the tap of his heels beating out an agitated rhythm. He clearly wanted much more from her than an apology.

For his guilt was almost as great as hers. It simmered beneath his righteous anger and grief for his brother. He and Giles had never been close; to the contrary, both Giles and their mother, the dowager, had been cool and distant with Sinjin since his childhood.

And that made matters all the worse for him. He had to convince himself that he had not sacrificed a lifetime’s closeness to his only sibling because of his own choices. He wanted to prove to himself, and to her, that he had not betrayed his brother by loving Lady Westlake, for refusing to recognize the depth of Pamela’s obsession and determination to claim Giles for herself at any cost…even the former Lord Donnington’s life.

Yet Nuala had no power to ease his pain. She could not fight his battle for him; she could scarcely fight her own. She hugged herself more tightly.

“Why are we here, Lord Donnington?” she asked. “Is it your intention to punish me?”

“And how should I do that, Lady Charles? By exposing you for what you are? Informing Society that they have a witch and former chambermaid in their midst?” He barked a laugh. “Even if I were to attempt it, you might summon up a spell to turn me into a toad.”

“I have never possessed such an ability,” she said, staring at the window glass without seeing anything beyond it.

His footsteps came to an abrupt halt. “You admitted that you were a witch when you first revealed yourself to me,” he said, his words measured, as if he feared to expose his own suffering. “If I had not seen the impossible with my own eyes, I would not have believed such creatures existed. But you never explained what that means, where you came from, or how you knew that Mariah needed your ‘help.’”

No, she had not. There had been no time…and then she had chosen the coward’s way out rather than face just such questions as these.

But there were things she simply couldn’t tell Sinjin, part of her past that, if revealed, would only make him despise her more….

And she was not prepared for that. Not when she had yet to find her own redemption. Not when she couldn’t hate Sinjin, even when he made her face the weakest part of herself.

She turned back to him, assuming a calmness she was far from feeling. “If I answer these questions,” she said, “will there be peace between us?”

“Peace!” He laughed under his breath. “Is that what you want, Nuala?”

“We will doubtless meet many times during the Season,” she said. “You may believe what you wish of me, but I see no reason to trouble our friends and acquaintances.”

“Indeed not. It would be criminal to cause Society the least discomfiture.”

Nuala started for the door, intending to pass Sinjin as quickly as possible. He stopped her with a strong hand on her arm.

“I want to know,” he said, the words husky with something very like pleading. “What are you?”

She tried to relax in his grip, trusting that he would let go when he realized she would make no further attempt to escape. Once again his touch gave her a jolt, as if he were not her adversary, but something else entirely….

Someone passed by the half-open doorway. Sinjin released her. She retreated deeper into the room again, rubbing her arm where Sinjin had been holding it.

“It is no wonder you don’t understand,” she said. “Folklore claims that witches are evil hags who wish only ill to the world, that they cast spells meant to create pain and havoc.”

“And is folklore so wrong in its definition?”

She felt his challenging stare, but refused to meet it. “There might have been such people…surely there have been. But witches have been living in England for centuries, most in perfect harmony with…” She hesitated. “With nonmagical humans.”

“Humans? At Donbridge, you told me you weren’t Fane.”

“We—my people—are human in every respect but our magic. It is a gift passed down from one generation to the next, not gained through bargains with the devil or dark rituals.”

“There are more of you? God help us.”

His bitterness burned her like a white-hot brand. “Once there were many of us, yes. Enough to insure that our gifts were not completely lost.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and released it slowly. “We were bound by our magic and our traditions, many families scattered all over England, sometimes in small villagers where we were accepted and valued.” She dared to look at his face. “You wonder why they might value us. Many of us were healers, capable of
doing what no ordinary physician could. Others were more proficient at casting spells over corn to make it grow thick and hearty.”

“You make these witches sound like paragons of virtue.”

“Oh, we were not. Nor did we claim to be.”

To her surprise, he said nothing to mock or berate her. “You are talking of things that happened in the past.”

“Yes.” It became very difficult to speak. “We are not as numerous as we once were. There are very few of us left in England, and most keep to themselves.”

“You didn’t.”

“Some of us…could not help but use our gifts when they were needed. I was able to…
see
when two people were meant to be together.”

“You’ve used this ‘gift’ before you came to Donbridge?”

“Many times.”

“And no one died?”

Nothing she’d said had made any sort of difference. There would be no way to satisfy him, no way to make him forgive her, even if she wanted his forgiveness after the accusations he had made.

She closed her eyes. “No. I cannot say that there were no problems….”

“You always posed as someone else to help these people?”

“Most never learned who or what I was.” She opened her eyes, though she could not seem to see anything but the past. “I used magic for small
things—spells of concealment, or of distraction. Often these were all that were needed to see that the match was encouraged.”

“The matches
you
determined should be made.”

She said nothing. He began pacing again. “And now?” he said. “Will you continue to utilize this magic?”

“I cannot…” The image of the vicious knife-wielder in the rookeries stopped her answer. What she had done to him, however mild…

She took a deep breath. “I did not lie when I said that my powers were fading.”

“Did you arrange your own marriage?”

New accusations. She felt anger building again. “I did not.”

“You didn’t cast a spell on Parkhill to win his love?”

“I went to his estate to nurse him, with no intention of doing anything more.”

“Yet here you are,
Lady
Charles.”

Laughter sounded in the reception room. Nuala thought of Deborah and Melbyrne, of the wry and gentle Mr. Erskine, of the widows who were her unquestioning friends.

“Have you heard enough, Lord Donnington?” she asked.

The storm in his eyes belied the stillness of his face. “What haven’t you told me, Nuala?”

“I have told you everything.” She moved again for the door.

“Nuala.”

“Sinjin?”

“Promise me that you will no longer interfere in the affairs of other people.”

It was almost a request. She gripped the doorjamb. “Is that your condition for ending this…this conflict between us?”

“It is.” He caught her gaze, and she could not look away. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t quite believe that your magic is gone. If you swear not to use it as a tool for your matchmaking, I will be satisfied.”

Satisfied. Satisfied to relegate her to the list of his conquests, even though there had never been anything remotely physical between them.

Yet would it be such a sacrifice? She had seen no evidence that her flare of magic in Whitechapel had been more than a fluke. She had accepted that she would never again use her abilities for the purpose to which she had put them for more than two centuries.

“I agree,” she said. “Goodbye, Lord Donnington.”

She swept from the room, praying that she wouldn’t stumble. If he followed, she didn’t hear him. But there was a painful tightness in her chest, as if she were near tears. As if some sort of thread had been stretched to the breaking point…a thread connecting her and Sinjin, spun by some careless weaver who had mistakenly joined two pieces of mismatched wool.

All illusion. She intended to have nothing to do with him from now on. And he would certainly avoid her just as assiduously.

S
INJIN DIDN’T FEEL VICTORIOUS
. To the contrary: he felt as if he had been one of the contestants in a bare-knuckle fistfight, trading gut-wrenching blows with an able and dangerous opponent.

But Nuala had promised. For what such a promise was worth. He didn’t know if he believed her. He didn’t know if it would make the least bit of difference in his feelings about her, or about Giles’s death.

His feelings about her
. It was so simple to let himself believe that he despised her. He’d told himself when they’d met again in Hyde Park that he’d never felt the slightest interest in Nola the maid. But Nuala had revealed herself to him before the final confrontation between Arion and Giles. She had asked for his assistance then, though it had already been too late.

He’d thought he’d felt nothing but anger toward the beautiful witch, so very different from the quiet, mousy girl she had been. He’d certainly treated her with hostility, just as he had since they’d first spoken in London. Far easier to hide behind contempt and resentment when the alternative was something even less palatable.

Attraction. He could not deny it any longer. He could not seem to take his eyes from her slender but eminently womanly figure, that astonishing ginger hair, those lush lips.

Even at Donnington, for all his determination to resist her influence, he must have felt the same. And when she had disappeared without a word…

He hadn’t forgotten her. Not for a single day, though he had worked to make her the villain, the instigator of all that had gone wrong at Donnington.

It wasn’t fair. And he’d told himself it didn’t matter.

Bloody hell.
It was over. Finished.

Damn her.

Sinjin walked into the garden. He saw no sign of Nuala. The crowd had thinned as some of the guests went on to other entertainments; soon it would be time to dress for dinner. His gaze swept over the lawn and hedges and conservatory. Erskine was in conversation with one of the widows: Lady Meadows, the cultivator of rare orchids. The two were very different, one tall and lean, the other short and plump. They seemed to be getting on very well together. Idly Sinjin wondered how suited they would be if they…

Good God, man. He
was no matchmaker, even if he was happy enough to recommend suitable mistresses for his friends.

And that reminded him of Melbyrne, who had last been seen with the highly eligible Lady Orwell.

He strode across the lawn, keeping a sharp eye out for the naive young man. He was compelled to pause
a number of times to exchange empty pleasantries with various guests, those who still didn’t consider him beyond the pale, and another anxious mama with an unmarried daughter who was considerably bolder than Miss Eccleston and had not been put off by his reputation.

Women. Young or old, timid or bold, they were all the same at heart, eager to drain a man dry…of money, of manhood, of self-respect.

At least he might save Melbyrne for a few more years.

With a scowl Sinjin circled the grounds and returned to the conservatory. He found Melbyrne and Lady Orwell together behind one of the tropical plants with leaves that resembled the ears of an elephant. They were not touching, but only a fool could fail to recognize how much they were enjoying one another’s company.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Orwell,” he said.

The young people started and almost leaped apart, as if they had been engaged in actual lovemaking instead of undoubtedly unexceptionable conversation.

“Lord Donnington!” Lady Orwell stammered. She flushed a bright crimson.

He executed a brief bow. “If you will forgive me, Lady Orwell…Mr. Melbyrne and I have a dinner engagement this evening.”

She glanced at Felix as if seeking confirmation. “Of course, Lord Donnington.” She offered her hand to Melbyrne. “I have enjoyed our talk, Mr. Melbyrne. It was most instructive.”

Felix took her hand and quickly let it go again. He bowed as stiffly as a hussar on review. “I wish you a good evening, Lady Orwell.” He spun about and marched out of the conservatory.

“May I escort you to your friends, Lady Orwell?” Sinjin asked.

“It is not necessary, I assure you.” She brushed past him, upsetting the leaves of the exotic plants in her path. The young widow was badly flustered, which suited Sinjin very well indeed.

He strolled from the conservatory, located Melbyrne, and cornered him near one of the jackal-shaped shrubberies.

“I see you have found a method of staving off the boredom of a party such as this,” he said with a faint smile. “It is not, however, a method I would recommend.”

“We were only talking,” Melbyrne said, shifting from foot to foot.

“In convenient solitude.”

Melbyrne laughed. “For God’s sake, Donnington, nothing happened.”

“If you are well-disposed toward Lady Orwell, you would not wish her reputation to be compromised by being seen alone with you…particularly if it is not your desire to marry her. In the case of Mrs. Tissier, you will be free of all such constraints except those of rudimentary discretion.”

Melbyrne looked up from the well-groomed lawn. “Were you constrained when you took Lady Charles into the house and failed to emerge for nearly an hour?”

Sinjin allowed his eyelids and mouth to relax in a knowingly bored expression. “It was not a pleasurable interlude, I assure you.”

“Discussing ‘matters of importance’?” Melbyrne asked with emphasis.

“Matters of no concern to you.”

“I hope that no one else remarked upon your abrupt disappearance.”

“I have seen no indication that Lady Charles is incapable of looking after her own reputation.” He frowned at the unexpected burst of desire he felt when he recalled Nuala’s fiery hair, the strands coming loose from beneath her hat, and the curves of her body that could not entirely be concealed by her stiff, binding garments.

“These widows,” he said sharply, “may want the world to believe that they are uninterested in marriage, but I am convinced that their motives are quite the opposite. They merely wish to increase their fascination for the opposite sex. Beware prevarication veiled in innocence.”

“Are you saying that Lady Charles is pursuing you?” Melbyrne asked, the laugh still in his voice.

“Even if she were, she has chosen an immovable object.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder. “We should be going. Reddick will be expecting us.”

With a shrug Melbyrne fell in beside him. They tendered their thanks to the dowager duchess, took leave of several acquaintances and proceeded through the house. As they descended the stairs to the entrance hall, Sinjin caught a glimpse of Nuala.

She was with Erskine, the two of them engaged in earnest conversation. Sinjin stopped so suddenly that Melbyrne nearly ran in to him. Catching himself, Sinjin continued before either party could notice his consternation.

Let them talk. For all that Sinjin had called Erskine a “little lost lamb,” he was not a complete fool. And Nuala would never choose him. Surely not.

Grimacing in annoyance, Sinjin sent a footman for his carriage. At the moment, his only concern should be putting the witch out of his mind. They would meet again, of course, just as she’d said. Indifferently, coolly, as he had implied when he’d demanded her promise.

Later that night he retired somewhat more at ease, and fell asleep quickly. He woke to the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

Heat. Fire.
The flames licked at him, burning, savaging him without touching his flesh. The heat was real, and the pain, but there was no smoke, no gasping for life’s breath, no blackening of the flesh.

Only rage. The rage of something long desired denied, removed from the realm of possibility. The rage of lust unsated. And a voice. A voice, faceless, that warned and berated him, that shouted and pleaded.

Nuala.

The image changed, and she came to him. Naked, wreathed in fire, her hair a flame that danced on the hot wind. Magic, dark and bright, gleamed on her silken flesh.

Evil!
the voice cried. But the word was laced with
that furious desire, throbbing need that made Sinjin gasp with a hunger so powerful that he knew himself capable of pushing Nuala to the scorched earth and taking her without tenderness or mercy.

Take her. Destroy her
. And part of him wanted it with all the savagery of a wild beast. But she only smiled with sweet sadness, fell to her knees and lay down before him, offering herself, thighs spread and arms outstretched. And he very nearly went to her, knowing as he did so that his very soul was in peril, that she was deceiving him as surely as Satan himself….

He sat up, his breath sawing in his throat. The room coalesced around him, solid, familiar. Nuala wasn’t there.

Sinjin stood and went to the washstand, splashing cold water on his face. He had never in his life had a dream like this one. And never, he prayed, would again.

What in hell’s name had it meant? The rage, the hatred, had been far more savage than anything he’d ever felt for Nuala, even at his worst.

And the lust…

The sheets were soaked through with perspiration. The very notion of lying in that bed again tonight was repulsive to him. He toweled himself dry, put on trousers and a shirt and fell into a chair. That was where his butler found him.

“Your lordship?” the old man said in a whisper.

Sinjin sat up, his eyes gritty and his mouth foul. “Be so good as to bring me coffee, Hedley,” he said.

“Are you…quite all right, your lordship?”

Quite all right. Oh, yes. He would be. One way or another.

D
EBORAH STOOD
in the entrance hall of her nearly empty town house, listening to the echoes of incipient abandonment. Soon this place, which she had inhabited for so little time, would be rented out to some other family…would be filled with other voices, other activities. Happy ones, she hoped.

Only her maid and head footman remained with her now. Tomorrow she would move to Nuala’s house on Grosvenor Street, where there was plenty of room for two quiet women. Deborah had made certain that her minimal staff had found good employment elsewhere—again, excluding Stella and Jacques—and she had no regrets at the departure.

Jacques took her coat, and she retreated into the last furnished room besides her bedchamber, the forward drawing room. The sofa and table and two chairs were worn and completely lacking in any distinction; she hadn’t bothered to replace them since she’d moved in. Lawrence hadn’t cared about such things, especially since he hadn’t lived in England for over ten years.

Saddened by the renewed memories of her husband, Deborah sat in one of the chairs and stared into the empty grate. It would be very easy to become melancholy again, after the unexpected pleasures of the garden party.

She closed her eyes, envisioning Mr. Melbyrne’s very pleasant features. Oh, yes, he was handsome. Much handsomer than Lawrence. She tried to suppress the disloyal thought, to examine Melbyrne as dispassionately as if she were an artist like Maggie, about to begin a new portrait. But no matter how much she tried to distance herself, she could only admit that Felix Melbyrne, with his fair hair and blue eyes, was very nearly any woman’s ideal.

She smiled a little, thinking of his boyish enthusiasm for all sorts of sport, particularly racing and shooting. In spite of his belonging to the notorious Forties, he had been most respectful in his behavior, even when he and Deborah had been alone in the conservatory. She had listened while he talked, seldom attempting to speak, allowing herself to bask in his sunny good nature.

Deborah frowned and pleated a bit of her skirt between her thumb and forefinger. Yes, she had to confess that she’d enjoyed Melbyrne’s company very much. There had even been times that she’d felt completely lifted out of her grief…a prospect that aroused both bemusement and guilt. If she had reacted a bit strongly when Lord Donnington had found them, it was only because she would never have done anything to stain her husband’s reputation by appearing the hussy.

Lawrence would never have wanted you to spend your life in mourning.
But
she
had made the decision not to marry again. She had spent three happy years with a husband who had never been anything but a
perfect friend. How could any other man provide such loving companionship?

Stella brought in the tea tray. Deborah smiled and assured her that nothing else was needed. Only time to think. To test her feelings and try to understand what they meant.

He likes me,
she thought. He wasn’t attempting to mislead her, she was certain of it. But he had given no indication that he had developed a real partiality for her. Surely she was quite safe.

Deliberately she picked up her teacup and took a measured sip. Yes, she quite liked Mr. Melbyrne. But more than that…

She allowed her mind to wander again, finding her way back to the rookeries where she had witnessed so much suffering. She had done very little that first visit; now that Frances and Nuala had formed more ambitious plans for founding a school and delivering additional food, along with hiring new employees to help carry and distribute it, Deborah was determined to contribute all the funds, time and work such a worthy project required. If she had been a bit frightened by the man with the knife…why, she would overcome that fear. And it wasn’t as if all the men in Whitechapel were like him. One only had to remember young Ioan Davies.

Another sip from the cup proved the tea to have grown cold, but Deborah didn’t pour herself another. She set down the cup and leaned back in her chair.

Ioan Davies. A most unusual fellow. She remembered his hazel eyes very well…the steady, proud
way they’d met hers even as he showed her the respect due a lady, their sharpness when he’d confronted the troublemaker, Bray. He had been quick and light on his feet, courageous, gallant in spite of his worn workman’s clothing.