Something Sinful (13 page)

“Yes, but what I can afford and what I’m willing to pay are two entirely different entities.”

“I see.” She drew a breath and turned to gaze out over the Serpentine. “So you own a Roman bust of Caesar. Have you acquired anything else as ancient?”

It wasn’t just idle conversation; he could hear the genuine curiosity in her voice. Sarala liked antiques. Another oddity for a young, barely English chit. “I’ve been collecting since I was sixteen,” he returned. “On my Grand Tour I returned with so many ‘lumps of stone,’ as Zach called them, that I was forced to open my own house in London to display them.”

“But you live at your brother’s house.”

Charlemagne hesitated. One didn’t share Griffin secrets with anyone not a Griffin. “Melbourne and I work together a great deal. And with his young daughter there, it just made sense for me to stay in residence.” That, and Sebastian had asked all of his siblings to return to Griffin House after his wife had died. Occasionally Charlemagne wondered what Seb would have done, left to his own devices with only a crying three-year-old daughter for company. The answer still kept him awake at night sometimes. And that was the other reason that while Eleanor and Zachary had married and moved to other houses in London, he remained.

“I have to admit,” Sarala said, thankfully lifting him away from the memory of those months after Charlotte had died, “my interest while I was growing up was always English history and its connection to Rome.”

“Truly, or are you just saying that to impress me?” he asked with another smile, digging into the basket for the peaches and grapes Cook had packed.

“I don’t need to impress you,” she retorted, from her haughty tone as amused as he was. “I own the silks.”

“In that case, after luncheon there’s somewhere I would like to take you.”

“And where would that be?”

“Inside the old Tower grounds at the center of Town. You can see the remains of the Roman walls that surrounded the old city of Londinium.”

“Oh, my goodness. I would very much enjoy seeing that.”

“And I would very much enjoy showing them to you, Sarala.” And he
was
impressed, each day more, by the black-haired princess seated barefoot beside him. And that troubled him as much as it excited him.

With an annoyed glance at Zachary, Sebastian settled into his waiting seat. “And then I’d have to support the nephews after Talmidge’s subsequent apoplexy and death. Thank you, no.”

“Your Grace, we are honored by your presence,” Martins exclaimed in his permanently hushed voice, bowing practically to his knees. “What might I do for you?”

“A bottle of your best white wine and a plate of your best snapper.”

“Orange duck for me, Martins.”

“At once, Your Grace, my lord.”

Once the waiter had rushed away, Sebastian returned his attention to his brother. “All right, I’m here. What did you want to discuss?”

Zachary leaned forward. “First I want a promise that you won’t kill the messenger.”

“Very well.”

His brother lifted an eyebrow. “You’re not going to ask what the message is
before
you promise not to flay me alive?”

Another footman appeared with their wine, and Sebastian gestured for Zachary to do the tasting and voicing of approval. He’d learned from experience that the most expensive bottles in an establishment tended to equal the oldest, and that
that
didn’t always equate with the best-tasting. Zachary didn’t turn any unusual colors, though, so Sebastian allowed his own glass to be filled.

“Firstly, Zach,” he said, taking a swallow of the wine, “I’m not likely to flay any family members in public, which we both know. Secondly, since Shay’s not here and you asked specifically that we meet away from the house, I presume this is about him. Thirdly, since I
am
here, I deduce that you need something you can’t get on your own. So proceed.”

“St. George’s buttonholes, but you’re frightening. No wonder Nell says you can read minds.”

“I can, but it’s rude,” Sebastian said mildly. “Indulge me and speak aloud.”

“Very well. It’s not precisely about Shay, but it
is
about the Carlisles.”

As he’d suspected.
“And?”

“And I invited them to share your box tonight at Drury Lane Theater.”

That, he hadn’t anticipated.
“The same box I refused to give over to you and Eleanor because Shay and I wanted to attend in peace and quiet?”

“That very one.”

“So you—”

“You said we should take steps to become better acquainted with the Carlisle family.”

“All I said was that gaining knowledge is not interfering.” For the sake of his relationship with all his siblings, he wanted that to remain very clear.

“Yes, well, with that in mind, what better strategy could there be but asking them to share the best box in the house for a premiere when by their late arrival in London they’d been forced to take terrible seats in the back corner of the lower level?”

“And you know this because?”

“I had a meeting with Hanover this morning. He’s renting me some prime grazing pasture just east of Bath.”

“Did he complain about his seats?” The question might sound innocent, but the answer could be significant—dissatisfaction, ambition, it all meant something.

“Not a bit. It came up in passing conversation about the glut of social events this Season. He seemed happy to have acquired tickets at all. Apparently
The Tempest
is his daughter’s favorite play.”

Hm. It was also Shay’s favorite play. Sebastian wondered whether his erudite brother had mentioned that fact to the chit. Most husband-hunting females named
Romeo
and Juliet
as their favorite.
Twelfth Night
or
Much Ado About Nothing
came a close second, but he’d never heard of
The Tempest
even making the list.

“Am I to send a coach for the Carlisles, then?”

“No. They’ll meet you in the lobby.” Zachary started to say something more, but subsided as their luncheon arrived. His brother obviously had some sort of chemical imbalance that enabled him to eat almost constantly without any ill effects, but prevented him from thinking while doing so.

“When I tell Shay about our guests, whose idea is it supposed to be?” Sebastian prompted after a few minutes. “I certainly don’t want to tangle anyone’s machinations.”

Zachary swallowed a huge mouthful of roast duck. “Oh. It was your suggestion that they might want to join you, since you knew how difficult seats would be to acquire.”

“Of course I did. Have I done anything else I need to know about?”

“Not yet. I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you. And Zachary?”

Belatedly his brother looked up from his plate. “Yes?”

“In the future I will expect you to inform me of my actions
before
I’ve taken them.”

This time Zachary’s swallow didn’t go down his gullet nearly as smoothly. “Of course, Seb. This was a…a singular event.”

Sebastian smiled. “Glad to hear it.”

Even in Delhi the conversations hadn’t been as exciting. Shay wasn’t an old, company-starved former governor of India or a condescending officer or even an amused, ambitious young nobleman looking for income opportunities. For a moment she frowned, wishing she hadn’t conjured that particular image. No, no, no—she’d been thinking about Charlemagne.

He was aggravating, yes, but he was also confident and very intelligent and handsome. And somewhere in the last few days any condescension he might have expressed toward her had vanished. And fine a negotiator as he was, he kissed as sinfully as the devil, himself.

If only he would agree to her very reasonable offer—though she had to admit that she hadn’t been pushing as hard or as well as she knew she could do. If he did agree to her price, he would no longer have a reason to pretend to pursue her, or to show her that there were some rather remarkable things to see in England. Given her usual loyalty to her father and her admittedly well-developed liking for business, the choice between spending time with Shay and having guineas in the family’s coffer was surprisingly difficult. Yet despite all that, she couldn’t help humming.

And now tonight she would see
The Tempest.
Her father had told her how inferior their seats were likely to be, and her mother had protested going at all because they would be so far from the “right” people that no one but bankers and solicitors and possibly grocers would even know they were there.

Sarala, however, didn’t care if they had to stand in the hallway. Not only was
The Tempest
her favorite Shakespeare play, but she would see the famous Edmund Kean as Prospero.

“You’re in a good mood, my lady,” Jenny noted, as she shifted from hair to necklace and ear bobs.

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Then your picnic with Lord Charlemagne must have gone well.”

“It did. And he took me sightseeing afterward.”

“Did your gown prevent any more of that kissing from him?”

“Jenny!”

The maid bobbed her head. “Mayhap I’m too bold, but Lady Sarah, your mother Lady Hanover hired me to help look after you. And you don’t know London as well as most. I grew up here. And lords kissing ladies they ain’t married to, it ain’t a good thing.”

“Which is why we won’t say anything more about it to anyone.” Sarala forced a smile. “For heaven’s sake, Jenny, it’s only one of Lord Shay’s negotiation tactics, anyway.”

“That’s some very strange negotiating, Lady Sarah.”

“Yes, and very unsuccessful, too. I’ll leave it to him to realize that in his own time, though, because he does kiss quite well.”

The maid flushed crimson. “Goodness.”

Goodness had little to do with any of this, Sarala was certain. But it was blasted fun, nevertheless. “So promise me that this will remain between us, Jenny.”

“Oh, I prom—”

The bedchamber door flew open, rattling the perfume bottles on her dressing table. “I have the best news ever!” Lady Hanover exclaimed, doing an actual pirouette.

“What in the world is it, Mama?” Sarala asked, grinning at her mother’s obvious enthusiasm.

“Your dear father just informed me that he’s given up our theater seats.”

“What?” Sarala shot to her feet, one ear bob hitting the floor. “How is that good news? What a terrible thing to say! You know how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing
The Tem
—”

“Let me finish! He’s given up our seats because the Duke of Melbourne has invited us to share his box!”

Sarala blinked. “Melbourne’s box?”

“Yes! Now you see why I’m so enraptured.” Lady Hanover stopped in mid-twirl. “I only hope that brother of his doesn’t attend. I don’t know how much more strongly I can suggest that he call you Sarah.”

“Mama, Lord Charlemagne was introduced to me as Sarala,” Sarala explained, declining to admit that they’d introduced themselves and refusing to question why she wanted her mother to like her chief business rival. “That’s the only—”

“You cannot wear that dress now.”

Sarala stopped to glance down at her attire. “You asked me to wear the yellow silk, Mama.” Oh, for heaven’s sake. Not only could she not dress as she wished, but now even wearing what she’d been told was wrong.

“That was before we knew we would be sitting in Drury Lane Theater’s prime box. Now you must wear the new lavender and white silk gown with the beading.”

“Mama, that one still needs the lace panel put in at the neck.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s perfect as it is. You’ll look charming. Fetch it at once, Jenny.”

The maid curtsied and hurried to the wardrobe. “Right away, my lady.”

“And I’ll stay right here while you dress, Sarah, just to make certain you don’t step on any hems.”

As Jenny returned, Sarala silently lifted her arms over her head. In a second the yellow gown was gone and she was wearing the very low-cut lavender one.

“Splendid. Where’s that ruby you wore last night?”

For a second Sarala’s heart skipped, then she realized it was a general question and not an accusatory one. “That one?” she said flippantly. “But all the Griffins saw me wear it last night.” And if Shay saw her wearing it after their picnic, he would think she’d become smitten with him or something, and she would have to sell off the silks piecemeal because she’d never get a decent price from him.

“That’s true. Very good thinking, darling. The silver one with the pearl drop, then. And the matching ear bobs.”

Jenny was still fastening the necklace around Sarala’s neck as her mother hurried them downstairs to dinner. Her father arrived a moment later, and the footmen immediately began serving.

“Why the hurry, my dear?” the marquis asked. “The play doesn’t begin for two hours.”

“Because you said we’re to meet His Grace inside the theater, and I want to be certain we have time to be seen chatting with him.”

“Are any other of the Griffins attending, Papa?” Sarala asked.

“Not that middle son, I hope. Do you know that he refused to call Sarah by her name, and insisted on referring to our daughter by that—that other name?”

Sarala sighed. “You can’t even say it to demonstrate a point? I did own it for two-and-twenty years.” And she still owned it, as far as she was concerned.

“I don’t know who might join us,” her father returned, ignoring his wife’s outburst. “Zachary only said that Melbourne wished us to join him. The—”

“‘Him,’ you said,” her mother broke in. “‘To join him.’ It must be Melbourne alone. This is so wonderful I can barely breathe.”

“Shall I fetch some smelling salts?” Sarala suggested, not certain she could make herself return to the dining room once she’d escaped.

“Nonsense. Eat your venison. I want us to be there at least half an hour early. An hour would be better.”

Sarala and her father exchanged looks. “Yes, Mama,” she said. At least this way her mother wasn’t complaining about having to go to the theater any longer, though she continued to put in barbs about Shay. Sarala hoped Melbourne had a few drinks to ease his nerves before he arrived to meet them.

But why had the duke made the invitation in the first place? They’d joined him just last night, after all. Certainly he had enough family and friends and hangers-on that he had no need to demonstrate his kindness—or charity—to the same people two nights in a row.

Unless her mother was correct, and she’d somehow caught the duke’s eye. But that was so silly a notion she couldn’t even conjure a chill about it. Still, her instincts told her something was afoot. A luncheon invitation from Lady Deverill, business with Lord Zachary, and now two successive evenings in the Duke of Melbourne’s company—it was very odd. The only Griffin with whom she had a reason to interact was Shay, and neither of her parents knew about that. Nor, she suspected, did his family.

The only thing to do, she supposed, was to go and see
The Tempest.
And to pay close attention to anything the duke might say. Her mother was certain to read everything as a declaration of marriage. That could never happen. Someone therefore needed to keep a logical eye and ear on events.