Something Sinful (28 page)

“All I ask,” DeLayne continued in the same easy tone, as though he hadn’t just been threatening to destroy her life, “is that you include me in your next family gathering. And that the next business venture in which the Griffins participate includes me.”

Sarala opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. She wanted to hit him, to tell him to go to the devil. At the very worst she’d thought her poor judgment five years ago might ruin her chances at a marriage her mother could rejoice over. With Shay, she’d found someone whose capacity for reason and logic ran as deeply as his passion and his compassion. She’d been very lucky, very fortunate, and she knew it. Her future was so delicately balanced that a word from either DeLayne or Shay could send her tumbling past all hope.

“Very well,” she snapped, turning her back on him so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. “I will see what I can arrange.”

“And that is all I ask,” his smooth voice came. “Please give your father my regrets; tell him I had a tailor’s appointment or something.”

She walked back to the house numbly, barely pausing to wait for Blankman to open the door for her. Oh, she’d done nothing but make trouble for herself and for everyone around her since she’d stepped off the ship and onto English soil. The most useful thing for her to do would be to vanish, take up life somewhere in the north country as a governess or something. Surely some family would be willing to hire her despite her accent; her dark skin would pale in time.

The door rattled as she stood there in the foyer. Sarala jumped.

“I’ll see to it, my lady,” Blankman said, pulling the door open yet again.

Charlemagne stood in the doorway, a huge bouquet of red and white roses in his hand.

“Hello,” she said.

He smiled, the expression warming the gray of his eyes. “Hello. Are you in?”

“I seem to be.” She drew in a hard breath, wishing that she’d had just a little more time to think, and ultimately a little more time to feel happiness and joy before DeLayne ruined everything for her. “Do come in.”

“I wanted to apologize for being abrupt this morning,” Shay said, handing her the bouquet as Blankman sent for Jenny. Odd, that she still needed a chaperone after all this.

He followed her into the morning room. “You weren’t abrupt,” she said, trying to regain her usual sense of logic. “We both have several things to cope with at the moment. I do understand.” As she took the roses their fingers brushed, and she shivered. “Jenny, will you fetch a vase and some water?”

The maid hesitated in the doorway, then gave a nod and dashed off. Immediately Charlemagne closed the short distance between them to kiss her, deep and slow. She closed her eyes, relishing the perfection of his scent and his touch.

“I feel much better now,” he said, stroking the rim of her right ear with his fingers.

“I need to talk to you,” Sarala blurted, pushing backward and walking with shaking muscles to the nearest chair.

He stayed where he was. “I’m listening.”

She cradled the roses, breathing deeply of their faintly spiced perfume. “I’m changing my mind,” she said, lifting her chin. “I won’t marry you.”

Jenny skidded back to the door just as Shay reached it and closed it in her face. He didn’t slam it, of course; being a Griffin, he wouldn’t. He did latch it, however, before he strode back to stand in front of her.

“Why not?” he demanded.

Wishing she could at least sound as calm and relaxed as she had when talking with DeLayne, she set the flowers aside. “Can’t you simply be a gentleman and accede to my request?”

Trying for a moment to look beyond his own abrupt hurt and frustration and anger, Charlemagne studied her face, her expression, looking for any clue to what might have happened. Her color was high, her gaze darting everywhere but to meet his, and her hands had clenched the rose stems hard enough to draw blood on the thorns. And yet from that kiss a moment ago he’d thought her finally reconciled to all of this.

“Humor me if you would,” he said in a low voice, the best he could manage and still sound in control of himself, “and tell me why you won’t marry me.”

She cleared her throat. “I’ve had time now to think about things, and you and I simply do not match well together.”

“I can scarcely think of anyone who matches me better, Sarala.”

“Well, that’s your thinking. Not mine.”

God, he wanted a drink. A very strong one. He felt as blindsided as if someone had struck him with a club. But getting drunk would have to wait—he needed all his faculties to figure this out before it was too late. And he thought he knew where to begin. “Did Melbourne say something to you?”

“No! No, of course not.”

“Then I don’t under…” His voice caught. He covered it by pacing to the door and back. “Did
I
say something? Because I certainly didn’t intend to injure you in any way, Sar—”

“No! I just don’t want to marry you. Now go home.”

He caught the shine of tears in her eyes. Moving closer again, he took the seat opposite her. He damned well wouldn’t beg, but something was very, very wrong. And he had no intention of leaving without knowing what it might be. “No.”

Those same eyes widened. “Shay, you can’t do that! If someone says they don’t want to get married, the other person has to honor that re—”

“I don’t have to do any such thing.” Charlemagne folded his arms. If nothing else, maybe he could goad her into a confession. “I’m a Griffin.”

“Aha!” She jabbed a finger at him. “That—
that
—is the problem. You think that by virtue of your bloodline you’re indestructible, immune to any and all threats and dangers. And that is simply not true.”

He felt like giving a triumphant yell, himself. “Which threat am I not immune to?” he asked more quietly.

“Me. Do you have any idea how much damage I could do to you and your family?”

“Yes, I do. None.”

“Well, you are very,
very
wrong.”

A tear ran down her cheek, but Charlemagne held his muscles rigid to keep from rising to brush it away. He needed an answer to this before…before he fell into the chasm inside his chest that her words were ripping open.

“Why don’t you explain how that is?”

“Don’t make me call for my father, Shay,” she shot back, another tear joining the first, “to have you shown out.”

“I think you
should
call for him. Or shall I?” He rose, walking as evenly as he could make himself to the door.

“Stop!”

At the absolute misery in that single word he did stop, and turned around to kneel in front of her. “Then tell me what’s wrong.”

She drew a ragged breath. “But you’ll hate me,” she whispered.

“Impossible.”

“Shay, it isn’t—”

He took her hands. For someone with as much common sense as she had, for her to be so upset was unnerving. “Just tell me. If it’s as bad as you think, at least it won’t be your secret alone.”

For several hard heartbeats she stayed silent, but finally she let out a shuddering breath. “What would happen,” she said slowly, seeming to have to pull every word from her chest, “if someone who knew something…scandalous about me told everyone? And I do mean
everyone.
”

“The Griffin name would protect you,” he answered. “I would protect you.”

“You don’t understand. It’s not as easy as that. The man with whom I had a very brief…affair is in London, and if I don’t make introductions between him and the Griffins, if I don’t assure that he will be allowed to join in your business and enjoy a share of your profits, then he will tell everyone that you were tricked into marriage with a whore.”

He went cold all the way down to his bones. Her eyes, desperate and miserable, watched his, waiting to see what he would say, whether he would look away or frown or simply stand up and leave. “Is…does he have any proof that he took your virginity?”

Hope crossed her features so briefly that it might not have been there at all. “Does he need to have proof?”

“Not if he’s a believable, honorable-seeming gentleman, which I don’t see how he could be if he would threaten you like this.”

“He
seems
like a very charming, believable gentleman. That’s why I…was with him in the first place.”

“How old were you?” he asked, running fingers over the back of the tense muscles of her hands.

“Seventeen. It’s not entirely his fault, you know. He was older, yes, but he said things I wanted to hear, and I thought I knew everything. And what I didn’t know, I wanted him to show me.”

“You said you loved him.”

“I thought I did. I was very stupid. He wanted what a connection with my father would guarantee him. When I realized that, I told him to go away. He did, but was obviously intelligent enough to keep up the pretense of friendship with everyone involved. And now—”

“DeLayne,” Charlemagne ground out.

Her hands jumped. He didn’t need any other confirmation but that. The viscount hadn’t particularly impressed him, but he supposed to a young English girl living in India, he must have seemed exotic—not a soldier, not employed by the East India Company, but a landowner and a nobleman.

“His identity doesn’t matter, Shay. What matters is that if he doesn’t get what he wants, he
will
do as he threatens. So the choices are for the Griffins to make him wealthy and important, or for me to distance myself from you before he can do any damage to your family in addition to mine.”

“And what would you do once you’d distanced yourself from me?” If he’d been completely mercenary and without any conscience at all, her suggestion would make the most sense as far as the Griffin name was concerned. God, if Melbourne found out, was that what his brother would recommend, too?

“I’d be ruined. If my parents and I returned to India at once, though, Father could hopefully renew some of his business dealings before the news reached Delhi.” She gave a grim smile; obviously she’d been thinking this through in her usual logical, intelligent manner. “If you weren’t a Griffin, I doubt the news would even travel that far. You’re so famous, however, that even
I
had heard of your family before I arrived in London.”

This was not going to happen. Not like this, and not for this reason. “You did leave out one alternative,” he said in a low voice.

“And what might that be?”

“Dead men can’t gossip.” He stood, releasing her hands in the same motion. “Any idea where the bastard is staying?”

“Shay! No, this is—you can’t be serious! Stop!”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he muttered, ignoring her protests, his mind already plotting the deed as he strode to the front door and outside to Jaunty. “I’ll be able to find him easily enough.” No one threatened his loved ones. Ever. DeLayne was a dead man.

“Jenny. Come with me at once,” she said, running down the front steps toward the stables.

“My lady!” Blankman called after her. “What shall I tell—”

“Tell my parents I’ve gone to dinner with Lady Deverill!” she yelled back, not slowing. “Horton,” she continued as she reached the stable, Jenny behind her, “I need a carriage. Now.”

The head groom took one look at her face and charged back into the wide open doors of the stable, shouting at his groomsmen to harness up the coach. She would have preferred a curricle or phaeton or something she could drive herself, but as poor as her knowledge of London streets was, that made no sense.

“Where are we going, my lady?” Jenny panted, the vase still clutched to her breast.

Sarala took it, handing it to a passing gardener. “Return this to Blankman,” she instructed, and looked back at her maid. Where were they going? She could hunt Shay down, but even if she could find him, she doubted she could convince him of anything now any more effectively than she’d done five minutes earlier. “We’re going to Griffin House,” she decided. Her own life, her own reputation—none of it would matter if something happened to Charlemagne.

“But Lady Sarala, you’re wearing a morning dress. You can’t go to Griffin House looking like that.”

“Fashion will have to wait.” The horses and coach thundered into the yard, Horton himself on the driver’s perch. “To Griffin House, at once,” Sarala ordered, allowing another of the grooms to hand her and then Jenny into the carriage.

Halfway to Grosvenor Square two additional difficulties occurred to her: first, that the Duke of Melbourne might be elsewhere on a late Monday afternoon; and second, that during the course of one of their brief conversations, DeLayne had given out his address in London to Charlemagne.

“Hurry, hurry,” she muttered, leaning forward to look out the window. She couldn’t sit by while Shay committed murder on her behalf.

As soon as the coach stopped in front of Griffin House she flung open the door and jumped to the ground. “Please,” she said, hurrying up the steps to where the tall, white-haired butler pulled open the front door, “is the duke in? I need to see him immediately.”

“If you’ll wait in the blue room, my lady, I shall inquire.”

She allowed herself and Jenny to be herded into the pretty blue room off the foyer. “At least tell me if he’s here,” she said, turning in the doorway. “It’s very important.”

“I shall inquire,” he repeated in the same tone, backing out of the room and closing the door behind him.

“Damnation. Idiotic pride and propriety. Don’t they know what could be happening right now? Shay could…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, or the thought. DeLayne had hunted tigers with her father. If he saw Charlemagne coming, she had no idea which of them might end up injured or dead. Her breath choked in her throat. “I can’t wait here.”

“But my lady, you—”

Sarala strode to the door. “I am not going to sit about and be polite when—”

The door opened just as she reached it. “When what?” the Duke of Melbourne asked.

Thank goodness.
She seized his arm. “Your Grace, I need to speak to you in private. At once.”

He nodded, sending a glance over her head at Jenny. “Wait here.”

Sarala followed him down the long hallway to a large office dominated by an exquisite mahogany desk. Once inside the room, he gestured her to a chair.

“May I offer you some tea?” he asked, leaning back against the front edge of the desk.

Tea?
“No, thank you,” she said, declining the seat. They didn’t have time to chat. “I’m here because I didn’t know what else to do. Shay—”

“If you’re here with some complaint that you think will cause me to settle more money on your family, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. And you can’t know already if you’re with child.”

Sarala blinked, stunned. “What?”

“Shay didn’t drag you off unwilling last night. And I won’t allow him to be blackmailed or cajoled into—”

“No!” Sarala strode up to him, anger and indignation and embarrassment warring with her growing worry over Shay. Obviously she needed to tell Melbourne what was going on, or he would never surrender his own opinion of her reason for calling on him. “I was indiscreet five years ago,” she said bluntly. “With Lord DeLayne. He has now threatened to tell everyone in London and ruin both of our families in the process, unless I guarantee him an inclusion in and profits from your business.”

The duke stood, and she had to adjust her stance to look up at him. “And?” he prompted, his eyes ice cold. “I presume this isn’t merely for my edification.”

“No, it isn’t. I told Shay that I wanted to break off our engagement, and advised that he distance himself from me before any of the rumors could begin.” She clenched her jaw. “I have no more love for blackmail than you do, nor do I intend to give in to it. Shay guessed that it was DeLayne making the threats, though, and he’s gone to find him. He said that a dead man can’t gossip.” Gulping air, frantic now to get the tale told, Sarala continued before the duke could interrupt. “I won’t have Charlemagne pay the price for my mistake. You have to stop him.”

Melbourne uttered a single, low curse. “You brought your coach?” he asked, moving around behind the desk and pulling open a drawer. He withdrew a pistol, dropping it into his coat pocket as he strode past her to the door and yanked it open.

Obviously he understood. “Yes.”

“Good. It’ll attract less attention than mine. Stanton, I’m going out.” As he passed the blue room he leaned inside. “You. Come along.”

With a squeak Jenny emerged into the foyer as though propelled by a kick. “My lady, what—”

“You’re chaperoning His Grace and me,” Sarala said brusquely, following the duke out to her waiting coach.

“Do you know where he’s gone?” he asked as he motioned the footman back and pulled the door open himself.

She shook her head. “I don’t think he knows where DeLayne is staying. All
I
know is that John is residing with his cousin William Adamsen somewhere in Knightsbridge.”

“Adamsen in Knightsbridge. I’ve met him. He has a minor cabinet posting under Lord Beasley. Get in.”

Not taking the time yet to wonder why he wanted her along, Sarala climbed into the coach, half pulling Jenny up behind her. The duke barked an address at Horton and stepped up after them.

“My father probably has DeLayne’s address,” she offered after a moment. “I didn’t think to ask him before I left.”

Melbourne nodded from the seat facing hers. “If Beasley doesn’t have it, we’ll go to your father. At the moment I prefer to keep him away from this, if possible.”

“He won’t gossip if you ask him not to,” she blurted, remembering the Griffins’—and her—previous reaction to his conversation with DeLayne. “It’s just that he’s been away from England for so long, and he never thought to end up as a marquis. He knows business, not political intrigue.”

Gray eyes studied her for a moment. “Your father is friends with DeLayne. If he should hear all of the facts behind this outing, I don’t want to have to pull two men off the viscount. Shay will be difficult enough.
That’s
why I don’t want him included, Lady Sarala.”

“Oh.”
Stupid, stupid.

“A few moments ago,” Melbourne continued, “you said that Shay ‘guessed’ that DeLayne was involved. Would you care to elaborate?”

“I’m not sure how many of the details you need to know, Your Grace.” Though he’d already guessed a few of them, obviously. The man opposite her was clearly as much a master of intrigue and calculation as Shay. “If you’re implying that I invented DeLayne’s threats to encourage Shay to take care of my problems, I assure you that that is not the case. Your brother is very stubborn, and when I told him that I’d changed my mind and didn’t want to marry him, he refused to simply take me at my word.”

“He can be rather single-minded,” the duke conceded, a breath of humor touching his voice.

“I told him I would go back to India, and that he could blame any rumors on me. He knew that any scandal would follow me, rather than him and his—your—family. He wouldn’t agree, even though we both knew it was the logical course of action to take. I don’t need someone else to save me from my own errors.” It had been so indescribably…nice, though, that he’d offered—insisted really, that he would stand beside her.

“If I may be blunt,” the duke said, interrupting her thoughts, “I assume under the circumstances that Charlemagne knows of your…indiscretion, as you put it.”

Sarala lifted her chin. Soon everyone in London was likely to know about it. She’d best get used to hearing it spoken of. “He knows. He didn’t know…who, until today. I think that was another reason he was so angry.”

“Five years ago. You were what, sixteen?”

“Just seventeen. But DeLayne didn’t…That is—I knew what I was doing.” Honesty made her continue. “I thought I did.” She cleared her throat, knowing she must be scarlet. “That is not what’s important, now. I won’t have Shay hurt, physically or socially, because I was a stupid girl.”

The coach rocked to a stop. Melbourne glanced out the window, then stood. “Beasley’s house. Wait here,” he said, pushing open the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Logically Sarala knew that they were proceeding speedily and efficiently. She also knew that Charlemagne would at least have to begin his search for DeLayne randomly, and that she and Melbourne were more than likely closer to finding the viscount than he was. Unless Shay had gone to her father for an address, of course.

“Blast.” He wouldn’t go to her father; he was too angry, and not thinking logically—or at least not logically for him. Undoubtedly to anyone else involved he would appear to be ruthless efficiency personified.

The duke outside said something to Horton, then opened the door and stepped back up into the coach. “According to Beasley we’re less than a mile from Adamsen’s residence,” he said, knocking on the ceiling as he sat.

The coach lurched into motion again.

Sarala shut her eyes for a moment.
Thank goodness.
Charlemagne had left her house only half an hour ago. Surely he couldn’t arrive before they did. Could he? “What do we do if Shay arrives there first?” she asked, opening her eyes again.

Melbourne was gazing at her again. “I don’t know. And we have another dilemma.”

“You mean DeLayne might not be home.”

“That’s one possible complication.”

“You’re right,” she muttered, turning her gaze out the window at the rows of passing houses. “If Shay
isn’t
there, how long do we wait for him? And can we risk going to look for
him,
when at any moment he might arrive to kill DeLayne?”

“We might remove DeLayne from his residence and return him with us to Griffin House,” the duke suggested.

Sarala frowned. “Considering what the viscount seems to do with the information he acquires, I don’t think informing him of Shay’s intentions would be very wise.”

“That’s not precisely what I meant.”

Gasping, Sarala looked down to the pocket of the duke’s coat, where his pistol rested. “I won’t allow you to kill DeLayne, either.”

“You would protect him, then?”

“I would protect
you.
”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

It seemed arrogance and obstinance ran deep in Griffin veins. “Men,” she sputtered. “If you think for one minute that I would allow anything to happen to Shay or to the people he cares about because of me, you are
very
much mistaken, Your Grace.”

“Oh, dear,” Jenny whispered, pressing as far into the corner of the coach as she could manage.

“For the moment I’ll refrain from asking how you would prevent me from taking action,” Melbourne said, crossing his arms. “What I had in mind, however, wouldn’t involve murder or kidnapping as much as it would involve cooperation.”

She looked at him. “You…you can’t be saying you would give in to DeLayne’s threats.”

“I’m saying I would appear to do so, at least for the moment. But I will need your assistance.”

If DeLayne believed they would all fall into line with so little resistance, it would certainly give them time to develop a plan. “To gain myself some time to think earlier,” she said slowly, “I told him I would do what I could to gain him access to your wealth.”

“That’s handy.” The coach stopped again. “I doubt he would risk joining us in here, however, whether he believed you or not.”

“If Jenny went to see him with a message, though,” Sarala took up, “I imagine he wouldn’t waste any time getting himself to Griffin House.” She stopped. “If you’re certain you want to do this, Your Grace. I have been reminded several times of your abhorrence for scandal of any kind.”

“Have you, now?” he asked dryly.

“I could just as easily walk in to see DeLayne myself and tell him I’ve called off the wedding and am returning to India with or without my parents.” She meant it, too, and hoped the duke realized that. She willed him to understand that she was serious. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t allow the Griffins to suffer for her mistake.