The Sinner (19 page)

“I had
no
blackmailing scheme. If others, whom I thought were friends, used me—”

“You blackmailed Bianca, so do not plead innocence with me.”

Kenwood turned sullen and silent.

“Were there others involved?”

“How the hell would I know? I didn’t even realize I was involved. What transpired with Bianca—fine, I accept your condemnation. However, I knew nothing about the others. Laclere understands how it was.”

“Did you ever sense that there were others involved besides the ones we learned of, however?”

“I suspected that Nancy had other lovers. It is possible that one of them knew what she was doing.”

“Was Hugh Siddel one of those lovers?”

“Siddel? Possibly. I wouldn’t know.”

Dante felt as if he were chipping away at granite. Kenwood had been in the dark about most of that business. It had been unlikely he could shed much light on it now.

“She did know him, however,” Kenwood added. “He drifted around the edges of her circle. He even called at her house. That is how I met him. I arrived early one evening, and he was there.”

Well, that was something.

Kenwood’s lids lowered and his gaze turned contemplative. He rose and strolled around the library, eventually ending up at the pianoforte. Frowning down at the keys, he casually began poking them, creating the slow opening bars of a Beethoven sonata.

“There is something else. I never thought of it before, never considered a connection.”

“What is that?”

“Siddel pointed me on the path I took, in a way. It was the night Bianca first performed. He was in the corridor when Laclere came to bring her home. He insinuated they were lovers. Well, the need to both save her from ruin and save her inheritance for myself became of paramount importance. It was very obvious he was right, once he pointed it out. The potential scandal over that became my wedge, so to speak.”

Dante pictured Siddel dangling the bait in front of Kenwood, and then a certain ruthless woman making sure it was swallowed.

“That is all useful to know. I appreciate your willingness to speak of it.”

The melody stopped. “Do you have cause to think all of that is going to come to light now? I have tried to make what amends I can to Bianca and Laclere, but—”

“I have no reason to think the past will be unburied. You do not have to flee the realm.”

“In the event I should, you will warn me, I hope.”

“I will see that you are warned.”

Dante took his leave and began the ride back to Laclere Park. He sorted through what he had just learned. It wasn’t much, but Kenwood’s memories added a few more threads to the knot that tied Siddel to recent events, and to old ones.

“Why don’t we have our port in my study, Dante?”

Dante almost laughed as he walked beside his brother down to the viscount’s study. A man-to-man almost always started with that suggestion. Vergil vainly hoped that the privacy of the study would prevent the servants and family from hearing their arguments.

Little had changed in the study since his last visit to it. Dante noticed a new watercolor on the wall and an extra little wagon among the toys lining the window’s deep sill.

“Did one of your sons make this?” he asked, testing the wheels by giving it a little push.

“Milton,” Vergil said as he handed over a glass of port.

“His interests take after yours, then. Machines and such.”

“Yes. His temperament, however, is closer to our father’s and brother’s. The water runs very deeply.”

“Perhaps he will become a famous poet.” He raised his glass. “To your return. Bianca appears as lovely as ever.”

“Performing infuses her with life. I could not refuse her this opportunity, even though it meant neglecting my duties here and in the government. She was magnificent, Dante. The years only clarify her voice. It has been some time since I wept when she sang, but I confess that I did in Naples.”

Vergil’s love for his wife had always awed Dante. The frank way he admitted it, and his willingness to defy society because of it, had always been astonishing. Dante had never understood the deep emotion Vergil clearly experienced, but seeing his solid, self-possessed brother laid low by any sentiment was impressive in itself.

Today his reaction to Vergil’s naked admiration was different than in the past, however. He realized that he better comprehended why Vergil believed his wife was worth any cost.

“Penelope must have enjoyed Naples a great deal, if she has chosen not to come home,” he said.

Vergil sat in the chair behind his desk and set his glass on the desk’s top. “I do not know the whole story with her. She received three letters from the earl while we were there. She abruptly made her decision after she got the last one.”

“The man must know by now that she will not return to him.”

“Who knows what he thinks. I suspect that Pen realized that in Naples she does not have to live under his shadow. She made friends there, and no one cares that she separated from her husband before giving him his heir.” He watched the port swirl as he turned his glass. “As to her decision to remain there, if it relates to the earl, I expect Hampton will know soon. She sent a letter back with me for him.”

“He will never tell us what she wrote.”

“No, unfortunately. His professional discretion is welcome in my own affairs, but an irritation when he holds secrets I would like to learn. Your marriage, for example. I received two letters from him written after it transpired, but not once amidst all those business details did he even allude to the surprise waiting for me.”

“I decided to wait until your return to inform you of the happy event.” Dante sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. He turned it sideways against the front and let his legs sprawl.

How often over the years had they sat thus, Vergil in the position of family head on one side, while he made it clear by his pose and demeanor that, no matter where he sat, he was not a petitioner?

“Hampton advised me not to marry her,” he said, to make it easier. “I told him I would explain to you it was just my being reckless again.”

“Why would he advise that?”

“The terms of the settlement are not typical.”

“Since she had you in a bad place, I expect she could demand any terms she wanted.”

“You could say that.”

He looked at Vergil, who looked right back.

“I assume that Hampton does not know all the terms,” Vergil said.

“No.”

Vergil got up and strolled over to the window with its toys. He looked out into the night. “When Fleur offered me a white marriage, the family finances were in dire condition. I confess that I was tempted to solve the problem with her money.”

It was an admission that Vergil could understand a man grabbing such a prize. It was not the reaction that Dante had expected. “It must have disappointed you to learn she demanded it be white. You had courted her a long time.”

Vergil turned, surprised. “You misunderstand. I always knew. The whole time. The ruse of our courtship was not only hers. I agreed to it. In fact, I arranged it. So, when she suggested marriage, I knew what kind she meant.”

“You knew from the beginning? She told you this before you were close? That is hard to believe.”

“I learned almost by accident. One day, when I called on her, she confided in me. So I learned the truth, and the reasons. The episode resulted in a friendship and in the mutually beneficial lie that there was more between us.”

“Reasons? What reasons?” He was not sure what angered him more—that there were reasons he had not discovered, or that Fleur had confided it all to Vergil but not to him.

Vergil read his mood with a glance. “She did not tell me the reasons. I surmised them. I wonder now if she is even aware of them herself.”

“She told you enough that you had grounds to do your surmising, however. What damn reasons did you damn surmise?” His voice cracked through the room.

Well, hell, it wouldn’t be a true man-to-man if one of them didn’t yell.

“In my entire life, I have never been as tempted to betray a confidence as I am now, Dante. I have debated all day whether I should do so. However, this is between the two of you, and I should not be in the middle.”

He reached down and with one finger rolled his son’s wagon back into place beside a carriage he had made when he was a boy. “You might ask her, however, about the day I found her in her parents’ garden, weeping. The day when she told me my courtship was in vain.”

chapter
19

T
he knock on her bedroom door interrupted Fleur’s dressing. She sent the girl assigned to assist her to fetch the morning tea, then turned to check her finished hair in the mirror of the dressing table.

No tea arrived. Nor did the girl return. Instead, a frock coat and high boots appeared in the mirror’s reflection.

She glanced over her shoulder. Dante leaned casually against the wall behind her, watching her primp.

He appeared handsome as sin, as usual. She wished that he didn’t. Living with him might be easier if there were some glaring flaw on which she could concentrate whenever she saw him. Perhaps then her heart would not begin a little jig and her skin would not feel so flushed.

She fussed pointlessly with the hairpins and scent bottles on the table. “You rose early today. Do you have something special planned with the children?”

“I told them I am not available today. I rose early to have some time alone with you.”

She glanced quickly at his reflection again. His expression reminded her of how he looked the night of the ball. Too composed. Too serious. Too hard, as if the edges of his mood had affected those of his countenance.

“We will go for a walk,” he said.

Not an invitation, but a command. No doubt that was part of his plan to be
really
married.

It was the other parts that worried her. “I will join you as soon as the girl returns and I finish dressing.”

“I sent her away. I will help you.”

“You are inclined to assert your rights this morning, I can see.”

“Demanding your company and watching you dress are the least of them, so you should have no objection. Besides, it will not be the first time I did this.”

Not the first time that he had dressed or undressed a woman, that was certain. Not even the first time with her.

She began to untie the ribbons that held her powdering gown together. Suddenly he was behind her. She watched in the mirror as his hands came around and gently pushed hers aside. His masculine fingers drew the ends of the ribbons so that the ties came undone, one by one. His hands were so close to her breasts that she imagined their caress even though he did not touch her.

He slid the robe off her shoulders until it pooled around her hips on the chair, leaving her in her petticoats and stays and chemise.

He did not move. She dared not either. She could not see his face, only his torso and hips behind her. She could feel the warmth of his body, however, and the gentle firmness of his hands on her shoulders, where they came to rest.

Excitement and anticipation lured her. Memories of the numbing dread, however, made the moment threatening too.

He moved away. “Let us get you into your dress, so we can enjoy the day.”

In the reflection she saw him lift the garment. Her heart flipped with relief, but she also experienced a visceral disappointment.

They walked side by side, not speaking. Their silence was heavy with words waiting to be said. Fleur did not doubt there was a purpose to this outing.

He brought her to the lake in the park. They ambled along the wooded path that surrounded it until they reached a clearing where the family often held parties and picnics. The site provoked old memories, and Fleur couldn’t help smiling.

Dante saw. “What amuses you?”

“I am thinking how this visit should be awkward, but is not,” she explained. “After all, your brother once courted me, and I once saw you kissing Bianca not far from here.”

He laughed quietly. “I had forgotten that you were one of the witnesses to that. I assure you I did not initiate that kiss. She grabbed me.”

“Do you think she was trying to make Laclere jealous?”

“I hope so, since she succeeded magnificently.”

He did not follow the path through the clearing but aimed to a little rise with a stand of oak trees.

As he did in Durham, and then in her garden, he removed his frock coat and spread it for her to sit on the ground.

“You will have to excuse me for being cautious, Dante, but every time I sit on your coat, I end up in your arms.”

“I only want to talk to you this time. In the house the children will find me and interrupt us, unless we hold this conversation in your bedchamber. Would you prefer that?”

He did not intend it as a threat, but his manner indicated that would not be wise. His sensuality had been rippling all morning, like a power that he barely contained. It had been thus since the night of the ball, and her spirit kept waiting, waiting—the waiting itself would be delicious, if she did not know the hell she would experience if the waiting should ever end.

She settled herself down on the coat and Dante sat beside her. He rested an arm on one bent knee and looked to the lake.

“My brother spoke with me,” he said.

“Did he say that you were a fool to make this match?”

“No, not that I would have cared if he had. He spoke of the marriage you offered him.”

“I think that Laclere should mind his own affairs. He is your brother and my dear friend, but sometimes his arrogance can be annoying and—”

“He also alluded to the reasons you demand a white marriage.”

“I told him there are no reasons, except the simplest one.”

“What is that?”

She felt her face burn. She hated Laclere for provoking Dante to ask such cruel questions.

She began to rise. “I do not want this conversation and will not be subjected to it.”

He grasped her arm before she could stand. Gently but firmly, he forced her to sit again. “What is this simple reason?”

Her whole face tightened. Her teeth clenched. She wanted to hit him. No, she really wanted to hit his brother, who went around meddling in other lives as if he had the right.

“I was born deficient. Lacking. There, are you happy, Dante? I have said it outright. I am unnatural. Incomplete. Less than a full woman. I am inadequate.
Cold
.”

She was close to tears by the time she finished. Only indignation and resentment held her composure together.

She tried to jerk her arm free.

“Darling, you are not—”

“Release me so I can walk my worthless self back to the house where the totally fulfilled wife of my friend the viscount can show off her children and remind me with every look she gives her husband of what I will never have.”

“Fleur—”

“Let me go.”

“Fleur, you may have thought all of that about yourself once, but you cannot now. We both know you are not cold. There is no deficiency in your nature. There is a difference between being lacking and being afraid, and you are the latter.”

“Whatever I am, it is not what you want.”

“That is where you are wrong.”

She felt the tears coming, burning their way up her throat. She turned her head away, so he would not see them.

He pulled her to him until she rested in the sanctuary of his arms. His embrace soothed her as nothing else ever had, and very few of the brimming tears actually fell. A million might have, however. The mood between the two of them was as heavy as if she had poured out her heart.

He pressed a kiss to her head. “Tell me about the time my brother found you in your parents’ garden. The day when you told him you would never marry.”

“Please, Dante, let us be done with this.”

“Tell me, Fleur.”

She sighed. “I had gone to the garden to read a letter I had received. Laclere called, and my mother left him in the garden while she went to find me. She did not know I was there, of course. I think she wanted to speak with me before I met with him, to give me instructions on how to handle this suitor. She often did that. So he was alone, and while strolling the garden he found me in the arbor and we had a chance for some private words.”

“You used the opportunity to confide that you would not marry and that his addresses were in vain?”

“Yes. I admired him and did not want to treat him unfairly.”

“Did you tell him why you would not marry?”

“Of course not. I was not in the habit of explaining it to acquaintances.”

“Yet he knew it was not a girl’s whim. He knew you were very serious. When you later offered marriage, he knew what kind you meant.”

Seething resentment scorched through her again. It was furious and dark and very frightened. The sensation of panic in her head was similar to when the dread took hold.

She pulled out of his embrace. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”

“I do.”

“Then talk to your brother. He seems to know everything about everyone. Get your explanations from him.”

“I want to talk to you, not him. You are my wife.”

“Not really.”

She said it deliberately. She noted with satisfaction the flash of anger in his eyes. Good. Now maybe he would leave her alone instead of picking away at this scab that never healed.

He looked right in her eyes. Determination glowed in the lucid depths that examined her. “He said you were crying when he found you in the garden.”

“Was I? I don’t remember. Perhaps my father had scolded me that day for not giving an important suitor enough encouragement. He often did that.”

“If he often did so, it would not reduce you to tears.”

She shrugged, and turned her attention from him to the lake. She contemplated the little ripples the breeze made on the water and allowed her thoughts to wander away from him.

“What was in the letter you were reading that day? Who was it from?”

Heavens, the man was relentless.
Enough
.

“Perhaps it was a letter from an old love, whom I lost and have never forsaken. Maybe I refuse other men because of him.”

She threw out the spiteful lie, trusting it would silence him.

It did. Dante went icily still.

She looked over and saw fury flickering in his eyes. He had considered the possibility of that explanation before, she realized. He was prepared to believe it.

She knew two things in that instant. She knew that she wanted so badly for this conversation to end that it maddened her.

She also knew that if the only way to end it meant losing Dante completely, she could not do it.

“I am sorry. I do not know why I said that. It was a cruel thing to throw at you, and it is not true.”

“Tell me what was in the letter, Fleur.”

Why did she cringe from speaking of it? Why did her heart become so heavy and her throat so tight? “It was written by the mother of one of my girlhood friends, who had married the year before. The letter informed me that my friend had passed away.”

He plucked at some grass, watching his fingers while he wore a thoughtful frown. “You must have told my brother what the letter contained.”

“I do not remember telling him.”

“If he surmised as much as he did, you must have.” His hand moved to cover hers. “Did your friend die in childbirth?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“You were distraught over that letter, and the next thing you did was tell Vergil you will never marry. He saw a connection.”

“Then he saw wrong. This did not start that day with that letter. I have always been like this.”

“Maybe only for as long as you remember. I think he was right, Fleur. We both know that you are not cold. Not deficient, as you put it. You are by nature very passionate. It is not intimacy you avoid. It is having children.”

She rose to her knees in shock. “Now you are insult-ing me.”

“There is no insult.”

“There is, and you are vile to—I love children. I would give anything to have them. It breaks my heart that I never will. How dare—”

“I do not think it is motherhood that you fear or deny. I think it is the danger women face in giving birth, darling. Making love can put you in that danger, as it did your friend, and so you will not accept the intimacy.”

It was a startling suggestion. She began to object again, but her fury and its words died on her lips as she considered what he said.

He rose to his knees too. He took her face in both his hands and looked down at her. “Do you remember what you said to me that night in Durham? That out by the hedge you could lie to yourself, because you believed in your heart that I would not make love to you there, while a farmer was nearby.”

She
had
believed that. But later, in the house, she had known differently.

“Even if you are correct, it makes no difference, Dante.”

“It does if you understand that you are not unnatural.”

“It is still unnatural. Other women have a normal life, even knowing of the danger. They do not think of death but of the life they carry. They are joyful. Catherine, my neighbor—I worried for her, but she never did for herself. And then—”

He pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair as he held her. “How many friends have you lost this way?”

“The same as most women, I expect.” She nestled in his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. She tried to remember if there had been others. Her mother’s friend, Mrs. Benedict, had died lying in, now that she thought about it. Her mother never said so, but Mrs. Benedict was big with child and then gone.