A Sense of Sin (16 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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Del could feel the smile build across his face. She wasn’t an actress at all, she was exactly as Emily had described: a shockingly well-educated, bluestocking scientist. The Ravishing Miss Burke, the future Viscountess Darling, was an eminent botanist.
Then she saw him.
“Miss Burke,” he teased with a smile, “I rather think you have a lot to answer for.”
The color and animation drained from her face in less time than it took him to reach her. She looked horrified—terrified—a metallic sheen of fear in her eyes.
He stepped forward and took her arm—aware of the fact that it was the first time he had been able to do so, conscious of the very slight weight of her arm upon his. He could feel the tense tremors reverberate through her body. He put his other hand over hers to comfort her, and ease her shaking and show her she was in good hands. He stripped off his gloves to chafe and warm her skin, but her shaking grew rather than abated.
He led her out the backside of the building, where Somerset House faced the river, quickly taking her into a quiet, sunny spot where she could lean up against the wall, recover, and warm herself without his touching her. Though his hands prickled with the first feel of her hands beneath his, she did not seem to appreciate the experience, drawing her hands out of his at the first opportunity.
Del slowly backed away, giving her a foot or so of space between them. It seemed so far, when a week ago, he had felt it was barely room enough.
She would not look at him. “My maid is waiting at the entrance. She may grow worried if I don’t appear.”
“Of course. I won’t keep you. But you need to recover yourself.”
“Please, Viscount Darling. No one must know I’m here.” She looked at him for the first time, her eyes shiny with fear.
How could she have come to be so afraid of him? She ought to know he loved her. She ought to have divined it with that remarkable insight of hers.
“I take it your parents do not know you’re here?” he asked as gently as he could.
She shook her head mutely, growing more miserable and more guarded, if such a thing was possible. How had he ever thought she possessed a talent for subterfuge? Her neck was awash in nervous splotches of red. No actress, however skilled could fake such a level of genuine, wretched distress.
“My mother does not. Please, Viscount Darling, I can explain.”
“Yes, I’m sure you can, though I doubt I will understand. What exactly was the topic today?”
She closed her eyes briefly. “The need for a system of morphological classification based on multiple biological characteristics.”
Well. Clearly she was fully possessed of the necessary expertise. “How did you become involved in the colloquium? Without your mother’s consent?”
She shrugged. “Because of my interest in botany.”
Her whispered admission, more suitable to the confession of a secret addiction to opiates, or to murder, was so low he had to lean closer to hear her. Closer to her slight warmth, closer to her intoxicating scent.
He took her hand in his, turned it over to expose the fragile delicacy of her wrist, and raised it to his lips. Her skin was sweet, infinite softness. And lemons.
He could not stop his smile.
But she did not see it. “Please, Viscount Darling, please,” she implored. “I don’t have the money but I’ll get it for you, I will. But I beg you not to tell anyone. Please.”
How could he have thought her capable of such a grand deception when she clearly thought her life might be ruined if it were revealed she spent the afternoon with a roomful of learned Quakers? He shook his head at the thought. “How often do you come here?”
“Often. In the morning.” Her eyes were still on her boots. Walking boots, not slippers. Such a countrywoman, even with her exquisite lace.
“Miss Burke. Celia.” Something happened inside him at his use of her Christian name. In that moment she became his as she raised her face, her eyes red and shining with unshed tears. Not an elegant, picturesque weeper, his Celia. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, hold her tight, and reassure her the world was not about to fall apart just because she had a scholarly interest in botany and had spoken in public about it. He was reminded they were still in public.
He stepped nearer, to shield her from the view of any passersby. Through the windows to the interior corridor he could see her maid anxiously peering through doorways.
“Your maid is looking for you. Here.” He handed her a large handkerchief. “Mop up and off you go.” He stifled all wants and desires, and settled for giving her shoulders a squeeze before turning her around and sending her off with a firm push between her shoulder blades.
“Please,” she said over her shoulder, “promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
“Celia.” How did she still have no idea how he felt about her? He would have to change that. “Go.”
He drew back under an archway, away from the sunlight and out of sight of the window and watched her hurry away, vowing it would be the last time he sent her away from him. He would find a way around her father and his objections. He would make her happy, he would. He would find her that evening and tell her how he felt.
C
HAPTER
16
C
elia mumbled something to Bains about stepping out to speak to the Abbé and the dust swirling up from the courtyard, and blew her nose noisily into Viscount Darling’s handkerchief to cover her distress.
They found the Widcombe coach at Exeter Change and Celia practically leapt in.
“What about the shopping, miss, so we’ll have something to show?”
Celia was too upset and confused to think of logistics. “So we didn’t find anything today. We can’t be spending money every day.” She shut her eyes to Bains’ wounded countenance from her snappish tone. Oh Lord, but it was awful.
How had he found her? She had told no one, and she had begged the Abbé not to post her name anywhere, though he had chided her for being so easily swayed by society’s opinion.
When had Viscount Darling come to London? She had heard nothing of it. She had been completely unprepared to see him standing in the doorway of the lecture hall. She had felt so proud, so happy, so full of accomplishment and pleasure at having earned her spot on the panel. She had thought of him, of his pride in having earned his rank as an officer in His Majesty’s Marine Force and felt that she perfectly understood the need and the satisfaction in earning something completely on one’s own, apart from any influence or assistance from family or relations.
And there he was, exactly as if she had conjured him. So tall and tawny in that room full of sober black, with his linen duster and his tan breeches. And that smile, so brilliant. And so knowing.
It was ludicrous, and unhelpful to her situation, that even now, when she was so badly embroiled with the man, she could not stop the direction of her wayward thoughts. Nor the reaction of her wayward body—to Viscount Darling, the man who continued to blackmail her. The man who had originally set out to purposefully torment and humiliate her. And now he had another piece of information with which to threaten her. To blackmail her.
She pressed the soft cotton handkerchief to her temple but she was instantly surrounded by the subtle scent of man. By his scent—horse and leather and spice. She let down the window and threw the hateful thing out the window as they turned the corner north onto Bond Street and into Mayfair.
“There now, miss,” Bains said in conciliation. “You’re looking the world better. Roses have come back to your cheeks. You looked so pale when you come out of that place, I thought for sure you’d come down with brain fever. Shut up with all that thinking and learning. Can’t be good for a body. But now we’ve got you out, you look well enough.”
“Thank you, Bains. I am sorry for my behavior, but I am quite fine now. You needn’t fuss. And not a word to Lady Caroline, or we’ll both have a flea in our ears and you’ll be sent packing.”
Bains took the warning in her stride. “No, miss. Never a word to Lady Caro. It’s not worth my life to cross her.”
“You’re looking unnecessarily grim. This time I trust there won’t be any threats of thrashings?” McAlden looked suitably formal in his blue full-dress uniform coat with the braid-edged white lapels.
“No.” Del smiled. For the first time in a long time, he found himself missing his own scarlet officers’ coat, which he had used to stand out in a crowd, like a badge of glory. Instead he was dressed in a somber double-breasted coat of black, with a subdued evening waistcoat of brocaded gold. “No thrashing. Nor dancing.” He was reformed. He would be a model of decorum.
“Still averse? I find the activity grows on me, so don’t bite my head off, or glower like some dog in the manger, when I ask Miss Burke to dance. She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like a fool. If you’re too stubborn to dance with her, I don’t see why I should have to follow suit.”
“Agreed.” Del put out his hand.
Hugh McAlden took it. “Agreed.”
How apt Hugh had been. Del did feel very dog-in-the-manger, skulking about the edges of the emigré Contesse de l’Oise’s ballroom, prowling in search of Celia. He didn’t skulk, he—all right he was skulking, but like any good officer, he did it in the name of gathering intelligence. Her father
had
warned him off. It had to be careful going.
Del turned his back on the dance floor and moved towards the card room, an altogether safer haven for a man such as himself. He was there to make amends and promote himself with Celia’s family and relations, not to fuel the fires of any other marriage-brokering mamas or their charges. He in particular wanted to avoid the notice of Celia’s husband-hunting friend, that mercenary girl from Dartmouth, Miss Wainwright, who was holding court between him and the sanctuary of the card room.
As he passed just at the edge of earshot, he heard Miss Wainwright mention Celia’s name, but her expression was not one of friendship or sympathy. There had been a satisfied, feline malice in her tiny little smile. He moved closer, edging backwards along the wall—skulking—until he could hear the snippets of conversation.
“Can’t afford to be too choosy anymore, you know. She must get a husband. I had it from her myself only the other day.”
He heard a murmur from one of the smaller tabbies.
“My dear, they’re done up. Couldn’t even buy a ribbon at the drapers. Must have sunk it all in one last desperate London push to see her married. She’s been out in Dartmouth for years.”
“. . . so bad her father is not even here. They could only afford the two of them, and they stay by the charity of their relations at the Marquess of Widcombe’s house.”
“No!” chorused several attendees. They turned as one to see Celia, tense and white, dancing with Hugh.
“Even an officer, a professional man like Commander McAlden, is all she can hope for now. Unless of course, she traps some unsuspecting fellow. The Ravishing Miss Burke. Poor thing.”
Del heard the delighted scorn in Melissa’s voice and felt gutted. Her words had been like a knife to his hopes, his beliefs. But as he stood against the wall, struggling for equilibrium, it all began to make strange sense.
Lord Thomas had stayed in Dartmouth. Del had seen him there himself but not understood why. In his own pride, he had thought the man had stayed behind because they sought to remove Celia from his influence as soon as possible. And so they had, so she could come to London to be married.
But then why would Lord Thomas turn him off, when he had stated his honorable interest and intentions towards Celia? If she needed to be married off, why would they not marry her to him? He was certainly rich enough, if the Burkes were so desperate for money.
What had Celia said that afternoon, when he spoke to her at the Royal Society?
I don’t have the money
.
What had she been admitting to? After all his doubts and suspicions, had he been wrong about her? Had he been so drawn in by her, by her body and responsiveness, had he not known her words for lies? Jesus God.
She
could be his blackmailer. It was the perfect motive—she admitted she needed money.
God’s balls.
He had to get out of this place. He had to get out, where he could think.
Celia was not proud of herself. She had fallen apart under his scrutiny that afternoon. She had crumbled into a puddle of feminine tears instead of spitting in his eye. She had let him ruin her triumph.
It had to end. Celia could not, and would not spend another evening, or live another minute with the constant knot of worry eating away at her from the inside, draining all the life and happiness, all the purpose from her.
If he wanted her ruination, she would give it to him. She would go to him, and it would end.
She spent most of the endless night in meticulous, frightening preparation. The practical considerations nearly defeated her. She had never snuck out of her house in her life, even in Dartmouth, let alone in the middle of London and in the middle of the night. There had never been a need and she was not the type. She was not an adventurer. She had never so much as walked along a London street without an escort. And she was going to leave her home in the wee small hours of the morning, walk over half a mile without being detected, offer her body to her blackmailer, and somehow make it back before her absence was detected.
Oh, Lord.
Celia would not give in to leg-weakening qualms. To the burning misery that would not abate. To despair.
First things first. She had to leave the house.
She briefly debated, and then rejected, the idea of enlisting Bains. She could not take her maid, or any other servant. Should they be detected, she could bear the consequences for her own foolishness, but knew without a doubt, anyone caught helping her would be summarily sacked, without references. And Celia was anxious to ruin
only herself
in this hasty, ruinous endeavor.
At four o’clock in the morning, when the first faint stirrings of the summer dawn began to ease away the dark, Celia stole out. Dressed simply and covered entirely by a long, enveloping cloak, she let herself out the library window. She had a house key, but walking out the front door was too much of an advertisement of trouble, too bold. It seemed easier to slide the library window open and hop down the few feet to the narrow pavement between the houses. It also gave her a long moment, while her heart lodged itself in her throat, to adjust to the dim, mist-covered, early morning light and gather her courage.
She set off before she could think better of the plan. Up the few yards to the end of Grosvenor Street and then north along Grosvenor Square, where many of the mansions were still lit and people continued to socialize. Carriages rattled by, the beau monde on its drunken way home from balls, parties, and soirees.
She crossed back and forth across the street twice, to avoid groups of gentlemen strolling and carousing their way from one engagement to another, or making for the corners where hackney carriages might be found. Her footfalls echoed and kept time with the frantic beating of her heart.
Safely across, or rather around, since she kept to the outside of the park, and then a short block up North Audley, across Green Street to the chapel on the corner. Almost there. Another short block up Park Street, and finally she turned onto North Row and stood in front of Number Twenty-four.
The house was unattached, with walkways on either side going to the rear yard. It was not bright with lights, but neither did it still look shut up for the night. Celia scurried around to the back, looking at all the windows, hoping for one cracked to the breeze. But they were all let down from the top, and she could not reach them.
The half story below stairs had some minimal light. She went down the areaway stairs and peered through the window. The kitchens beyond the dim corridor were dark but she tried the knob. It opened silently under her hand.
The house was quiet, with no sound coming from any of the rooms, and no light from under the green baize door at the end of the hallway. She slipped inside cautiously, her heart pounding an erratic beat in her chest. After a long, frozen moment she found the courage to take first one step and then another and another, until she had eased herself quietly up the stairs to the entry hall. The steps creaked very little as she went up another two flights in the same painstaking fashion, until she found the bedchambers. She tried the door towards the back of the house and found a smallish, unadorned bedchamber, unoccupied. No Viscount Darling.
Oh, Lord, what if she found him with a woman in his bed?
For a long moment Celia wavered, her heart beating like a drum in her chest, and contemplated going back—giving up and going home before it was too late. But she was there. If she wanted some peace in her life, if she wanted her turmoil to end, she had to brazen it out. She had to be daring.
The next door she tried opened into a larger chamber and sitting room at the front of the house, facing North Row. Two deep leather armchairs sat near the hearth. In the adjoining room was a large bed with a very large body in it. A very large body with a very blond head. Viscount Darling.
Celia inched her way closer, each sound from her footfall, or rustle of her cloak amplified a hundredfold by the blood roaring in her ears. She heard a door shut downstairs, the first faint sounds of the house stirring to life. She had to do it now before it was too late.
“Viscount Darling?”
Then his voice came from the bed, gravelly and thick with sleep. “Bugger yourself, Gosling. It’s too bloody early.”
The whisper, normally just the sort of thing a man wanted to hear in the middle of the night, brought him reaching for the sword he no longer had at the ready. He felt even more naked without a weapon, but lack of clothing was the least of his worries. The voice, especially
that
voice, coming from his bedchamber, was wrong. All wrong.
“Who’s there?” A slight rustle of cloth came from the other side of the bed. He waited while his eyes adjusted to the low light from the embers of the fire.
“Viscount Darling, it’s Celia. Celia Burke.”
As if he couldn’t remember. As if he’d been busy seducing a hundred other chits by the name of Celia, had followed them across England, and might have trouble figuring out which one had crept into his bedchamber to stare at him naked in the wee small hours of the morning. As if she weren’t standing less than four feet away. As if he couldn’t smell her subtle fragrance from a mile away.

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