One Little Sin (18 page)

It took Esmée all of three days in Grosvenor Square to realize that her life was no longer her own. It was, perhaps, just as well. The loneliness kept pressing in on her, but Lady Tatton’s pace left one little time to brood.

All of Mayfair seemed to have simultaneously realized that her aunt had returned from abroad—and with her unwed niece in tow. A flurry of curiosity ensued, followed by a whirlwind of invitations to such quiet diversions as teas, literary readings, and dinner parties. But Esmée’s heart was in none of it.

Her aunt sensed her melancholy, and at first asked a great many probing questions. When that did not work, Lady Tatton’s solution was, of course, shopping. Lydia brought Sorcha two or three mornings a week, but afternoons were always devoted to Oxford Street.

Within the week, the first in an ocean of new clothing began to trickle into the house, and it soon turned into a torrent. Her own wardrobe, Lady Tatton complained, was hopelessly out-of-date from her years abroad. As to Esmée, she was treated to evening gowns and carriage dresses, pelisses, shawls, and shoes by the dozen, all done up in dark, subtle colors which Lady Tatton assured her were appropriate to a family still in mourning.

As they were unpacking the last of it, Esmée expressed doubt about a cloak of dark sapphire blue which her aunt’s dresser had just laid out on the bed.

“Silly child!” said Lady Tatton, shaking the wrinkles out of an aubergine evening dress. “Your dear mamma has been gone many months now. And thank goodness the King died in June!”

Esmée’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Tatton smiled. “Society quickly tires of muted entertainments and dark colors, my dear,” she said lightly. “No one is apt to begin throwing stones at us, when we are all supposed to be grieving over the loss of our beloved monarch—and none of us really are.”

“Och, I did not think—”

“And we are fortunate, dear child, that rich colors become you,” Lady Tatton continued. “Thank God you are not a blonde.” She turned to her dresser with the aubergine gown. “Pickens! Press this next, if you please. Miss Hamilton will want it for Lady Gravenel’s dinner party tomorrow. And the silvery gray silk shall do nicely for me.”

Esmée drifted to the window, and stared out at the gated green expanse below. She missed Sorcha so dreadfully. Sometimes, late at night, as she tossed and turned in her bed, she feared she had made a mistake in leaving. And then Lydia would bring Sorcha to visit, and Esmée’s eyes would go at once to the terrible wound on her sister’s forehead. No. The truth was, she needed Sorcha far more than Sorcha needed her.

But what else was she to do with her life? The months since her mother’s death had finally made her realize that it was time she got on with the business of living. And her protestations to Aunt Rowena aside, Esmée really did not wish to spend her life alone in a cottage full of dogs and cats. She wanted a family. She wanted children. And fleetingly—almost without knowing it—she had begun to want those things with Sir Alasdair MacLachlan.

The notion was laughable, of course. Had MacLachlan wished for a wife and a family, he could have—and
should
have—married Mrs. Crosby. Indeed, he ought to have done weeks ago. He did not want Esmée. She was lucky he had wanted Sorcha.

And so Esmée needed to make a life for herself and accept that those dreams would not be a part of it. She could not make the same foolish choices her mother had made. But to move on, she had to get out in the world. She had to meet people. She had to do precisely the things her aunt wished her to do. And yet, she was not at all sure she wished to attend another dinner party.

Lady Tatton had obviously put out the word—by whatever means matchmaking mammas and well-intentioned dowagers communicated—that that her niece was in search of a husband. And she must have mentioned Grandpapa’s dowry, too. There was no other explanation for the way in which unattached gentlemen had flocked to her side these last few days.

While she understood that her aunt’s heart was in the right place, Esmée had little enthusiasm for the attention. Her thoughts, and apparently her heart, kept straying to…well, to someplace they ought not be. And yet, there had been no way to refuse the Duchess of Gravenel, who lived but two doors down the square.

Esmée had met the duchess the very day of her arrival. She had looked like a small blond sprite bounding down her front steps to embrace Lady Tatton as they climbed out of the carriage.

“Oh, Rowena!” she had exclaimed. “I thought you would
never
return! I have been waiting an age, it seems!”

Lady Tatton had been taken aback, too, for the duchess had apparently been firmly fixed in the country for some years.

“But we have reopened the house, as you see,” said Lady Gravenel. “By the way, we are having a small dinner party next week. A very quiet affair. Both of you must come. I shan’t take no for an answer! I shall find two more gentlemen to even up our numbers.”

“We should be honored,” said her aunt.

“And Isabel is coming to tea on Monday,” said the duchess. “You must come, too, Rowena. It will be like old times! Miss Hamilton, do join us.”

And so there had been no way out of it. Tea and dinner with a duchess! Esmée would have found it all quite daunting, save for the fact that Lady Gravenel had seemed so very pleasant.

The tea turned out to be a crush, and Isabel turned out to be the Countess of Kirton, a plump, pleasant dowager who lived but five minutes away in Berkeley Square. She looked Esmée up and down as if assessing her potential, then situated herself on a brocade sofa beside Lady Tatton, where they whispered furtively back and forth when they fancied no one was looking.

Esmée noticed that Lady Kirton kept patting her aunt’s hand and giving her sympathetic, sidelong glances. And of course, there was the occasional furtive glance in Esmée’s direction, a sure sign trouble was afoot. Had the ladies been five stone fatter and a little more garishly clad, they could have been a Rowlandson sketch entitled
Mischief in the Making.

Just then, her thoughts were interrupted when Pickens came out of Lady Tatton’s dressing room, the aubergine gown draped across her arm like a silken waterfall. It was so dark, it would probably look almost black in candlelight, and its utter lack flounces or ribbons, omitted in deference to mourning, served merely to make it more elegant.

“Oh, miss!” said the dresser, holding it out. “Isn’t it the loveliest thing ever?”

Esmée managed to smile. “I’ve never seen a gown more beautiful.” Even her mother’s finest dresses would not have rivaled its quiet, understated elegance.

Pickens held it up in front of her and gestured toward the cheval glass. Esmée looked up and gasped. Her aunt had been right. The rich color suited her dark hair and pale skin.

“Oh, miss!” said Pickens breathlessly. “You are going to cut such a dash tomorrow! I do hope you break someone’s heart.”

Esmée felt a strange sense of satisfaction stealing over her. She
did
look beautiful. Older, even a little taller, perhaps—and almost as pretty as her mother. So damn Alasdair MacLachlan if he did not want her. Someone else would; someone who would not call her a silly chit and throw her heart back in her face. And suddenly, Esmée decided to enjoy the hunt—or at least make a bloody good show of it.

Alasdair was in a back room at Crockford’s with his brother and Quin when Lord Devellyn finally ran him to ground almost two weeks after his governess’s abrupt departure. It was late, well past midnight, in fact, and Devellyn wanted his wife and his bed, in that order. But he was a man on a mission which would not wait.

He was also more than a little worried about Alasdair. Not without reason, as it happened, for Alasdair and Quin were half-sprung and tossing the ivory with a couple of slick Soho blacklegs.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said Devellyn, sidling up to Merrick MacLachlan.

“Aye, fancy it indeed,” Merrick returned. “I’d rather not be, but I’m half-afraid to leave. This is a pernicious shite-hole, you know.”

“I do know,” agreed Devellyn, tilting his head toward the table. “And they do, too, usually. What’s wrong with Quin?”

Merrick lifted one shoulder. “His mother’s bedeviling him. Wants him to find a wife.”

“Yes, a dead father will tend to trigger that,” said the marquis.

“And the devil’s in
him
tonight, too.” Merrick jerked his head toward his brother. “Ordinarily, he’s never fool enough to play at hazard—nor even at cards, if he’s foxed.”

“Ah, well!” said the marquis. “You know what Granny MacGregor says. ‘The worth of a thing is best known by the want of it.’ ”

Merrick’s mouth curled sardonically. “Got you spouting her old saws now, has he?” he said. “And you are suggesting, I collect, that his pretty governess is the root of his trouble?”

Devellyn shrugged. “I suspect as much,” he answered. “What does Quin think?”

“He’s oblivious,” said Merrick. “As to the governess, I knew she’d be trouble from the outset.”

“Did you indeed?” said Devellyn blandly. “I take it the old boy is in deep?”

Merrick shrugged. “Perhaps two hundred pounds,” he admitted. “Even dog drunk whilst playing a pair of cheats, he is not a bad hand at hazard. Still, it is a game of chance, not skill.”

“Yes, and it’s time to put an end to it,” said the mar-quess, striding up to the table. He set a heavy hand on Alasdair’s shoulder. Alasdair looked up, his brow furrowing as if he couldn’t quite focus on Devellyn’s face. “I need to speak with you two,” said Devellyn quietly. “A minor emergency.”

Alasdair turned, swaying a little precariously. “Can’t it wait, old chap? I’m down half a monkey, and about to give these chaps a proper thrashing.”

Devellyn pulled a somber face. “Alasdair, I should hope a friend in need is more important than a paltry sum of money.”

Alasdair considered it. “Of course,” he said swiftly. “Gentlemen,” he said, bowing to the Soho scoundrels, “I give you good night.”

Quin, who had been flanking Alasdair, followed suit, and the four of them went in search of an empty table. After a bottle of brandy had been brought out, Devellyn leaned back in his chair, cradling his glass against his waistcoat. “Gentlemen, I need two brave and stalwart men,” he said. “Volunteers, as it were, for a perilous mission. And I mayn’t go home until I have them.”

Alasdair set his glass down with an awkward clatter. “By God, I’ll volunteer, Dev!” he said, reeling a little in his chair. “Damned if I’ll ever leave you in the breach.”

“Alasdair, I can always count on you,” said the marquis. “Is there another among you so bold?”

Merrick made a skeptical sound. “Bold, my arse.”

Quin, too, looked dubious. “What sort of perilous mission?”

Devellyn pulled a serious face. “A dinner party tomorrow night,” he answered. “My mother’s, to be specific. She’s bollixed up her guest list, I collect, and come up two gents short.”

“Now wait a moment, Dev!” protested Alasdair. “That’s not per—per—
perilous!”

“If you think that, Alasdair, then you don’t know my mother’s friends,” said the marquis. “Besides, you owe the old girl. You practically stole Grandpapa’s coin collection from her. Turning up at dinner is the least you can do—besides, you have already volunteered.”

Merrick shoved his glass away. “Sorry, Devellyn, but I am engaged to dine with some American bankers tomorrow evening. The appointment was made months ago.”

“I might have guessed,” said Devellyn, setting down his glass and pushing away from the table. “Looks as though it falls to you, Quin.”

“Oh, why not?” drawled Quin. “I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Good man!” Devellyn grinned. “Six sharp in Grosvenor Square. And gird your loins, fellows. Every old tabby in town will likely turn up.”

On the night of the duchess’s dinner party, Lady Tatton took a sudden dislike to her silver-gray silk, throwing the house into a last-minute uproar. Whilst Pickens heated up an iron to press yet another gown, Esmée was dispatched to search for her ladyship’s dark blue shawl and jet pendant. She quickly found both, then went downstairs to sit by the drawing room window, where she watched as one fine carriage after another drew up in front of Lady Gravenel’s house to disgorge its well-dressed occupants.

In the end, they were a few minutes late. Lady Tatton offered her arm, and together they went down the street. “Now, there will be several eligible young men here tonight,” said her aunt, still fiddling with the folds of her shawl.

“Och, Aunt Rowena!” said Esmée. “I’m not at all sure I’ve any interest in these eligible young men, fine though they may be.”

“I comprehend, my dear,” said her aunt, lightly patting her hand. “I comprehend. But one must try one’s wings, mustn’t one? Smile a great deal, and flirt a little, Esmée! Use your fan as I showed you. You must try to acquire a little town bronze before the season begins.”

“Aye, so they’re to be used for practice, are they?” murmured Esmée as they went up the steps.

“Exactly!” said her aunt. “For practice!”

The duke and duchess awaited them just inside a huge withdrawing room done up in the French fashion, in shades of gold and ivory, with elegantly inlaid furnishings and a great many gilt mirrors. Lord Gravenel, who was in poor health, sat beside his wife in a wheeled chair. Both smiled warmly as Esmée looked about in awe. But just as Lord Gravenel lifted Lady Tatton’s hand to his lips, Esmée saw her aunt go quite rigid. Esmée looked beyond the duke’s shoulder. The air seemed to vanish from the room.
Oh, surely not!

“My dear Elizabeth!” murmured Lady Tatton as the duke greeted Esmée. “Please tell me that is not Sir Alasdair MacLachlan just there, by your étagère?”

The duchess laughed. “Oh, come, Rowena, he is not thought
hopelessly
wicked, is he?” she asked in her light, tinkling voice. “I confess to a fondness for the scoundrel.”

Rowena looked unconvinced. “When I left town, he was barely received.”

“Oh, not much has changed,” said the duchess airily. “There is always at least a titter of gossip whenever he turns up. But have pity, Rowena. The poor gentleman is here under duress.”