Powder of Sin (10 page)

“Experimenting with brandy and cunts,” Clermont
said. “Got overenthusiastic. One of the girls squirted a treat. And
they all tried champagne too. They said it tingles inside.”

Reed groaned. With the lingering effect of Miss
Ambermere’s strange powder, he might become caught up by Clermont’s
pornographic details.

They reached the hotel at last, and he half led,
half dragged a protesting Clermont to the bedroom. “You’re going to
bed alone for once,” Reed told him.

Standing in the middle of the floor, Clermont began
undressing clumsily, emptying his pockets onto the floor and
bed.

Reed leaned over to pick up the wallet and the
expensive watch, chain, and fob that dropped to the carpet. As he
reached down, the slip of paper with the names fell out of his
jacket.

“What’s that?” Clermont, unsteady but surprisingly
fast, swooped down and picked up the paper. He peered at the names
of the scientists. “What are all these words?”

“Just names. I’m collecting them for a friend.”

“Oh? Which friend is that?”

Reed dumped the objects on a table, regretting the
impulse to tidy up after Clermont. The man had a valet, after all.
“I’m collecting them for a friend in England who wanted me to do
some research while I was here in New York.” He hoped his
exaggerated, patient tone would put Clermont off the scent. “Shall
I call Banbury in to help you? He’s back from his day off.”

Clermont still held the paper, frowning. “Damn him.
He’ll get angry. I got rouge all over my linens again.”

“He’ll be used to that by now,” Reed said. On the
way out of the bedroom, he plucked the paper from Clermont’s
fingers.

Clermont hiccuped softly and asked, “What
friend?”

“What are you talking about?”

“For which friend are you doing this research?”
Clermont sat down heavily on the bed. He groaned and stretched. “I
could see how you worried about that paper. You’ve got a secret
from me.”

“I should bloody well hope so.” Reed didn’t bother
to lower his voice. “You are past the limit, Clermont. My personal
life—the little I have—and my friends are my own. Is that
clear?”

Clermont grinned as he slowly stretched out on the
bed. “All right, all right. No need to go off like that. You are
prone to temper, laddie. Especially of late. You need to cultivate
a few sins.” He grimaced. “I don’t recommend drink. My head is
spinning.”

“Poor Clermont.” Reed closed the bedroom door to the
sound of his charge’s groans.

As he removed his jacket and unbuttoned his
waistcoat to ready himself for bed, he ignored the demands of his
still-stimulated body. To distract himself, he’d make plans.
Clermont would sleep in, no doubt, and Reed would be able to do the
research for Miss Ambermere. He’d alert his spy, Peterkins, and
give the valet Banbury a larger-than-usual fee to send another
messenger boy if Clermont stirred from their rooms. Yet if Reed was
wandering through the city, interviewing scientists, where would
the boy deliver his message?

He hoped Miss Ambermere wouldn’t mind if he used her
house as the central location. He was not used to working with a
partner, and of all the people in the world, he wouldn’t have
picked her. Yes, he would have. He’d have picked her as a partner
in bed.

Her full mouth in a smile. Her breasts would be
tipped with the same rosy color of her lips.

Damn.

He grabbed his jacket and hat, determined to take
another long, brisk walk rather than allow the relentless lust to
take control of him again. Using his hand to bring release had only
a temporary effect, and he ached from the number of shameful times
he’d tried that method to reduce the hunger, alone in her library,
imagining it was her hand, her body, and even her mouth on him.

The lone attendant at the front of the hotel
straightened up and saluted. Reed nodded absently and wandered out
into the night.

He drew in another deep breath. Even the
questionable mix of horses, humans, fried foods from some nearby
restaurant, a lady’s floral perfume—the general fugue of a busy
city—thrilled him down to the core of his overly sensitive
body.

She’d said he might forget the whole incident.

He realized as he stood there, finally free of
obligation, that in other circumstances the sensation could be
described as exhilarating. Would he want to forget how aware he
felt of every beat of his heart, of the texture and taste of the
world around him? The scented breeze brushing his skin?

He thought of the appalling things he’d admitted to
her in her library. “Hell yes to that,” he said aloud and strode
off down the sidewalk to the restaurant that was still lit up and
lively.

He might as well take advantage of the best of this
sensation—the alert, rushing mind. He’d track down any information,
perhaps articles written by the scientists, and find the best
candidate to help with the wretched aphrodisiac. Surely there’d be
some way to find information, even at ten o’clock at night. New
York was a city designed for restless souls. Reed, never
particularly at ease, fit that description more than usual
tonight.

Lady Williamsford had frequently called Rosalie the
most patient one in the whole family, “
if you can call the three
of us a family
,” she’d automatically add.

At the moment, Rosalie wasn’t living up to the
title, at least not internally.

She managed to remain calm in her manner as she
picked up a piece of toast, buttered it, and placed it in front of
her companion.

Miss Renshaw stared dully at the coffeepot and
didn’t even look up when Rosalie remained standing next to her
chair. “Please.” Rosalie broke the silence. “You must at least eat
a few mouthfuls.”

“I can’t bring myself…no. You don’t understand.”

Patting her companion’s shoulder, Rosalie tried a
new approach—plain speaking. “I thought you’d recover by now, but I
can see you are far too hard on yourself. No one died. No one came
to real harm.” She prayed this was true. A pregnancy would count as
harm, she supposed. “No property was destroyed. You are acting as
if you had broken every law on earth. I understand you feel regret,
but this is disproportionate.”

“No, that’s not true. My actions were
unforgivable.”

Rosalie tried counting to twenty, but when that
didn’t work, she walked back to her place and sipped her coffee.
Still not enough, so she tried a few deep breaths. “All right, if
you can’t forget the past, at least face the future, Miss Renshaw.
What can I do to help you accomplish that?”

Miss Renshaw picked crumbs off the toast in front of
her. “I-I can never encounter Hawes again.”

Rosalie put down her cup. “You’re asking me to
dismiss him?”

Miss Renshaw hesitated, then nodded.

For a moment Rosalie considered the idea, then
rejected it. “No. I said no one was harmed, and in that case,
someone would be.”

“But he used me.”

“Perhaps, but you were a willing partner. I know, I
know, in truth it was the powder, but you—”

“Miss Ambermere, how could you?” She jumped to her
feet. “You do not understand how this has affected me,” she said
for the ten thousandth time.

“No, I don’t understand, but I do know you can’t
cast yourself as his victim,” she said. “I am sorry, but that is
not fair to Hawes.”

“But he…” Her voice trembled. “He is…common.”

“Never mind Hawes. I want to talk about you, Miss
Emily Renshaw, and the fact that you’re silly to starve yourself or
never show your face again.”

Miss Renshaw sat back down and delicately wiped her
reddened nose on a crumpled handkerchief. “I should not show my
face again, at least not with you. I am a failure in my position.
How can I act as chaperone when I—”

“Enough!” Rosalie slammed her hand so hard that the
teacups rattled. It felt good to yell, and perhaps the time had
come to behave like her father.

She’d never spoken harshly to her companion before,
so at least she had her attention. Miss Renshaw blinked and looked
up.

Bullying worked after all. A lowering thought, but
she wouldn’t stop behaving like a stern German governess yet. “You
will stop indulging in this fit of the dismals, and you will eat
breakfast. If you do not want Hawes’s attention, you will be brave
enough to tell him. He brought you flowers, you know. I have
already told you he’s willing to do the decent thing. Appears to
even want to. If you don’t want him, you must face him and say so.
He knows it was the powder, so you needn’t explain that. Simply
tell him you are not interested.”

“No! I can never!”

“Yes, you can. You are not a coward.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Miss Renshaw’s face. “I
rather think I am.”

At that moment, Rosalie at last understood. “You’re
mortified that the, ah, incident happened, but you’re even more
mortified because part of you hopes it might happen again.” As soon
as she said the words, Rosalie wished she’d kept her mouth
shut.

Miss Renshaw burst into another fit of sobbing. She
stumbled to her feet once more and fled the room. Again.

Rosalie would have to go apologize—she’d been cruel.
Correct too, perhaps, which didn’t make what she’d said any more
forgivable.

As she toyed with a piece of cold toast, she wasn’t
thinking of Miss Renshaw, but of several episodes when she’d fled
from her father’s breakfast or dinner table in tears. She wished he
were still alive so she could apologize.

She felt impatient to go outside. The spring air
beckoned even in the heart of New York, but she would stay in
because she knew Miss Renshaw would fall into self-reproach if she
left.

Mr. Reed would stop by again. That was worth staying
home for.

At about ten a.m., the butler announced a gentleman
caller. She bounded to her feet before Beels finished his sentence.
“Let him in,” she said.

A moment later, she regretted her impulsiveness. Mr.
Clermont strolled in, looking pale, almost ill. Even his clothes
reflected his apparent low weather, for he was dressed in a sober
gray that even a puce waistcoat couldn’t make festive.

She smiled and hoped he didn’t see her
disappointment. “How do you do, sir?”

As he bent over her hand and left a trace of
moisture on it, she recalled all that Mr. Reed had told her, and
she turned to Beels. “Please ask Murphy to bring her sewing in
here.”

Mr. Clermont stood, hands behind his back until she
offered him a chair—far away from the one she chose. He sat down
carefully as if afraid he might break something in his body. He
squinted at her and smiled. “I trust you’re well, Miss Ambermere.
You look lovely. Light blue suits you.” His smile grew wider. “So I
understand Mr. Reed is doing you a favor, is he?”

Could Mr. Reed have said something to him? She found
that hard to believe. “I’m not sure I understand you,” she
said.

“The names,” he persisted. “On that paper of his. I
recognized a couple of them. Well-known scientists.”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “Those names.”

Beels appeared in the doorway. “A boy is asking for
you, miss.” The way he said “boy” made it sound as if he didn’t
want to be blamed for such a creature’s existence. “He hopes you
will meet him in private. I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but he is
quite agitated.”

She excused herself and closed the parlor door
behind her so that Mr. Clermont would find it more difficult to
simply drift out of the room and make a nuisance of himself.

A skinny newspaper boy stood hopping from foot to
foot. “I’m supposed to tell yous when the yellow-haired gent goes
out, and he did, but he’s come here. I still get my money?”

“Of course. And, um, who was to tell me?”

“Mr. Gideon, of course.”

For a moment she wasn’t sure who that was, but then
remembered Mr. Reed’s Christian name. How interesting he’d allow a
street urchin to use it.

“Did he say when he was going to check in
again?”

“Anytime now. I’ll just sit here to make sure I get
my pay.”

He settled on the wide brownstone stair. She looked
up and down the street. No doubt her neighbors would call some sort
of authority if a ragged boy sat on her steps. “How would you like
a sandwich and some milk? And I’ll see that you get paid.”

She led the boy to the foyer, where Beels stood with
two footmen as backup agents. She motioned the group to the small
red parlor.

“Mr. Beels will take care of you, won’t you, Mr.
Beels? This gentleman is to get fed and receive a dime from the
household funds.” She could tell by the boy’s expression of delight
she’d overpaid him.

Beels gave her the sardine stare he employed when he
didn’t approve, and handed the boy off to Michael, the footman.

She went back into the sitting room.

“Young gentleman?” Mr. Clermont said.

“I lost my cat. And he found what he thought was my
cat, but it was a stray. I must beg you will forgive me if I don’t
offer you any tea. I best not linger long; my companion is under
the weather.”

“Why did you ask Reed for help?”

His smile, wide and friendly, didn’t fool her. Plain
speaking up to a point. She arched her brows and pursed her lips,
conveying astonishment that an Englishman would be so prying, yet
she would never be rude enough to tell him to mind his own
business. In her chilliest tone, she said, “He had mentioned he did
investigations in England, and I wanted something
investigated.”

“I don’t remember that conversation.”

“Don’t you? Perhaps it was while you were out of the
room. You were absent for a time.” She smiled at him. “I hope you
forgive my rudeness. But I am worried that my friend, Miss Renshaw,
is not at all—”

Miss Renshaw was there, in the doorway. She looked
pink-eyed and tottered a bit. But her mouth didn’t tremble, and she
even managed a small, incoherent greeting.