Powder of Sin (14 page)

In a normal, cheerful voice, he said, “I will call
again, if you don’t object.”

“I should be glad to see you,” she said
automatically and wondered if she would be glad. Those kisses had
stirred the placid surface of her life, a calm steadiness she
required. And now her mind was a muddy mess and her senses far too
awake and yearning. She watched him walk away, a man at ease with
his body and who knew how to use it. Even the way he shoved his
hands into his pockets as he strode away from her house made her
want to go after him and beg for another kiss. A small brush of the
lips would be enough.

No, it wouldn’t.

When she’d leaned against him, she’d felt the
strength and appetite in his body and wanted more.

Wanting didn’t mean taking. She could long for
something and survive its absence.

Rosalie heaved a sigh.

Her mother would soon put a stop to any chances for
introspection.

Deirdre had already settled herself by the tea tray
and helped herself to a piece of cake. As always, she started her
annual visit with a mixed pronouncement about the city. “I do not
like the traffic and dirt, but New York does invigorate the blood.
How do you thrive in such a world?”

Rosalie wasn’t certain “thrive” was the word she’d
use. But the only use for self-pity was to make changes, and she
had no notion of what she’d change. A smile, a man’s hand, even
kisses weren’t enough to throw away her quiet, content life.

“Mother, you are looking well.”

“As are you. I must say, your father’s features are
delectable on your face. Speaking of your father, I am considering
a change. Perhaps I will visit England.”

“No. Why would you?”

“I didn’t give it a fair shake. I think as a widow
I’ll fare better. Want to come along?”

She ate a forkful of cake and behaved as if she
hadn’t just lobbed an incendiary device at her daughter.

Rosalie decided to play along. “I have occasionally
thought about returning. I’d like to see my aunt again.”

“Your father’s sister is a silly woman with no
interest in anything but gravestones.” Lady Williamsford waved a
dismissive fork.

Rosalie watched a crumb fly, then asked, “Never mind
England for the moment. What treats do you have in mind for this
visit to New York?”

“To tell the truth, I haven’t planned anything.
Wandering off without a plan. That might be a treat even better
than those electrical massages I discovered last year.” Her mother
swallowed the last bite of cake and reached for another slice.

Deirdre could probably consume a whole cream-filled
pastry, and it wouldn’t add an ounce to her body. “I liked the
looks of that Mr. Reed. Well-built young man. Rougher than usual.
He wasn’t well-enough dressed to be one of your usual suitors.”

“You haven’t met many of my suitors.” There weren’t
many to meet.

“Certainly. That Wentworth is always around, taking
tea, acting nearly English. I always thought you’d be going after
the artistic type, but you prefer the polished dandy. The dude,
they call them here.”

“Mr. Wentworth is certainly not a dandy. I prefer no
such—Oh, you are teasing me. Less than ten minutes, and you manage
to set traps for me. Mr. Reed had been helping me with…a
problem.”

“Interesting.”

Her mother’s vague blue-eyed gaze didn’t fool her
for a minute. “And this problem would be?” Deirdre prompted.

“Did you ever meet Father’s heir?”

“Your cousin, you mean? Once. He was perhaps
thirteen at the time and tried to put his hand down the front of my
dress.”

“Yes, that’s him.”

Deidre popped some apple cake into her mouth and
chewed. She swallowed and said, “Johnny, that poor thing. He died
recently.”

“Yes, and he left his possessions to me.”

Her mother put down the plate and began to laugh.
She laughed so hard, a tear trickled down from the corner of an
eye.

“It’s not that funny, Mother.”

“Yes, it is. And I can tell you’re annoyed—you
always call me Mother when you are. But ah, that is funny. You of
all people. I know all about Johnny Ambermere, Lord Williamsford,
and he was a thorough reprobate. Your father wrote me a long
diatribe about how you went to visit Johnny. I never thought the
rascal and you had become such fast friends despite your father’s
rants. You poor thing.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Go on. Where does
your Mr. Reed fit in?”

“He’s helping me dispose of those possessions.
That’s all.”

“Ah. And that dark hair that looked as if he’d been
out in a wind? He ran here?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know you well enough to see when you lie, dear.
You do something with the inside of your lip. No, stop. Don’t
worry. I shan’t tease you any longer. But I would love a tour of
bad Johnny’s objects.”

She rose to her feet and brushed nonexistent crumbs
from her front. “Where is your companion? Miss, er…?”

“I’m sure she’ll be down soon to see you.”

Her mother laughed. “I doubt it. I scare the woman.
And she doesn’t approve of me at all.”

Rosalie remembered what Mr. Reed had said. She’d
spent years avoiding the topic, but lately she’d wondered.
“Deirdre, does it bother you that people don’t approve of you?”

Her mother stopped and raised a well-shaped eyebrow.
“Bother me? No. I worried about you sometimes, with parents like
us, but you’ve turned out happy and independent. Your father
wouldn’t have approved of the second, but he’d be glad you are
thriving. You are, aren’t you?”

That was the second time she’d asked, and perhaps
for once, Deirdre was expressing interest in another person.
Rosalie began, “I suppose I am, but—”

“Good.” Her mother’s brief foray into someone else’s
concerns was over. “Let’s see Johnny’s toys. I expect there might
be something fun to play with.”

Rosalie smiled as she followed her mother through
the hall. Her mother was entirely self-centered, but at least she
was good-humored. Lady Williamsford never complained that Rosalie
had inherited the wealth that should have gone to her. This house
had belonged to her parents, and when they died, Lord Williamsford
took over his wife’s fortune, as any good husband would. All of
Deirdre’s family money had gone to him—and he’d cut his wife from
his will.

Lady Williamsford had an inheritance from an uncle,
but that money was a drop in the bucket compared to her parents’
wealth, which had gone to Rosalie when she’d turned
twenty-five.

Miss Renshaw was in the library, fussing around a
shelf of books. She looked up at their entrance and gave an audible
gasp.

“Lady Williamsford.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I wasn’t
sure when you were arriving. I must get things in order.”

“And you are so good about such things, Miss… Umm. I
know you’re the reason there are always flowers by my bed.”

Miss Renshaw blushed. “Gracious, it’s only a small
gesture.”

“They all add up to the bigger ones.” Lady
Williamsford wandered over to examine Cousin Johnny’s collection of
curios and objects that were still haphazardly left on a tabletop,
a shelf, and inside a crate. “What’s in here?”

Miss Renshaw gave a small cry and darted forward.
“You mustn’t. No, no.”

Lady Williamsford straightened. “Oh? Whatever is
wrong?” She looked at Rosalie, who shrugged and tried to look
indifferent.

“It’s a horrible, horrible substance.” Miss Renshaw
went to the shelf where most of the strange objects had been stored
after the initial inventory—started the disastrous night Rosalie
privately thought of as Miss Renshaw’s “Big Misadventure.”

She gave a gasping shriek. “But it’s gone. My dear
Miss Ambermere, where has it gone? Has someone stolen it? You
couldn’t have thrown it away, risking the health of everyone in the
city.”

“Miss Renshaw, I promise it’s safe. I’m taking care
of the matter.” Rosalie wished her mother wouldn’t watch her so
closely.

“The matter?” her mother asked. “And what is the
matter?”

“A dried substance”—Miss Renshaw spoke in a low,
throbbing voice—“that does horrible things to anyone who touches
it. An indecent effect.”

“Knowing what I do about your late cousin, Rosalie,
I can guess. And I can guess from your agitation, Miss Renshaw,
that you have seen…” She stopped and raised her eyebrows. “I wonder
if you have actually felt these effects.”

Not hard to guess, since Miss Renshaw had gone past
the noblewoman’s ride in the tumbrel and now wore the look of an
aristo stepping up to the executioner’s block. Pale and with
trembling lips, she gave a single nod. “I have been under the
influence. And the experience was—It was horrible.”

Rosalie wanted to argue and point out that she’d
claimed to feel alive, but best that her mother not hear anything
good about the powder. She didn’t need her mother joining in the
race to somehow get her hands on the dratted box.

“How long will you be staying with us, Deirdre?”

“I’ll overlook your rudeness in asking. A little
longer than a month, I think. Not too disruptive, eh? Although, I
hope you can make the arrangement we had the year before last.”

“Ah. So he’s back?”

“Not him. A new friend of mine.” She held a bizarre
carving of a fat, overly buxom lady and now walked close to Rosalie
with the purpose of whispering. She wasn’t so far gone that she’d
allow Miss Renshaw to hear about her latest beau. “He’s a rather
interesting sort of a man who deals with livestock.”

For a moment she had the vision of Hawes staying in
a guest bedroom, and then suddenly Rosalie wondered if that would
be an answer to Miss Renshaw’s problem—bringing him into the house
rather than pushing Miss Renshaw out the door. But then her mother
nudged her with an elbow. “He’s no mere cowboy. A rancher.”

“And he’s visiting New York?”

Her mother nodded. “Staying at the Fifth Avenue
Hotel. I wondered if you might invite him to stay here.”

“Mother,” she began.

Deirdre held up a hand. “No, you’re about to get all
stiff-backed, supercilious with me. It won’t work. Just say yes or
say no, and save us the lecture.”

“I will agree to invite your friend if you promise
to be more discreet. I don’t want the servants finding you in his
bedroom in the morning.”

“You have become even more plainspoken. Good for
you. You’ll end up like my Auntie Elizabeth in Boston, the scourge
of every librarian and bookseller on the East Coast.”

Rosalie regarded her occasionally sharp-eyed mother
with some dismay. Hiding her growing feelings for Mr. Reed was
going to be difficult enough. And then there was the powder. This
might prove to be a long, potentially horrible visit anyway, and it
would be worse if she felt injured in every conversation with her
mother. But she couldn’t seem to hold back her indignation. “Auntie
Elizabeth should be under the supervision of a brain care
specialist. I only want peace in—”

Her mother interrupted. “Silly girl. Of course, I
promise. And so far there hasn’t been anything to be discreet
about. He has such a pleasant room at the hotel, I shall probably
sneak over there. So where is this horrible powder your companion
was just speaking of?”

“Mr. Reed is helping me dispose of it.”

Deidre walked away and in a louder voice said, “That
means it’s still on the premises? Shall we play hotter colder? You
loved that game when you were a baby. Am I hot or cold?” She walked
across the room. “Am I getting colder? Hotter?”

“Mother,” she said, then, appalled by the peevish
note in her voice, tried again. “Deirdre.”

“Lady Williamsford, no, you mustn’t.” Miss Renshaw
was unusually outspoken today. “I know Miss Ambermere has done the
right thing, hiding it from everyone. We must not look for it.”

“You’d like to find it yourself? Interesting.”

“No! No, I don’t want it!” Miss Renshaw shuddered.
“Never!” She looked at the door, and Rosalie knew she wanted to
flee.

Time to employ the knitting ruse again. “Miss
Renshaw, would you fetch my yarn from the sitting room, please?
Although I think the blue is upstairs.”

Miss Renshaw gave her a teary-eyed look of gratitude
and left.

“Tell me what happened to your Miss Renshaw,”
Rosalie’s mother said the minute the door closed. “At once, before
I die of curiosity.”

“No.” But Rosalie’s heart sank. Her mother was not
the sort to take no as an answer. She enjoyed a good fight.

After a few more minutes of pestering, Rosalie gave
a very abridged version of Miss Renshaw’s adventures, leaving out
the details of everything she’d seen in the garden. Her mother,
however, was listening too carefully.

“You say she was kissing the groom? Nothing
more?”

“No. And it was the coachman.”

“Then why are you chewing your lip?”

“I don’t like telling other people’s secrets,
Mother. Do stop trying to make trouble.”

“You need trouble made, child. You’re set in your
ways. That dreadful Johnny Williamsford did you a favor.”

“Not likely.” Rosalie sat down heavily on the couch.
She felt a headache coming on. “The chemical is frightening. I’m
only glad we’ve found someone who’ll take care of it.”

“We?”

“Mr. Reed did the research for me.”

“The intriguing Mr. Reed. He is exactly the sort of
trouble I hope you get into. Very attractive in a dark, brooding
sort of way. Rough-and-tumble, I imagine. Straight in for what he
wants and no shilly-shallying with little kisses.”

Rosalie remembered his little kisses and then the
bigger ones. He’d been so gentle, and then…
Oh my
. If only
she could go off on her own to think about those kisses. But her
mother would require a great deal of attention—she always did.

Her mother removed a bracelet and dangled it for a
minute, eyeing the diamonds. Lady Williamsford refused to follow
any dictates about wearing particular jewels only on certain
occasions or times of day. She put it on her other wrist, then held
up her shapely, silk-clad arm and twisted it so the bracelet caught
the light. “If I didn’t have an eye on my rancher, I’d see what I
could do about Mr. Reed.”