Powder of Sin (27 page)

The only reason any member of the most fashionable
set would say yes to the event would be curiosity or a grudging
admiration for Lady Williamsford, who’d been banned from the very
best of society because she so happily left her husband. Her very
worst behavior wasn’t public, but her devil-may-care attitude
seemed to offend the proprieties of the women who perhaps wished
they could run off from their own lives and not appear to give a
rip.

Mr. Wentworth had enough money and prestige to make
him indifferent to the mutterings about Lady Williamsford and her
headstrong daughter. Of all the men who’d courted her, he was the
only one who’d be able to bring Rosalie back into the arms of real
society, the world from which her mother had been banished soon
after she reappeared in the States, looking for fun without her
titled husband.

For some reason that struck Rosalie as a mark
against Mr. Wentworth’s suit. She was more her mother’s daughter
than she’d suspected, for many reasons.

And now Mr. Reed was there, unsmiling, gazing into
her face as if trying to read her thoughts. This time he kissed her
gloved hand. Proper depth of bow, perfect salute over her knuckles.
Perhaps he was a gentleman—or he could play that part as well.

“Good evening, Mr. Reed,” she said, speaking
automatically because her heart raced too fast, yet no blood seemed
to go to her brain. “I’m so glad you could come tonight.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been as great a help as I’d
hoped.”

He still held her hand, ruining the impeccably
correct salute and causing her mother’s eyebrows to arch.

The party was a mix of dancing, cards, and
conversation. And as Rosalie walked from room to room, talking with
the guests, she felt herself relax. Whoever had the powder hadn’t
struck her party, and perhaps she’d have time to find out what had
happened.

The guests had all arrived by eleven, and supper
could be served. Nothing too heavy, her mother had decided. After
all, they’d had canapés, served by the scarlet-coated servants.

They’d planned a clear consommé, and two days
earlier, her mother had added the choice of terrapin soup as well.
It went better with the oyster patties, her mother had argued.

Her mother had placed Rosalie at the foot of the
table, with Wentworth on her right and Mr. Gramble, a middle-aged
Wall Street tycoon who had a laugh like a steam engine, at
Rosalie’s other side.

Halfway down the table was Reed, who didn’t eat soup
but smiled and spoke to both women on either side of him. He
displayed impeccable manners, not a sign of the roughneck who
wielded a gun and irons.

One of the footmen leaned close to Mr. Reed and
whispered in his ear. Rosalie’s throat, already tight with
nervousness, closed entirely, and she put down her spoon.

She knew he’d slipped the staff substantial tips to
keep their eyes open. This could not be good.

Smiling, he turned to each of the ladies and spoke.
Good, he wasn’t panicked. Yet. But now he was rising from his
chair.

She tried to listen to the financier on her left,
who was gulping mouthfuls of terrapin soup and telling her a story
about a donkey. A story that wasn’t entirely proper. The banker
broke off when Mr. Reed approached Rosalie, who tightly clutched
her napkin on her lap. Please, nothing horrible, she thought.

“May I speak to you a moment?”

She refused to allow her smile to waver. “Naturally.
You’ll excuse me?” she said to the banker and Mr. Wentworth, who
was also watching now, mildly puzzled that she would allow a guest
to pull her away from the table.

She walked with him only as far as the corner of the
room. No need to cause further talk by disappearing together.

“Sorry to bother you, and it could be nothing, but
the cook told Jenkins that just before dinner, your mother put a
piece of paper into the thicker soup.”

Her heart sank, but she wasn’t surprised. “My
mother. Of course it was her. What do we do?”

“It could be nothing.”

“No.” She looked over to the table where her mother
laughed, her head back, her hands toying with the sapphires at her
white throat. “No, it’s not nothing. She made us change the menu
almost at the last second. I don’t know how she managed it, but I
think it must be the powder. How could she? Her own party?”

“Perhaps I should send Jenkins off for Dr.
Leonard.”

She twisted the napkin and stared back at the table
and the candles sparkling on jewels, glasses. Such a pretty scene
she’d have to disturb. “Gideon. Maybe it’s a false alarm. Shouldn’t
it be happening already? It seemed to take effect almost at once
when we touched or breathed it.”

“Perhaps it’s not as dramatic with digestion? If
we’re lucky, cooking it destroys it, and nothing will occur.”

She still gazed over at her mother, who was now
gesturing widely. Fury consumed her. The silly, stupid woman. And
yes, something was happening. The banker’s stupid donkey joke was
proof, as was her own growing desire to reach out and stroke the
smooth lines of the tie at Gideon’s throat, then touch his Adam’s
apple. She fought the need to fall into Gideon’s arms and roused
herself to act.

Rosalie met Beels’s eye. She beckoned with a nod,
and he was at her side at once. “Remove the soup immediately,” she
instructed in a low voice. “Don’t let anyone take another mouthful
of the terrapin soup. Bring the fish course at once.”

No, they weren’t moving fast enough. The footmen,
too polite to grab, waited by the shoulders of the diners. She
shook off the slowly cocooning effect of the drug, strode back to
her place, and tapped a glass to gain their attention.

Her hands trembled, and she felt nausea rise. They’d
all believe she was a crazy woman, but it would be better than the
alternative—another mouthful eaten.

She tried to smile at the faces turned in her
direction, watching her with openmouthed astonishment. “I am so
sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we have discovered there is a…a
problem with the soup course. Nothing that will cause any gastric
distress, I promise, but please accept my apology, and you’ll enjoy
the rest of the meal, I promise. You’ll excuse me. For only a
minute.”

She’d made so many promises to her guests. And
something inside her whispered, What about the promises for you?
Rosalie, you crave more. You deserve more.

She began to feel the powder steal away her body and
thoughts, but remained aware enough to reflect that at least its
effect was growing slowly this time, not immediately as when it was
breathed in.

“I will return soon,” she promised her guests, even
as her voice trembled and something bubbled inside her. She was
opening, allowing the whole of creation into her body, and emotion
cluttered her. Sheer anger at her mother’s folly? Or the force of
the powder rising through her blood? A combination, perhaps.

She pushed past footmen, who reached for the soup
plates. At the other end of the table, Rosalie clutched her
mother’s shoulder. “Come along, Mother. You and I and Mr. Reed need
to have a little talk. It won’t take long.”

“Ah.” Her mother’s smile was dazzling. “Of course.
Shall I be wishing you happy?”

“You shall be wishing yourself in Hades.”

Rosalie ignored the surprised murmur from the table
and the slightly louder shout of “what is wrong with the soup?”

“Nothing dangerous. We’ll return momentarily.” She
forced a cheery smile onto her mouth as she grabbed her mother’s
arm and compelled her to rise from the table. Everyone gaped, and
she heard whispers. Rosalie might have been creating a scene, but
she had to act while she still could.

In a low voice, she asked Gideon, “Can you get
someone to keep watch on this group? To come find us if the mood
changes?”

He nodded, and she marched her mother out of the
room and into the withdrawing chamber. A moment later, Gideon
joined them.

“Go on, tell us what you did.”

Her mother smiled at them. “You’re clever and
figured it out. But I don’t know why you’re both glaring at me. It
was such a tiny bit. Really. And it isn’t such strong stuff. I
think your companion must have been exaggerating its effects.”

“You. You really did put it in the soup?”

Her mother nodded. Rosalie was almost relieved.
Creating that scene in the dining room had been necessary after
all.

“How did you get it? When did you go poking around
downstairs?”

“I didn’t go. I sent that charming boy I met who was
hanging about—a friend of yours, Mr. Reed. He went down to look,
and he found it quite quickly. And it didn’t bother him either. No
effect.”

Reed frowned thoughtfully. “Peterkins. I suspect it
wouldn’t because he’s a child. But that could explain why he was so
energetic when I met him last.”

“Mother. You’re not a child, and you touched it,”
Rosalie cried. “How could you dose the soup after you discovered
what it could do?”

“I touched the screw of paper the boy gave me. And
yes, I admit, it enlivened me slightly. Yesterday afternoon, I
itched for it. I hesitate to say what in mixed company, but you
both know, of course. I wore out my poor Dicky boy.”

The name sounded familiar, and then Rosalie
recalled. “The rancher. Of course. He’s not here tonight.”

Her mother’s smile showed all her white teeth. “I
left him sleeping at his hotel. He told me he wouldn’t make it
after all, and I think maybe he’s frightened of me.”

“Oh Mother.” Rosalie moaned.

Gideon tapped his mouth with his finger. “Perhaps if
one is already concupiscent, there isn’t such a strong effect.
You’re saying the exposure didn’t turn you inside out? And you
recall all of what you said?”

Rosalie wanted to howl at them both. The
world
was going to be turned inside out, and they wanted to
discuss the stupid details.

Her mother was nodding at Gideon’s words. “I
wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t affect the naturally sprightly
as much as it does those who lead dull lives.” She cocked her head
and examined Rosalie. “But I wonder that you can be so rude as to
abandon your guests, Rosalie.”

“Better than poisoning them with that horrible
aphrodisiac. Mother. My God. You’ve ruined us both. You can’t have
seen what it will do, or you wouldn’t be so calm.”

“Yes, I know I haven’t seen the effect, and I’m so
looking forward to it. So’s my friend Mr. Clermont. He’s ‘all
agog,’ as Mr. Wentworth would say. I must say, you are a
spoilsport, Rosalie. Walter’s disappointed to see that the rest of
the powder is gone now.”

Gideon went to the door. “Now that we’re certain, I
will alert the servants and throw out the soup that is still in the
kitchen so they don’t eat any.” He gave Rosalie a twisted smile.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t eat so much as a bite, so I shall remain
sane.”

“I ate it.”

Her mother grinned. “I had a whole bowl.
Delicious.”

A wave of dizziness swept through Rosalie, unrelated
to the boiling anger she felt. It was growing warm in the library.
She swayed on her feet, a delicious sensation of giddiness. But
then her eyes closed, and she had to sit down before she fell.

“I shall go see what’s becoming of the other
guests,” her mother declared. “This will be fun, and I think from
what your silly companion has told me, the best part is no one will
have a strong memory of it the next day.”

The door closed, and Rosalie toppled onto her side,
grateful to lie on the cool, polished floor.

“Rosalie?” Gideon was at her side. Sensation burned
through her now.

Rosalie was curled on her side but straightened when
she heard him. His voice touched her, caressed her, and she had to
clench her fists and drive her nails into her palms to stop herself
from throwing her arms around Gideon and climbing his body. She
whimpered. “Go on, you said you have to do something about what’s
left of the soup.”

“I think you must have fainted. I have taken care of
the rest of the soup. And I’ve checked on your guests. There is
some trouble, Rosalie, but the servants and I will manage. Some of
the guests have already gone home. I hope you don’t mind that I
sent away most of the ones who hadn’t eaten the soup.”

“Of course not.”

“They’ll have an interesting evening to talk about,
I’m sorry to say.”

She could hear the doubt in his tone, but mostly she
could feel his voice deep inside her. She smelled him—already a
beloved scent, necessary to her happiness. “Are you all right?” He
was just above her.

“Ask me again tomorrow when this is over.”

She risked opening her eyes. He sat back on his
haunches next to her, almost touching her. So she hadn’t conjured
the scent from memory. He was so close, wearing a trace of a smile,
worry tucked in at the corners. His eyes glowed in the candlelight,
serious, dark, focused on her, examining her face—the effect of his
gaze was as palpable as a stroke on her skin.

Lord, he didn’t know what sort of danger he was in,
because she was going to inhale him entirely, pull him in so he
became a part of her, unable to escape. She had
to—immediately—reach for him or be annihilated by desire.

Her legs were drenched with lust. Her head didn’t
just spin—it wove and lurched and sang with need. Yes, just a
little closer. He had removed his gloves for dinner, and his bare
hand brushed her forehead, perhaps to check her temperature. She
gasped and seized his wrist, worked her way up his arm, pulling
herself closer, sitting up.

“Ah,” he said. “Whoops.” He straightened, and since
she clung to him, she rose to her feet as well.

She’d pounced and got him. Now her mouth found his,
and she shuddered at the contrast of his warm, dry lips and wet
mouth that she found with her tongue. Greedy little sounds escaped
her as she writhed closer.