Powder of Sin (31 page)

“Rosalie.” He spoke sharply. “You’re drifting
again.”

“How do you know?”

“Your eyes grow heavy and so does your smile.”

“Never mind me,” she said. “You were trying to do
something, weren’t you? I can’t recall.”

“Find you,” he said.

“I’m well. I think I’ll go search the bedrooms.”
That’s where she would have gone if she’d been a guest in this
state, all proprieties lost.

“Good idea. Take a footman or the doctor with you.
No, take a maidservant. And perhaps a footman. Never mind. On
second thought, I’ll go with you.”

“You and I on a bed. No stockings this time.” She
hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Ah damn. You should go take some medication from
the doctor. I’ll go alone,” he said, still in that spiky tone.

“If you find ladies, I might help then.”

“Come on,” he said and strode quickly away. Such
long legs. Had she seen his legs? She’d examined his belly and
chest and cock. Especially his cock. She’d have to taste him next
time. And she’d have to run her hands over the muscles in his
legs.

Next time? Enough of her sanity returned that the
phrase seemed ridiculous. He seemed to loathe her. Perhaps in the
morning she’d loathe herself, but now it seemed laughable to
suppose she could ignore the screaming need. Not act upon it again.
Yes, she could control it. But pretend such a thing didn’t roar
through every fiber of her being? She might as well deny the
existence of her arms and legs.

She sighed and went after him, first pausing at the
bottom of the stairs to rip off the shredded stockings, and for a
moment, run the cooling silk between her fingers. Oh, and the
garter too.

She would have kept on loosening and removing more
layers under her gown, but Gideon reappeared at the landing. “Are
you coming?” he asked.

She dropped the stockings, the garters, the starched
petticoat, and went up after him, pressing her toes against the
cool, polished wood on the stairs.

He opened and closed doors swiftly, and she trailed
after him, feeling useless. At her room, he stopped and stared,
then closed the door when she drew near.

“It is your friend Mr. Wentworth,” he whispered.
“And the lady who sat on his other side.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Mrs. Lark? She’s at least
fifty.”

“Is her husband here?”

“She’s a widow. Mrs. Lark and Mr. Wentworth.” A
giggle rose in her throat, and she darted ahead of him to the next
door—her mother’s room. “Mr. Wentworth and Mrs. Lark. I hope they
enjoy themselves.”

He’d caught up with her. “Please, allow me.”

She let him set her aside and peer into rooms only
because it seemed important to him. It gave her a chance to watch
his shoulders shift under the dark jacket as he opened doors,
pushed his head into the rooms, and closed the doors again.

“No one,” he reported.

Two servants, hearing them, caught up with Gideon,
who sent them to search the servants’ quarters at the top and back
of the house.

She attempted to engage Gideon in conversation, but
he was too busy with his work and didn’t seem to want to talk about
the violin music floating on the wind or the strange way the
lamplight made deep shadows in the corridor.

At last they were trotting down the back staircase.
A great weariness had seized her. She wanted to go to her room and
throw the covers over her head. She couldn’t as long as Mr.
Wentworth and Mrs. Lark were using the bed.

She wondered what would happen if they should fall
asleep and then wake up together. “What should we do when they come
to their senses? If they forget what they did. I told Emily—Miss
Renshaw—what she’d done. She thought it was a dream. But do I need
to tell them all?” Again she didn’t know that she spoke aloud. “I
might not remember myself.”

“I don’t know the answer to that.” At least he
didn’t ignore her. They came out in the back corridor. He looked
around, then said, “For some, like Mr. Trevner, I think it best if
no one mentions it. The situation is fraught with perils for
him.”

She tried to recall and, with a spasm of merriment,
did. “He was playing leapfrog with Mr. Gramble.”

“Exactly,” said Gideon.

“I wonder if I’ll recall you. In the library,” she
said and smiled wide at that lovely memory. “Twice. You will be the
only one who can remind me if I forget.”

He didn’t answer. They came out into the kitchen,
which had contained a couple of harried scullery maids. They looked
up and then backed away.

“Has anyone been giving you any trouble?” Gideon
asked sharply.

“No, sir.”

Rosalie stood next to him and heard the quiet “thank
God.”

“Mr. Beels told us to scream for help if anyone
tried anything.”

“Good for Beels.” Gideon went on, less urgent now.
“You’d best go off to bed now. It’s past two a.m.”

How did it get to be so late? Rosalie wondered. Time
didn’t seem affected, but she’d so enjoyed herself.

Gideon was talking to the servants. “If you have a
lock on your door, use it. Otherwise, wedge a chair under the door
handle.”

“Yessir.”

She and Gideon were alone in the kitchen.

“It’s almost over,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

Somewhere in the distance, someone yelled. A cry of
delight, Rosalie guessed. That moment when the body went out of
itself in pleasure. She wanted that again.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

Rosalie hoisted herself onto the large,
flour-sprinkled table. “You are good at ordering people about,” she
said and drew a pattern in the flour, then sucked the end of her
finger. Soft wheat gummed her mouth, bland but pleasant.

He’d gone, and she supposed he was investigating the
yell. She considered following him, but he had no need of her.

She pushed some of the pans off the table, and they
landed with clangs, thumps, and rattles.

The violin music filled her. The scent of the
kitchen fire, the last of the feast prepared and mostly abandoned.
She put her hand near her nose and sniffed. Yes. There he was, the
musky scent of him. She curled on the broad wooden table and
breathed the faint trace of Gideon as she dozed off.

The long night drew to a close. Reed sent exhausted
servants on their way or off to bed and reminded them of their duty
to remain silent. He doubted his admonition made the slightest bit
of difference. Probably even the bribes of money that would come
later wouldn’t be effective.

Some of the guests had to be awakened, dressed by
one of the remaining maids, or assisted by Beels. Then Reed
summoned carriages for the bedraggled partygoers. Not their own
carriages, usually. Those servants had been dismissed a little
after midnight, and rather than ask questions, they went off
happily. Only one or two coaches lingered because the coachmen
claimed they’d lose their jobs if they left without direct
permission. That meant Mrs. Lark had a ride home.

Reed found Rosalie asleep on the kitchen table. He
hoisted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs.

She woke and smiled. “You,” she said. “Good. Thank
you.”

She wrapped an arm around his neck and snuggled
deeper against him.

He’d already decided he must tell some of the people
who’d lived through this evening what had occurred. But what could
he say to Rosalie? Not only had he failed to protect her from
assault, he’d carried it out himself.

She’d expect him to tell the truth. She would if the
positions were reversed. But over the next few days, weeks, and
months, she’d have to face some consequences. Someone would know
all the night’s happenings. All it would take is one whispering
servant.

He sighed and pushed open her door with his knee.
The bed had been thoroughly disordered by the long-gone Mr.
Wentworth and Mrs. Lark.

Would he have to approach those two guests and tell
them the truth? She wouldn’t be likely to bear a child…

“Gideon.” The fragrant bundle in his arms kissed his
neck. “Thank you for everything you did. I know you helped us
immeasurably.”

“Not with everything I did,” he said as he knelt and
put her on the rumpled sheets.

“Everything.” She held open her arms, and he almost
went to her. Almost answered the invitation. Then he remembered
Maggie. The body’s mindlessness.

“No, damn it. It’s horrible.”

“I am?” She peered at him, her forehead
furrowed.

“Not you. All of it, Rosalie. You saw it. You saw
your mother and the others.”

“My mother. She’s…” Her voice died away.

He wished to God he’d not reminded her of that, but
he had to stop her. “You know what’s causing this, and you want
more?”

“No, it—it’s not…” She gnawed her lip. He watched
the white teeth worrying at her mouth and wished he could reach out
and stop her.

She shook her head. “Not the same.”

God, he still wanted her and had to drive them back
from it. Remember Maggie, he thought. “Tonight it is nothing but
bodies. You can’t speak of anything else when all action is
dictated by pure need created by artificial means. There’s nothing
of real regard or affection in those embraces.”

“No?” Her voice was strangled. “That is your
perception, Gideon. Not mine. Not what I saw or felt.”

“It’s easy to allow the powder to take over your
thoughts as well as your body,” he said. He couldn’t allow her to
say something she might regret. Wait for the cold light of day, he
wanted to say.

But she wasn’t begging him to fuck her. Her response
was cold, and he supposed he deserved every chilly word.

“At least I am not a pious hypocrite,” she said. “I
am going to write down everything. All the things that you and I
did together in that library. Twice we did that. So if I forget
this evening, you won’t be able to plead innocent.”

He rocked back on his heels and straightened.
“Rosalie, I am sorry you think I’m a hypocrite. Come to think of
it, you’re probably right.” He sighed. “I’m angry. I’m confused.
It’s been a very long night.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And the only proper thing for me
to do is to thank you for your help. I shan’t bother you again.”
She gave a sniff. “And don’t worry. I won’t find paper and write
down what happened. I daresay I’d be more mortified than you if I
remember tonight.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “For the whole of the
night, I’ve despised myself for my weakness.”

She waved a hand at him, then covered her face with
an arm as if trying block out a light. Only a lamp glowed next to
the bed.

“No need to hate yourself, me, or anyone else. I am
tired of your grim face, Mr. Reed. You were disapproving the first
time you sat in my parlor and refused to say a word. Arms all
tucked up tight,” she said peevishly, her voice muffled by her arm.
“Heavens, I wish I had the sense to fall in love with someone who
had a lighter heart.”

In love
? She thought she was
in love
with him? His heart was suddenly so light, it had flown into his
mouth.

“Rosalie?”

She’d closed her eyes, and now her breathing was
deep and regular. He leaned over her and kissed her cheek. “I’d
never despise you. I couldn’t,” he whispered.

That was settled, then. Once the stuff had worn off,
he’d be back.

He’d already argued with himself that his need for
her could just be some animal drive within him. Or it could just be
the bloody powder. But at that last sentence of hers, he was
lost.

Love
was a word he heard often enough,
lightly tossed about. No reason it should mean more than
I love
champagne
. Lady Williamsford and her set probably used it in
every conversation. Yet he couldn’t talk himself out of the
exhilaration her grumpy words had stirred in him.

He went out the servants’ entrance and into the
predawn air. The city had scarcely dozed through the night hours,
and the new day had already started. A milkman chirruped to his
horse, and a rag-and-bones cart was trundling down the street.

A pushcart vendor slowly pushed an empty cart near
the gutter. Probably going to fill it with the day’s wares.

Reed watched the street scenes as he walked and
thought of none of it. His mind still replayed her half-awake
mumbling. She’d as much as said she’d fallen in love with him.

The words weren’t new to her. She’d already thought
of him and connected him to love before. There had been a weary,
what-else-is-new attitude in her voice.

That was enough to make him smile. She was annoyed
by the fact that she loved him.

He laughed aloud.

Never a particularly romantic man, he’d lived
through an embarrassing end to his one love affair. And after all
that time with Clermont and now this powder idiocy, it was easy
enough to believe that love was nothing more than some sort of
glandular condition, brought on by biological need. Yet for some
reason, the cynical Gideon Reed apparently believed she wasn’t
lying to him or fooling herself when she said she was in love.

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Another
smack on his head. The only reason he could thoroughly believe was
simple. He was in love as well.

A convert was the most fervent sort of believer. And
Reed knew he was converted. Even if she denied loving him, and even
if she laughed in his face, his love for her had become ingrained
in him—and all before he’d understood its existence. His love for
Rosalie would be impossible to lop off and discard. He was utterly
trapped, bewitched, and conquered by a woman commonly regarded as a
headstrong shrew.

He began to whistle.

Her mother was at the breakfast table. Even pale and
with circles under her eyes, Rosalie’s mother retained a radiant
beauty.

It wasn’t fair. Blonde beauty was supposed to be
delicate and easily lost. Puffy skin or pink noses. Or at least
Deirdre should have worn a look of anxiety and shame that would
turn her wan.