Powder of Sin (32 page)

Never Deirdre, Lady Williamsford.

She smiled as she caught sight of Rosalie.

“Before you rip into me, I want to say I didn’t
know. What happened last night was far more than I expected,” she
announced.

“I’m glad you remember, because now you know it was
more than my reputation or yours can bear.” Rosalie had considered
ranting, crying, or at least giving her mother a good scolding. But
what was the use? She sat down at the table and contemplated the
coffeepot.

Her life as she knew it was over. Where could a
disgraced young woman go next? Perhaps a new city, even take a new
name. She had enough money. She tried to feel horror but only felt
fatigue and a sense of loss.

“Your Mr. Beels is not speaking to me.” Deirdre
raised her coffee cup to her lips. “And I swear I saw the two
footmen leer at me as I came down the stairs. I’ll have to bribe
every servant in your employ and mine too. Ah well.”

“Yes, Mother, but I don’t think that will be
enough.” Rosalie decided she’d risk coffee. She poured a cup and
ignored the sugar and cream. Bitter and strong was just what she
needed. “I wonder, do you remember what you did last night? And
what happened to the guests who came to my house expecting innocent
entertainment?”

Her mother shrugged and nodded. “Some of it, yes.
Rather too sprightly. I think your Mr. Reed was right. It has a
stronger effect on those who aren’t used to indulging their
senses.”

“My Mr. Reed. Ha.” She couldn’t remember him saying
that.

“He was invaluable. I understand he managed to stop
the worst of the effects in many of your guests.”

“
Our
guests.”

Her mother went on as if she hadn’t interrupted.
“And Mr. Reed brought in that handsome doctor. Very pleasant young
man. What is his name?”

Rosalie sipped coffee and refused to answer. She
wasn’t going to add any more men to her mother’s collection. They
sat in silence for several long minutes. The coffee helped clear
her head, but she wished her mind wouldn’t grow so very clear. She
was remembering too much.

“Rosalie?” For the first time in Rosalie’s memory,
her mother’s voice was hesitant and perhaps even trembled. Rosalie
looked up and waited. Her mother’s eyes were bright. But with tears
now, not plots.

“I’m sorry, love,” her mother said at last. “I truly
didn’t know how strong that stuff was. Even Mr. Clermont, who’d
described it to me, was shocked. Except he was delighted. I, on the
other hand, regret it. Indeed I do.” She put her napkin on the
table and pushed back her chair. “I wouldn’t be worried if it
weren’t for you, my girl.”

“Mother, there is no point in regrets now. Barn door
after the horse is gone.” Rosalie shut her eyes and sipped the
coffee. It would be the small things that kept her sane. The taste
of good coffee. The vague and lovely memory of the first time she
made love with a man. “I only hope no one summons the authorities.
We’d look so horrible in prison clothing.”

Her mother rose from the table and walked to her
side. “I expected you to be in a raging fit. I thought you’d be
like an avenging angel.”

“I suppose we’ll discover the consequences and deal
with them as they arise. I will expect your help, Mother. We will
need to aid anyone harmed last night. I don’t know if it’ll take
money or explanations, but we must be ready to give both.”

Her mother patted her shoulder awkwardly, then gave
it a brisk rub as if Rosalie were a dog. She returned to her place
and picked up her fork. Her normal manner of slightly jolly disdain
returned. “You are a good girl. I most definitely don’t deserve a
daughter as forgiving as you. But alas, that is my fate in
life.”

Rosalie felt a real smile rise. “And you are a bad,
wicked woman. But you are still my mother. I can’t throw you away
and try again.”

“Much as you’d like to.”

“Don’t tempt me, Deirdre. I do have screams and
fainting fits bottled up inside. Push me, and I’ll indulge in them.
Have you seen Miss Renshaw this morning?”

Deirdre daintily forked some scrambled eggs. “She
came sneaking in about seven a.m. From the back. I imagine she had
enough soup to give her the strength to retire with her coachman
for the night.”

Rosalie felt so relieved, she reached for a piece of
toast. “Good. He’d take care of her.” She began to spread some jam
and stopped suddenly, knife still pressed to the toast. “Oh dear.
How far I have fallen when I am glad to hear that a single woman
spent the night with a man.”

Beels entered the room with a calling card on his
silver salver. Rosalie’s heart sank. It was ten—too early for
formal callers. This had to be the result of the unfortunate party.
The right corner was folded, and her heart sped up. An English
caller? Americans, particularly men, didn’t indulge in the habit of
folding a card.

“Thank you, Beels,” she said, watching him.

“Yes, miss.” He gave his tiny mouth a twitch to
indicate a smile. A good sign. Perhaps he wasn’t about to give
notice.

She glanced at the card. Though she’d suspected what
she’d see there, her breath caught. Should she be home to him?

She knew she had promised not to bother him again.
He’d carried her up the stairs, and he’d talked about how much he
loathed…everything.

She knew she’d done something, but couldn’t exactly
recall why he might despise her. And then a haphazard flood of
memory came to her, filling her body as well as her mind. The hard
floor of the library. A man deep inside her, thrusting.

But that had been Gideon. Oh, good that he had been
Gideon.

But he’d been angry… The weariness filled her again,
evaporating all joy at seeing his name on the small, plain
pasteboard.

She tapped it against her palm, ignoring her
mother’s inquiring looks and Beels as he stood near the chair, with
his face blank in his exaggeratedly patient wait for an order.

“I should see him.”

Beels turned on his heel to fetch the visitor, but
before he got to the door, her courage failed. “Wait,” she
said.

Businesslike, she reminded herself. She could talk
about the ravages of orgies with him in an aloof, grave manner. He
would know what to do next and who required aid. She could get the
details of the night from him rather than the servants.

But not the details of what had occurred in the
library. Two days in a row. Something about that place…

Copulation and rage—she now recalled vivid snatches
of that episode, but she would keep them to herself. The powder
stole memory, and that would be her excuse to never mention the
incident in the library—and how she’d begged him. She’d retain her
dignity, and as sure as she sat there, she would not grovel in any
way, shape, or form. She’d pretend he was Mr. Dorsey and was here
to discuss business.

“Put him in the small parlor. I’ll join him
immediately. No. In five minutes,” she decided.

“Mr. Reed?” her mother asked when Beels left the
room.

She nodded. “How did you know?”

“Your face went pink, and you started puffing and
snorting like an outraged carriage horse. Don’t let the man get to
you.”

Too late for that.

Her plan to pretend he was Mr. Dorsey failed the
minute she opened the door and found him pacing the room. All
traces of the horrible party had been cleared away, and it looked
like her innocent parlor, but now she remembered this was where the
naked bodies had been. And her mother had been… She refused to
dwell upon that memory.

She cleared her throat. “Mr. Reed?”

“Rosalie.”

He still called her by her first name. That was not
a sign of an implacably angry gentleman.

“Won’t you sit down? May I offer you
refreshment?”

He waited until she sat before he threw himself onto
a chair near her and frowned at her. Time for a diatribe. Instead
he asked, “Are you well? Do you think you’ve recovered from the
effects? I wasn’t going to disturb you, but I’ve heard that a
couple of the visitors did have some gastric distress.”

“Oh no. Are they recovered?” She rose to her feet.
“Shall I call for a doctor to visit them? How many are there?”

“Three.” He blushed as he sprang to his feet, and
she wondered if she’d seen him turn red before. “And, um, actually,
I’m not surprised they had stomachaches. They were eating as if
they’d been starved for weeks. I don’t think you need to worry
about them.”

She was on the point of asking him why he bothered
to mention them, when he began pacing again. Obviously the man was
under some terrible emotional strain—related to her, of course.

Rather than face a lecture, she spoke quickly. “So
what do you think we should do? Do you suppose we could have Miss
Renshaw talk to any ladies who might have been affected? She’d be
willing to share some of her experience. Suffering shared becomes
lighter.” She sat down and watched him walk. Back and forth.

“Yes.” He paused. “That’s a good plan.”

“The doctor would also accompany her.”

“I don’t trust him.”

She was going to argue, then had a distinct memory
of the doctor holding her in his arms the night before. He’d kissed
her shoulder. “He does like women,” she said.

“He is not as reliable as he should be. Intelligent
and perhaps good at his work. But I hope I might help with the
research—and help keep the researcher from using the powder for his
own purposes.” He paused and gave her a long look. “I had rather
thought I should stay on. In the city.”

She twisted her hands together and tried to sound
indifferent. “What of your plans to travel west?”

“I think I could stay here for a time. I want
to…well… Uh. I want…”

Gideon was not prone to stuttering. She wondered
what ailed him. A lack of sleep? Definitely. The shadows under his
eyes gave him the look of a dissipated poet. Far too
attractive.

He folded his arms and glared at something on the
floor. “This isn’t going well,” he muttered.

“Mr. Reed. I sense there is something serious you
wish to discuss. Go ahead, please.”

“How much of the night do you recall, Rosalie?”

Drat. She had wished he would revert to his early,
formal manner. It would be easier to concentrate on what had to be
done if she could ignore the way it made her feel when he used her
first name.

She picked her words carefully. “Enough to know that
I should be grateful for your help. And that I might have some
trouble ahead of me.”

He nodded. “I think we were lucky in some ways. As
far as I can tell, only twenty persons were affected, including
yourself, your mother, and Miss Renshaw. Apparently the terrapin
soup was not as popular as the consommé, or we managed to stop
people from eating it in time.”

He at last seemed to calm down enough to sit. Not
right next to her, but not in the chair at the far end of the room.
“Of the seventeen visitors, only three were, ah, single women who
would suffer severe consequences should the truth be revealed. And
of those three, only two might have had some, um, contact. And
actually there was another young woman who hadn’t eaten the soup
who also might have…”

His voice petered out, and he cleared his
throat.

She lost her patience. “Might have lost her virtue,
you mean? Allowed herself to indulge in fornication?”

He wet his lips and gave a quick nod.

“You speak plainly with me as a rule, Mr. Reed.
Don’t stop now.”

His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head and looked
at her. “I am aware that I’m not behaving as you’re used to,
Rosalie. I was afraid you’d be offended, and I supposed my standard
blunt behavior might make the situation worse.”

“I? I have nothing to be offended about.”

“Then you truly forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” she echoed. “Pardon?” This was not
what she had expected.

“Rosalie, how much do you remember of last night?”
The question again, just as urgent, yet softer.

She imitated one of her mother’s shrugs.

“The library. Do you have any memory of what
happened in there? Again?”

She didn’t want to attempt a lie, so she
shrugged—again.

“You were so lovely, so enticing.” The frown
deepened. “I have never in my life seen anyone—anything—as
beautiful as you were, Rosalie.”

Her mouth went dry. This was not the tone she
expected.

But the horrible frown was in place. He groaned. “I
know, I’m making excuses for inexcusable behavior.”

“You?” she started but couldn’t go on. She shifted
in her chair.

“Yes. I took advantage of a woman under the
influence of a terrible drug. I took advantage of you. I’m so very
sorry.”

“But…but I thought you said it was my fault?” She
tried to remember how she’d arrived at that conclusion. “You said
it was all loathsome. And I think you meant me too. Yes, I’m almost
certain you were angry at me.”

“I suppose I did say something like that. I was
trying to convince myself to stop touching you and perhaps stop you
from looking at me like that. I wanted nothing more than to stay
with you and keep you in my arms the whole night. That’s not
loathing, Rosalie.”

“Oh.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?”

She felt the heat rise in her face. The word
cock
had figured into her conversation. All shivering,
needful urges. Yes, she remembered.

She gave an involuntary glance down at his trousers.
When she met his gaze again, he was smiling, perhaps even smirking.
“You do remember the library.” And he sounded triumphant, not angry
or ashamed.

She realized she found it very difficult to lie to
him. That did not bode well for this conversation or her dignity.
“I remember some of it.” She squeezed her hands tightly together to
suppress her body’s response to the rush of memories. The
horrendous need and a thousand powerful details. The scratch of
cloth on her skin, the warmth of his supple body covering her,
pressing into her.