Sinful in Satin (2 page)

“Of course not. Still, you can move in her world better than anyone else, since you were a friend.” He gestured toward the window, and the women at the grave. The inhabitants of Alessandra’s world. “They will all trust you for that reason alone. And also because people tend to anyway.”

His uncle alluded to an odd truth, one that Jonathan had become expert in exploiting. People did trust him. For reasons unknown, their instincts told them to. He did not understand it himself, but it had made his missions for Edward easier. Somewhat ignoble too, and vaguely dishonorable, no matter how right the cause.

It was not clear how right this new cause was. Not that it really mattered. He had long ago stopped debating such things. A man could not make his way as an investigator if he took sides. Whether executing a duty for the Home Office, or tracking down the love nest of an errant wife, it behooved him to remain objective if he wanted to eat.

He peered out the window again. He wondered if he could remain objective this time. Alessandra had indeed been a friend. There was something distasteful in the notion of picking through her life and past. It felt like a betrayal of her.

He faced his uncle squarely. “Another man would be better for this.”

“We want you. There is no telling what will be learned. We can’t trust some runner from Bow Street.”

“I don’t like it. I had intended to go back to France anyway.”

Edward tried to smile, but instead his mouth stretched in a thin-lipped line that spoke more worry than good humor. “You don’t want to be leaving so soon. I am making progress with Thornridge. I intend to go down to Hollycroft myself next week and see if my efforts have borne fruit. If I am successful, you will want to be here when the goal is achieved.”

He alluded to a long quest, one that Jonathan increasingly doubted fulfilling. Edward had been his only ally in that struggle of obtaining the family acknowledgment that would put the ambiguity about his life to rest.

Edward said nothing more, but an old understanding hung between them. Edward would help Jonathan, if Jonathan helped Edward. It had been his uncle who recruited him during the war, and who had always acted as the go-between for the Home Office when it came to the investigations on which he was sent.

Normally, the allusion to the great prize would make Jonathan set aside any misgivings. Today it did not. He was not sure why. Perhaps that sense of betraying a friend caused his ill ease. Possibly Edward’s lure was losing its appeal. The bait had been in the water a very long time now, after all.

Then again, maybe it was because he had seen Alessandra’s daughter today. Celia’s vivid, bright, youthful spirit had always made him feel dark and murky and old beyond his years.

Edward’s expression turned serious, as if he saw something in the face across the carriage that troubled him. “There is something else.”

“What is that?”

“It is possible—I did not want to speak of it, because of this friendship you think you had, but there is some indication that the attack you suffered in Cornwall is tied to this. Just a pattern that can be traced; that is all. Nothing definite.”

“You knew this and did not tell me before? Damnation, you know I have a debt to settle there. If you have any information about the man behind that I want—”

“I assure you it is all very elusive. Still—one of her early patrons was a French émigré, as you may know. He taught her style and manners. There have been hints he was linked to it, and we have reason to think that she continued to see him up until his death two years ago. Privately and on the sly.”

So the rumors were not without some provocation. Jonathan did not believe that Alessandra would knowingly send him into a trap and to almost-certain death. He did not want to think such a thing of the woman who had been almost motherly toward him.

On the other hand, a person’s choices could be harsh in this world. An agent with missions of questionable morality cannot afford a conscience that is too particular. He knew all about that.

The burial service ended. The women drifted away, leaving the blonde and her veiled friend near the grave.

“Will you do it?” Edward asked. “You must follow orders this time. None of that inconvenient independence you showed the last time up north.”

“External circumstances intervened up north, as you well know.”

“You should have found a way to put Hawkeswell off when you learned he was sniffing around the whole matter. You should have—”

“I warned you that the stench was so big someone was bound to smell it. Do not blame me if the government has been embarrassed.”

Their carriage rolled, and approached a part of the lane that cut closer to the grave. A blond head faced the passing carriages. As they drew near, Jonathan saw Celia’s lovely face a mere ten feet away.

The pretty, golden child had grown into a very lovely woman. She appeared just as sweet now, though perhaps less innocent. She looked right at the covered window, acknowledging its invisible occupants.

The day was overcast, yet the world brightened just a bit all around her, as if she gave off her own radiance.

Jonathan turned away from the window and met his uncle’s frowning impatience.

“Yes, I will do it.”

 

 

C
elia hopped out of Daphne’s gig. She looked up at the three-story brick house. Like most of the others on this part of Wells Street, it appeared well maintained. It was the sort of house a merchant might live in, or a prosperous craftsman.

“It appears to be a decent neighborhood, and Bedford Square is only a few streets east,” Daphne said. She had been inspecting more than the house. “You should be safe enough on your own for a few days.”

Celia lifted her valise from the gig. She had not yet told Daphne that it might be more than a few days. That would come later, once she had settled her plans.

“I still think it is odd that my mother never told me about this property,” she said. “It is much more modest than the house on Orchard Street. I suppose one of her patrons settled it on her, to be let for an income.”

Daphne climbed down and tied the reins to a post. “Perhaps you should let it as well, rather than sell it.”

“I may do that. I cannot sell until the estate is settled. Mr. Mappleton said that more debts might yet be claimed. If so, this will slip through my fingers like the other house, and everything else.”

She plucked the key out of her reticule and fitted it into the lock.

“Thank goodness it is furnished. I feared you would be sleeping on the floor,” Daphne said once they peered in the first chamber. “You will get a better price when you let it too.”

Celia set down her valise and they strolled through the lower floor. There was a nice sitting room in the front, with a library behind it. Both sported upholstered furniture that was presentable, solid tables, and simple but tasteful carpets. The library even held an assortment of books. She examined the bindings and smiled at the little tomes of poetry. Mama had loved poetry and, in stocking this library, had assumed its tenants would benefit from her own taste.

They mounted the stairs to the next level and its bed-chambers. The one in front looked over the street. Daphne lifted a coverlet on the bed. “There are sheets on it, and they appear clean. One suspects the last tenants left rather quickly. One step ahead of the bailiff, perhaps. Let us remake it anyway, so you are sure they are fresh.”

Celia found sheets in a wicker trunk and they quickly finished with the chore. They took inventory of the other chambers on this floor, and found a second set of stairs at the back of the house.

“I will investigate the attic tomorrow,” Celia said, leading the way down. “It appears all is in order here, Daphne. Do you feel better about leaving me alone now?”

“I did not object to your staying here for a few days.”

Celia giggled. “You said nothing, but your eyes assumed that expression of forbearance that said you wanted to object, but are not allowed to.”

They entered another sitting room, one of good size with cane chairs and a settee, at the bottom of the back stairs. The garden could be seen through its large windows. The view arrested Celia’s attention.

“It faces south,” Daphne said. “This is an excellent chamber. Even today, with such overcast skies, there is a pleasant light here, and the prospect of the garden is very refreshing.”

“I suspect it will be my favorite place,” Celia said. “Plants would take well to these windows.” The seed of an idea that had been planted upon learning about this house now set down some growth.

They investigated the kitchen down below, then Daphne prepared to take her leave. She would drive her gig back to the property she had near Cumberworth, in Middlesex. Daphne had a business there, growing flowers and plants for the London market. For the last five years, that had been Celia’s home too.

“We will miss you,” Daphne said at the front door. “Promise me that you will take care.”

“It is a good neighborhood, Daphne. I will be safe here.”

“I suppose I should not think like a mother so much with you. I am only four years your senior. You must find my worries silly.”

“You are not like a mother. You are the older sister I always wanted.”

With something of a mother’s worry still in her eyes, Daphne stepped out and untied her gig. Celia watched her dear friend drive away with the veils on her hat floating back on winter’s breeze.

If Daphne acted a bit like a mother, it was because Celia had been a lot like a child when they had met. A confused, lost child, seeking sanctuary with a stranger whom she had heard possessed a kind heart.

She closed the door, and set about becoming accustomed to the property that was the only legacy Alessandra Northrope had left.

Well, not the only legacy. There was one other, should Celia choose to claim it.

C
elia spent the remaining hours of daylight in the light-filled back chamber. She took its measure with her eyes, and imagined it furnished much differently. That seed of an idea sent up a succulent shoot of stem. Leaves began forming.

At nightfall, she retired to her bedchamber. She did not build a fire, since she intended to sleep soon. She lit a single candle, changed into her warmest bed dress, wrapped herself in two thick knitted shawls, and sat looking out the window while she plotted her use of this house.

She trusted that any debts outstanding would be called within a reasonable time. She would have to ask Mr. Mappleton, Mama’s solicitor and executor, when she would know this house was securely hers to keep.

The legalities had to wait, but the rest did not. She would clear out that back room tomorrow and assess whether her plans for it would work. Then she would go to the shops and lay in food supplies for the next week at least. When Daphne came in three days to take her home, she would explain that she would not be returning with her to that property outside London. She would break the news that she was striking out on her own, and intended to live in this house that her mother had left her.

Daphne would not like it. After five years, they had come to rely on each other more than most people guessed. It was time, however. Time to forge some kind of future for herself.

She looked around the bedchamber. The drapes at the window and bed appeared crisp and clean, but were sewn of simple white muslin. The furniture possessed elegant lines, but no costly carving. The house’s lack of overt luxury contrasted with the other house on Orchard Street, the one where Alessandra had presided over parties and salons, and played a grand lady of the demimonde.

Celia preferred this one, she decided. She was glad it had not been occupied, so she could use it for herself.

Evidence indicated the last tenants had not been gone long. No dust cloths had covered the furniture. The larder even held some dry goods. On entering it today the space had not felt vacant. Rather it contained a pleasant atmosphere. Domestic—

She froze. Her senses shed all distractions. She listened hard to the quaking silence.

Sounds so subtle they might not exist whispered on little drafts of air. She wanted to explain them away, but the chilled prickling on her nape would not permit it.

More sounds, above now. Like a cat moving about. Perhaps a stray had gotten in.

The sounds stopped. She listened a long time for more, and half convinced herself that she had not heard anything of note after all. She had taken great care to ensure every door was locked. There was no way for anyone to get in.

A footstep atop the nearby stairs to the attic chambers made her jump out of her skin. There was no mistaking it, or the ones that followed. Whoever was up there was not even trying to be quiet.
And he was coming down the stairs right outside this chamber’s door
.

Terror froze her for a horrible moment; then her mind raced. She jumped up, grabbed a poker from the cold hearth, and stepped quietly to the wall beside the door. Hopefully the intruder would leave as he had come, none the wiser that she was on the premises, but if not—She raised the poker, clutching it with both hands.

The boots reached the bottom of the steps and paused. She prayed they would move on, down one more level, then out the door.

To her horror they came toward her instead. They paused outside her door. She silently urged them to move on, away, down the stairs.
Be gone. Be gone
.

The door opened. Her heart rose to her throat. She caught her breath and did not move a hair.

A man entered. A tall one. He stepped inside and paced to the center of the chamber. She saw dark coats and high boots and the white of a collar and cravat. She glimpsed a profile with a dark eye and an intense expression, and dark hair pulled back into an old-fashioned tail. She saw all of that in a barrage of dim, golden impressions lit by the distant candle.