Authors: Madeline Hunter
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Regency
Sinful in Satin (7 page)
“A
re you sure thatyou wanttheshelf like this,Miss Pennifold? It will be odd.”
re you sure thatyou wanttheshelf like this,Miss Pennifold? It will be odd.”
Thomas, a lad of fifteen, held the board for the second shelf, frowning at how the stepped levels in this structure would face the windows and not the chamber’s space. This despite Celia explaining its purpose and showing him the drawing.
“Just like that, Thomas. That way the warmth and light from the higher plants will not shadow the lower ones.”
He shrugged, and nailed the plank into place.
In the last few days Celia had made herself familiar to the shops in the neighborhood through her patronage, and had let it be known she had a bit of work for a boy who knew carpentry. Thomas’s father, who owned a draper’s shop, had been glad to lend him for the work.
Celia noted how Thomas used more nails for the plank than she had planned. She had bought sparingly and would have to get more. While she calculated how many, subtle noises up above told her that Mr. Albrighton was moving about.
He had insisted she would barely be aware of his existence. She was discovering, however, that his presence in this house could not be ignored. She might not see him often, but he was very much
here
.
here
.
She knew, for example, that he was above most of the time during the days. She would hear his footfalls making impressions in the floorboards. They served as little reminders that she did not enjoy either complete privacy or total isolation.
When she did see him, the experience contained a degree of intimacy that could not be avoided. They cohabited in the same house, after all. Their spirits shared this space even if their bodies rarely occupied the same chamber. And he had touched her twice now. That was like spilling oil that could never be mopped up completely again.
Every morning he came down to fetch his own water around ten o’clock. She had taken to listening for his steps on the stairs. After the first day he was never again in such dishabille, but he was never entirely dressed yet either. No cravat, of course, since he had not yet shaved. No waistcoat either. He would don a frock coat, however, so that he appeared only halfway disrespectable.
There was much of the bedchamber in the way he appeared at ten o’clock. Hair long and unbound, mussed and free, neck exposed, and new beard shadowing his jaws—even his very polite greetings unsettled her because he looked like that. His appearance reminded her that he had been close nearby while she had lain in her bed, both comforted by the safety his presence brought and dismayed by her awareness of him.
The steps sounded a bit louder. He would be making his little journey to the garden well very soon. He did not appear to mind the inconveniences of being a tenant here. Her hope that he would, and would leave as a result, was not bearing any fruit.
“I need more nails, Thomas. I misjudged how many you will use. Here is some money. Please go and buy twenty more from Mr. Smith.”
Thomas set down his hammer. He held out his young, calloused hand for the money, then walked out of the chamber with the loose, gangling stride of a colt.
No sooner had he gone than the boots came down the stairs. Celia directed her mind to what color to paint the shelves. Green? White? She forced her thoughts away from how her blood thrummed with each footfall.
She had come to look forward to Mr. Albrighton’s rare visibility, she realized to her chagrin. She wanted him gone but also did not. She did not mind nearly enough that he foiled her little plots to encourage his removal. She enjoyed their brief conversations and how sensual and dangerous he looked before dressing for town.
She laughed at herself. This silly anticipation was the sign of a woman too much alone. She would have to see to hiring a housekeeper soon, if only so she did not grow dependent on such insignificant congress as this.
“You are building something, I see.” He stood at the threshold, gazing at the two lower shelves. He walked over and lifted the hammer. “Are you doing it yourself?”
“I hired a boy. I just sent him for more nails. Did the hammering wake you?” She had let Thomas start at dawn, specifically to discomfort Mr. Albrighton.
“No. I rise early.”
“And do what?”
“If you are curious, you are welcome to come up and see. I do not think you have set foot on that level since your first morning here.”
The memory of that morning flashed in her head, and she felt her face warming. She had not forgotten how badly she had acquitted herself then, or how mesmerized she had been.
“I have been too busy.” She gestured toward the shelves.
“Ah. I thought perhaps I had frightened you.”
“Why would I be afraid of you?”
He shrugged. “Some women are.”
Maybe they were afraid because of the way he was looking at one woman right now. Her blood raced faster from how his warm eyes gazed into hers.
She should not allow him to fluster her. That was his intention. It amused him to tease her about that day. “Perhaps they are afraid because of your hair. It is so unfashionable as to speak of a reckless streak in you.”
“Do you want me to cut it? I would not want you thinking me reckless.”
“Of course you would. But do not cut it on my account. How a tenant’s hair is dressed does not signify in my busy life. I daresay even if you did cut it, I wouldn’t notice.”
“You wound me, Miss Pennifold. Here I was dreaming that you waited to greet me every morning.”
She felt her face warming again. He left her vexed that he had guessed that, and carried his bucket out the garden door.
He was correct. She had been avoiding the attic level of the house because he was there. What a conceited man to assume that, however. She would make it a point to go there soon, now that she had settled in. She needed to see what of her mother’s property might be up there, in those chambers used for reasons besides housing Mr. Albrighton.
She watched him walk to the back of the garden and around a shrubbery, to where the necessary could be found. Then she spied his dark hair at the well. Bucket in hand, walking with a gait so smooth and fluid that the water did not slosh, he came back up the garden path, lost in his thoughts, ignorant of her scrutiny.
He was a handsome man; that was certain. Dangerous still, somehow, in the intangible depths he seemed to possess. The intimacy of an old friend waited in his warm eyes and playful teasing, however. It beckoned so effectively that she had to remind herself he was really a stranger.
Nor did it go both ways. For all their warmth and familiar lights, those eyes revealed nothing of the mind behind them.
Well, not nothing. The male thoughts were visible. She had seen the low burn of desire just now, set aside but still there. Not only
her
blood raced when their gazes connected.
her
blood raced when their gazes connected.
He was good at hiding those lights. She always saw them, however, flickering through him and into the air at her. She saw them and felt them. She knew about male desire in all its forms and manifestations, and could sense it the way some people could smell rain on its way.
She had been taught by an expert to know it, feel it, and use it to her own benefit, after all.
T
hirty minutes after Mr. Albrighton had gone above, a commotion poured into the house from the street. Shouting and whistles broke the day’s peace.
hirty minutes after Mr. Albrighton had gone above, a commotion poured into the house from the street. Shouting and whistles broke the day’s peace.
Celia strode to the front sitting room and looked out. Thomas stood in the street, face red and body tense, surrounded by other lads. It was not clear if he wanted to fight or cry.
“In service to her, ya say,” one of his tormenters taunted. “Or was that
servicing
her?” He roared at his own joke and his friends joined in.
servicing
her?” He roared at his own joke and his friends joined in.
“You’ve caught a fine one there, Tom boy,” another teased. “Her mother was the expensive sort, we hear. Fancy carriages and such. I don’t think you’ve got it in ya yet to appreciate such as her. You might need some help there.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned lewdly.
They continued taunting Tom, not letting him out of the circle. It was just boys being what they were, but Celia’s heart sank and thickened.
Someone in this neighborhood had realized who she was. Word had spread. Now everyone knew the daughter of the famed Alessandra Northrope lived among them. Everything would change now.
She closed her eyes and tried to conquer the desolation that hollowed her out. She had known for years that she was vulnerable to cruel judgments merely by her birth. She had never before actually experienced it, though. Certainly not while she lived with Daphne.
Not even while she lived with Mama, now that she thought about it. She had known it was happening while they rode the carriage through the park back then, but she had not actually seen it. However, Mama had warned that she would someday witness the scorn firsthand. Celia just had not anticipated how the reality would make her breathless from dismay.
Had Alessandra used a different name when she visited the shops here? Maybe she had never walked among these people at all, but only stayed in this house.
The ruffians began pushing Tom this way and that, toying with him, daring him to swing the fist that would result in a sound beating. She wished she could spare Tom this, and regretted hiring him. He was no match for these other boys, and could only try to break away to no avail.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye she saw another person approach. Not a neighbor, but a tall man dressed in gentleman’s clothes, and boots that strode with purpose. Mr. Albrighton advanced on the little group like a man taking a brisk turn on these lanes.
He paused as he passed the clutch of boys. Their noise arrested his attention. At just that moment the boldest of the group broke away and walked with a cocky jaunt toward Celia’s door. His friends lost interest in Tom and cheered him on.
An arm suddenly appeared like an iron bar, blocking the boy’s path.
“Where are you going, young man?”
“I’ve business there, so be moving your arm if you don’t want it broke.”
“You have no business with this house if it is not your home. Walk away now.”
“
You
walk away. We don’t like strangers here. You’re looking for trouble, and over a whore at that.”
You
walk away. We don’t like strangers here. You’re looking for trouble, and over a whore at that.”
Mr. Albrighton’s arm lowered. Sneering with triumph, the boy took another step. A hand came to rest on his shoulder, stopping him.
Celia could not see exactly what that hand did. It appeared only to lie there. Yet the boy’s eyes grew large and his knees buckled. His face contorted with pain.
In the next moment the boy spun across the street toward his friends, like a rag doll cast aside by a child. His friends caught him and he found his balance. Face white and teeth bared, he glared at the man who had bested him without even raising two hands.
“Damned whore,” he snarled. “I’ve money as good as yours or anyone’s and I’ll be—”
“You will be doing nothing that insults whoever lives in this house. Now walk on, and do not come back here, or I will have to come back as well.”
The boys shuffled off. Tom darted forward, palmed some nails and coin onto the step in front of the door, and ran away. Mr. Albrighton picked up the money and nails, then knocked on the door.
Celia swallowed her humiliation as best she could and opened the door. She could see the boys watching from down the street.
“These were left for you.” Mr. Albrighton’s smile tried to make light of the incident, but she thought she saw some pity in him too. That only embarrassed her more. She held her own smile with difficulty and summoned the illusion of good humor.
She took the nails and glanced to the boys. “It appears the whole world assumes that I am thoroughly my mother’s daughter.”
“Your tenant assumes nothing of the kind. And, unlike callow boys, he does not pass quick judgment on the choices a person makes in life, no matter what they end up being.” He removed a calling card from his coat and handed it to her in a way that ensured the boys saw it. “If you have further trouble with them, you must let me know.”
She fingered the card so it would not be missed by the eyes watching. He bowed and strolled away. The boys left too, and turned down a side lane.
She looked down at the card. Other than his name, it was blank. Opaque. The card, for all its quality, revealed almost nothing. A bit like the man who had just handed it to her.
Chapter Five
T
he coffeehouse near Gray’s Inn was crowded at twelve o’clock. Solicitors and apprentices with chambers nearby read newspapers and smoked cigars. Cups hitting saucers added musical notes to the hum of conversation.
he coffeehouse near Gray’s Inn was crowded at twelve o’clock. Solicitors and apprentices with chambers nearby read newspapers and smoked cigars. Cups hitting saucers added musical notes to the hum of conversation.
Jonathan spied Edward on a divan against the far wall and went to sit with him. Edward’s greeting consisted of raised eyebrows forming an unspoken query.
“There have been a few unexpected elements added to my mission,” Jonathan said. “The daughter has taken residence in the property on Wells Street. She rarely leaves. It may be some days before I can enter to thoroughly search whatever belongings Alessandra left there.”
Edward did not know about that attic chamber. No one did. The vagueness regarding where he lived had begun as a caution during the war, and become a habit that permitted privacy. Jonathan preferred to meet people in their worlds, not invite them into his.
“You have made no progress, in other words,” Edward said.
“I have looked in most of the attic. There was nothing there of interest.”
“And the other house?”
“I went in the night of the funeral, but someone had been there before me. The daughter, for one, and someone else, she thinks. It is impossible to know if she is correct in her suspicions. The dearth of private papers there leads me to think she may be. Or else Alessandra did not leave anything of note in the house. She knew it would be searched by an executor, even if no one else did.”
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