Sinful in Satin (8 page)

Edward sipped the thick liquid in his cup while his brow puckered. “Which do you think it was?”

Jonathan thought about the worldly woman with whom he had sometimes conversed. Like many, Alessandra had confided sometimes, but not anything that would bear on this mission. “I think that, knowing the end was near, she would either burn or hide whatever might reveal her true self. Even the account book is missing, if she even kept one, according to her daughter.”

“That daughter has to leave the other property eventually, but of course you can hardly camp in the garden and wait for it. Odd that she has chosen to live there. I would have thought by now she would have concluded that running away like she did as a girl was a mistake. She could probably step into her mother’s place with little effort. She was a very pretty girl. Men were lining up for when her mother would launch her.”

“You know a lot about her.”

Edward flushed to his hairline. “Please. Everyone knew about her, including you. Alessandra teased the ton for a year, showing the girl off, entertaining offers, expecting a fortune from the first protector. When she ran off—the daughter, that is—”

“Her name is Celia.”

“Yes, Celia, quite right. When she ran off at the last minute, it was quite the
on dit
in my clubs.” Edward set down his cup. “So she has returned to town, has she? I daresay that will be the
on dit
soon too. Several who were interested before probably still are, even if she is no longer a girl.”

“It is a modest house, and it does not look to me that she intends to take up her mother’s profession. From what I have seen, I think she plans to live quietly.” He lied blandly. Actually, Celia had spoken of bringing other women to live with her. She had teased him with insinuations that she would start a brothel. At least he assumed it was just teasing, to encourage him to leave. Perhaps not.

“Give it a year, and she will probably be in silks at the theater, displaying her wares.”

“As professions for women go, it is not a bad one if done Alessandra’s way.”

Edward found that amusing. “I keep forgetting that you don’t have the normal sort of way of seeing things. Not even whores, it appears.”

“As the son of a powerful man’s mistress, I am hardly going to condemn other mistresses.”

“Of course. I did not mean to imply ...” Edward flushed again, and decided to drink more coffee.

“Speaking of powerful men, when will you see the earl?” Edward tried to hide his chagrin, but Jonathan knew the answer as soon as the question was asked.

“Thornridge has put me off again. He guesses the topic I intend to broach, and does not want to speak of it.”

“He has never wanted to speak of it. That is nothing new. You must make it very clear that I am not looking for money.”

“He will not believe it. We both know why he does not want to admit you are the last earl’s bastard. He suspects this is only the thin edge of the wedge. He does not trust you to let it end there.”

Jonathan kept his reaction to himself, but frustrated fury boiled in him. Thornridge’s denial was inexcusable, and had never been made out of ignorance. He knew the truth, and had even executed the last earl’s intentions regarding Jonathan’s education. There had even been an allowance that Jonathan had repudiated years ago because its continuance required retreat. Thornridge remained determined to withhold the acknowledgment that would allow even an earl’s bastard an easier path in life.

Edward had been the only member of the family to offer that acknowledgment, and even Edward’s acceptance was a private matter, presented years ago as the first step in a long game.

The game had gotten very long indeed now.

“Perhaps I should not bother about the thin edge of the wedge, Uncle. Maybe I should go after it all with a blunt cleaver.”

Edward grimaced. “I am sure you want to. I do continue to investigate in your behalf, however. You may suspect I do not, but I do.”

“I wonder if my own investigations might not be more fruitful. I have become rather expert in such things the last eight years.”

“It would be better if you did not. If he even begins to suspect that you are looking for witnesses to your father’s intentions, he will destroy you. I will be unable to stop it.”

“He does not have that power. No man does.”

“You of all people know that some men do. After all, you have served as their agent on occasion.”

Again a spike of anger, but it carried a world-weary quality. “For good cause only.” For good cause mostly, not only, unfortunately.

“There are other men who are not so particular. Do not provoke him. Have patience, and allow me to do it my way.”

Jonathan stood to leave before today’s reserve of good will was spent. “For now I will leave it to you. It would be good to get the edge of the wedge in place soon, however.”

He walked out in a dark humor that indicated that, for all his trying, he had not conquered the anger that the situation with the Earl of Thornridge always incited when he dwelled on it very long. A sensible man would have given up the chase long ago, admitted defeat, and found some peace.

Right outside the door, he almost bumped into a footman in elaborate livery who lounged against the building. The fellow snapped into proper posture upon seeing him.

“Mr. Jonathan Albrighton?”

Jonathan nodded. The servant handed over a letter. Jonathan examined the paper and seal and, surprised, tore it open.

C
elia woke the next day to heavily overcast skies. She judged that she had slept later than intended. There were many things to do today. She should not have lain abed so long.

She donned an undressing gown and wrapped herself in her warmest shawl. Mr. Albrighton might have to fetch his own water, but she had to as well. She did not relish a walk through the garden on a day when the wind blew enough to rattle her window’s shutters.

On opening the door to her bedchamber, she saw that a bucket waited, full enough for a good washing. She tested with her fingers. It had stood there long enough for the worst of the well’s chill to pass.

There was only one way for this water to have gotten here. She thought the gesture both endearing and surprising. How would Mr. Albrighton know she had not risen from bed yet? She smiled at the notion that perhaps he looked for her in the morning when he came down those stairs, just as she looked for him.

While she dressed she heard the distant, rhythmic taps of a carpenter at work nearby in the neighborhood. They reminded her that she needed to find someone to replace young Tom. After the teasing yesterday, he would not be back. That was one more errand to add to a list of matters demanding her attention today.

Hair dressed, and bonnet and pelisse in hand, she descended the front stairs. With each step, that tapping sounded louder. She realized it came from the back of her house.

She ventured toward her back sitting room. As she approached she heard a woman say, “I still think she should have a joiner in.”

“She decided nails would do,” Mr. Albrighton replied.

“If used properly, perhaps they would,” came the sweet, patient, but pointed reply.

That woman’s voice belonged to Verity. What devil had devised that she should come here without warning, and while Jonathan was in the house?

Celia entered the chamber. Mr. Albrighton stood there in shirt and waistcoat, hammer in hand. Construction on the shelves had made good progress. Advising him, sitting aside with the drawing of the plan on the lap of her sapphire carriage ensemble, was Celia’s good friend Verity, wife of the Earl of Hawkeswell.

Verity noticed her. “There you are. I found the garden door open and ventured in to see your new home. Your carpenter said you had gone above for a spell, so I have been helping him while I wait.”

Celia walked over and gave her an embrace. “I hope that my friend has not interfered too much, Mr. Albrighton. You did not bargain for the sort of aid she sounded to be giving.”

“It appears that I am barely competent at this task by the lady’s judgment.” Mr. Albrighton set another plank into place with a firmness that suggested Verity had been “helping” him for some time now.

“I only encouraged you to do better, sir. Any fool can bang two boards together if he has twenty nails to do the job. Since I have seen them forged one by one, neither the smith’s labor nor my friend’s money should be wasted.”

Jonathan smiled at the scold. Thinly. Celia expected him to inform Verity that he had never hired himself out as a carpenter, but had tried only to do a good deed.

Instead he swallowed whatever he had been tempted to say. “You are correct, Madam. Your concern about my excessive use of nails is well-taken.”

“You can perhaps excuse her, since she is a dear friend, Mr. Albrighton. Your critic is Lady Hawkeswell, and countesses tend to become particular about the particulars, so to speak.”

“My apologies, Madam.” He bowed his greeting. “Of course, as a countess you are accustomed to more expert work than I can muster.”

“As a countess I would not know the difference between expert and inexpert. If I am particular, it is the result of my youth in a very different world from where I now dwell.”

He picked up one of the nails. “Another thirty minutes and all should be in order here. Miss Pennifold, if you want to entertain Lady Hawkeswell elsewhere, I will not mind at all.”

Celia thought that an excellent way to end this prickly conversation. She put on her bonnet and tied it against the wind. “Let us take a turn in the garden, Verity, and escape the hammering.”

 

 

C
elia steered Verity deeply into the garden as the tapping began again. Verity kept looking over her shoulder at the house. Her brow puckered each time she did.

“Come and give me advice on this bed near the shrubbery,” Celia encouraged, dragging her to the garden’s rear.

“Your carpenter is not very good,” Verity said. “You should have written so I could recommend one. Did you employ him because he is so handsome?”

“I clear forget what or who recommended him to me. Truly. Now, look here. I think bulbs must already be planted here, don’t you?”

Verity glanced back at the house again. Another frown marred her snowy brow. She looked at Celia. She looked back at the house. She looked at Celia. Curiously.

“He was wearing very nice boots. For a carpenter, that is. His shirt and waistcoat too—”

“I trust you are not going to hold it against a man that he takes pride in his appearance.”

“I am more concerned with how a carpenter with such poor skills can afford such things. I think we should not leave him in the house alone. He may be one of those fellows who presents himself as a tradesman only to gain entrance to houses to steal.”

“You are being too suspicious. Now, the reason I think this must hold spring bulbs is because the trees above would shade other flowers once they leaf out. I should like to add some new ones come autumn, and need your help to decide just which ones.”

Verity looked up at the tree line. Then she leveled her gaze on Celia most directly. “I do not think I have been too suspicious. However, it occurs to me that I may have assumed the wrong thing in thinking he was your carpenter.”

Celia gazed down at the loamy soil. Stories and explanations lined up in her mind, each one more far-fetched than the idea that Mr. Albrighton was a carpenter.

“Who is that man to you, Celia?”

Celia heard the smallest note of merriment in Verity’s voice. She looked up to see Verity’s lovely face smooth of all frowns now. Impish lights dancing in her blue eyes.

“It is not what you think.”

“More’s the pity.”

“Verity!”

Verity laughed, surprised at herself. “What can I say? He is very easy on the eyes, and a handsome man using his hands—even if not well at all in this circumstance—still compels my attention, my love for Hawkeswell notwithstanding.” She glanced back yet again. “Tell. You must, or I will assume what I will on my own.”

“He is a tenant. That is all. An awkward intrusion and an embarrassing nuisance. I inherited him, much like the furniture, and he will not leave no matter how uncomfortable I take pains to make him.”

“Perhaps discomfort keeps him here, although perhaps not the kind you intended. It seems to me, now that I think about it, that he became even more compelling as soon as you entered the chamber.”

So Verity had noticed the exciting energy in that chamber during their brief conversation. Celia had assumed it came from herself, and from the gentle thrill created when she saw Jonathan standing there, his forearms bare beneath his rolled sleeves and the general form of his body emphasized by the waistcoat and snug pantaloons he wore.

Verity hooked her arm through Celia’s and encouraged her to stroll. “You really must bring an older woman into the house.”

“I intend to. However, it is not my fault that I inherited property with a male tenant already in residence.”

“No, it is not. However, you must take more care than most women who make such a discovery.”

Celia thought about the altercation in the street outside her house the day before. “I am beginning to wonder if any care will be enough, and therefore unnecessary. You were good enough not to make assumptions about him immediately, and he was good enough not to comment on how you came to the garden door and not the front one, but the reason for both the assumptions and your entry is not to be avoided. I think there will be little difference in my reputation whether I repudiate Alessandra’s biggest legacy or not.”

Verity’s face flushed. Her blue eyes moistened. “I did not assume he was your lover, Celia. Not ever. I was only teasing you. As for my discreet entry, I am sorry. I truly am. I will tell Hawkeswell that I intend to greet you in the park and have you call like any other friend. It is not fair that—”