The Most Wicked Of Sins (13 page)

The two old women bobbled their heads in agreement with her.

“Oh, we are well aware of that,” Lady Viola exclaimed enthusiastically, “for we met him just minutes ago. He is most amiable, so very handsome, and when he spoke to me, it was as—” She sighed dreamily. “Well, if I were only…a few years younger—”

Lady Letitia rolled her eyes and interjected. “He could be your grandson.”

“Oh, Letitia, how wicked you are!” Lady Viola playfully pretended to elbow her sister in the ribs.

Lady Letitia chuckled. “Yes, we agree he is charming, Viola.” Then she grew quiet for a prolonged moment and pinned Ivy with her pale blue eyes. “But do be careful, dear gel. It is so easy to lose one’s heart to a gentleman like that. So easy to have it broken too.”

Just then, Ivy saw Dominic enter the Turkish Room.

The Feathertons did not seem to be aware of his sudden presence, for Lady Viola offered one last piece of advice. “Unless she has already claimed his. For to win a rake’s heart is a great prize, indeed. Remember that, dear gel.”

With that, the two lavender-clad ladies, smiled at her, then turned and gave Dominic nods of greeting. “Good evening, Lady Ivy, Lord Counterton,” they said quite naturally, as if they had known he was there all the while. Then they waddled from the Turkish Room in the direction of the grand saloon theater.

Ivy plopped back down onto the ottoman and looked up at Dominic.

“Pray, what was that all about?” He knelt before Ivy to face her.

“I honestly don’t know.” And she didn’t. She could not determine whether they were warning her about Lord Counterton or congratulating her.

No matter. The faults of the true Lord Counterton didn’t warrant a moment of worry. After all, it was clear that the Feathertons, and indeed everyone else they’d met this night, believed her actor to be the true Lord Counterton.

All that mattered was whether or not her marquess was being successful in attracting Miss Feeney. “Dominic, did your discussion with
Miss Feeney—”

Her eyes threatened to pop from their sockets when, to her horror, she saw Miss Feeney and Lord Tinsdale pause near the doorway, their mouths fully agape. “Tinsdale!” She leaped up, nearly toppling Dominic over.

Dominic came to his feet and stood beside Ivy.

A horrified expression pinched Lord Tinsdale’s face.

Oh, dear.
With Dominic down on his knee before her…it must have appeared that—

Tinsdale hauled Miss Feeney into the room. His brow was furrowed, and his gaze was worriedly focused on Dominic’s clenched hand. “I daresay, I hope we have not interrupted a private moment.”

Ivy was already shaking her head, but Dominic replied to Tinsdale. “Actually, yes, you have indeed.” He turned to Ivy and lifted her hand, caressing it through her glove. “But it will wait—
for now.
”

Ivy realized she hadn’t blinked since Tinsdale and Miss Feeney had appeared, and now her widened eyes burned.

What in the blazes are you doing, Dominic? This is not part of our plan!

You can’t be envious and happy at the same time.

Frank Tyger

The Sinclair residence
No. 1 Grosvenor Square, London

The Morning Post

The waltz, introduced most recently at court, has made the leap into respectability. Just Friday evening, the waltz was included in the program at the Argyle Rooms and danced most enthusiastically by such esteemed members of Society as Lord C. and Lady I. S. After witnessing the pair together on the floor, it was speculated by some that dancing the waltz together is nothing less than a prelude to a march down the aisle.

Ivy twisted the newspaper and thrust it into the coal basket inside the hearth. She did not wish her siblings to read the column and resume trying to convince her that she and her Lord Counterton were truly meant to be together.

Though
The Morning Post
columnist was entirely mistaken, Ivy was more than a little pleased with what was reported. Tinsdale would surely read the column this morn, and after espying her alone with Dominic last night, in all likelihood, his jealousy would be piqued. One could hope.

She paced the parlor, glancing each time she passed the large windows looking out onto Grosvenor Square. She felt so foolish allowing herself to feel so discomposed.

I have dominion over my life. The plan will be successful. It will!

And it was already working. Perhaps not exactly as she would have preferred, but it was working. Dominic would arrive at any moment, driving the gleaming phaeton she had hired for the day, to collect her for a delightful and strategic afternoon in Hyde Park.

But it wasn’t the fact that she and Dominic would be spending the afternoon together that set her nerves to fraying. It was the fact that they were going to join Miss Feeney and Lord Tinsdale for a picnic under the trees bordering the Serpentine.

At Miss Feeney’s invitation.

There was no possible way she could refuse, though, lud, how she wished she could! Ivy had no desire to sit on a coverlet beside the most beautiful woman in London—and be woefully compared and found wanting.

Until now, Ivy had consciously kept at least one person standing between her and Miss Feeney whenever they met, so that the stark differences between them would not be so glaring. She, however, doubted this tactic would be effective during the coming outing.

Unless…unless Dominic’s wooing of Miss Feeney became so visible that Tinsdale would be forced to keep his eyes trained on Lord Counterton—instead of bouncing between the fragile, ebony-haired beauty and the fire-headed Amazon.

The clopping of hooves outside on the square heralded Dominic’s arrival. “Mrs. Wimpole, is the picnic hamper packed?”

“It’s coming, Lady Ivy,” came a female voice from the other end of the passageway. Mrs. Wimpole hurried to the door as best she could given the size and apparent weight of the hamper she carried with both hands like a huge iron kettle of water. “I went out to buy a few hothouse oranges from young Nellie. Such a treat, eh?”

“Oh, lovely. Thank you so much, Mrs. Wimpole, but you oughtn’t to have gone to the trouble.
Really,
you oughtn’t to have.”

“No problem, my lady,” Mrs. Wimpole replied. “None at all.”

There was a problem, however. Now, there would be no question as to whether or not Ivy’s hair was exactly the shade of an orange, as Miss Feeney had once rudely noted. All she need do that afternoon was to hold one up to Ivy’s and compare.

Mrs. Wimpole, whose somewhat questionable services, like Mr. Poplin’s, were included with the rent of their Grosvenor Square home, squatted and opened the wicker basket, pointing out the contents. “There’s sliced beef, bread, a loaf of cheese, peas from my sister’s garden—”

“Sounds wonderful…um…anything
new,
a new experiment, perhaps?” Ivy asked, peering into the basket for anything of suspicious origins—or unnaturally green.

Mrs. Wimpole stood and set her hands on her wide hips. “Why, you know me too well, Lady Ivy. What do you reckon it might be? Go on, Lady Ivy, have a guess.” She poked her tongue into the inside of her cheek and rocked back and forth as she waited for Ivy’s answer.

Ivy nudged the side of the hamper with her slipper, shaking the contents inside a little. “Tarts?”

“Oh, you saw them, did you?” Mrs. Wimpole chuckled. “My mother’s receipt. Apple, but with a
special
gelatin glaze.”

Ivy tensed. “Special glaze?” Gads, she daren’t even dream what unlikely ingredient she might have used. Something horrid, Ivy was sure. Mrs. Wimpole’s heirloom receipts were regarded, at least by the Sinclair brothers and sisters, to be the vilest of concoctions. Though the dear old woman did try her hardest. She just didn’t have a flair for cooking, and well, given what little money their father provided them, the Sinclairs could not afford to engage a proper cook.

Why, had their brother Sterling not earned a small fortune placing wagers and fighting, Ivy could have never financed her plan to win back Tinsdale. But that money would run out just about the same time that her father returned to London. Lud, Dominic just had to steal Miss Feeney from Tinsdale and quickly!

“Fish gelatin,” Mrs. Wimpole finally blurted, unable to contain her secret ingredient any longer. “You would have never guessed. It adds a savory flavor to the tart without tasting like fish at all.”

Oh, good God.

The door knocker sounded.
Dominic is here.
A little thrill cut through her middle.

Ivy kicked the hamper lid closed and fastened the buckle. She sighed softly. There would be no opportunity to remove the tarts from the basket now. She’d have to slip them out without anyone seeing at Hyde Park…else risk poisoning everyone.

Mr. Poplin scurried past Ivy and opened the door.

“Such a beautiful day.” One side of Dominic’s lips lifted, as his gaze swept past Poplin to her. “But not half so lovely as you, Lady Ivy.”

Oh, good heavens.
He never stepped out of his character. Why, if she hadn’t met his companion, Felix, she would swear the actor she’d hired was truly a rake of the first order—and she still hadn’t discounted the notion. “Good afternoon, my dear Lord Counterton.” She curtsied most properly.

She heard Poplin, who’d made it very clear that he thought her plan mad from the very beginning, sigh ruefully from behind the door.

“Poplin? Would you please assist me by bringing the hamper to the phaeton?”

“No, my lady.” The little man didn’t even bother to step out from behind the door.

“I beg your pardon?” Ivy exclaimed.
“Please,
Poplin.”

“Oh, he ain’t being disrespectful or nothin’, Lady Ivy,” Mrs. Wimpole broke in. “Poplin can’t lift it. Already tried to help me tote the picnic hamper up from the kitchen. Too heavy. Here, I can do it.” She bent for the basket’s handle.

Dominic brushed past Ivy and easily lifted the hamper out of Mrs. Wimpole’s ruddy hands. “Allow me, my dear lady.”

Mrs. Wimpole blushed. “Oh, my.” Beaming, she dipped into an unsteady curtsy and honored him. “Why, thank you, Your Lordship.” She leaned close to Ivy and whispered into her ear. “Handsome and strong. Can’t do wrong with a man like that, eh?” She set an elbow playfully into Ivy’s side.

Amazing.
Within a blink, he had already charmed Mrs. Wimpole. Was there anyone the man could not reduce to jelly?

Besides herself, of course.

She’d firmly set her cap for Lord Tinsdale.

And well, she knew his flirtations were naught but an act. Nothing more.

“Shall we be off?” she asked, walking through the front doorway without waiting for an answer.

“Absolutely, Your Ladyship.” There was something in his voice that didn’t sound quite right. A bitterness. And instantly Ivy regretted her rudeness.

Ivy stopped and spun around so quickly that Dominic, who was closer behind than she realized, walked straight into her. She teetered backward, and might have fallen, had his free arm not looped around her lower back in a flash and held her in place against him.

“I beg your pardon, Dominic. I didn’t mean to be rude.” Ivy peered up into his blue eyes. “
I-I
admit that I am overcome with nerves over the prospect of our day with Miss Feeney and Lord Tinsdale. So much depends on our…performances. As an actor you know how to quell a bout of nerves, but I admit that I do not. This is all completely new to me.”

Dominic smiled down at her. “It is not so difficult, really. Do not consider our outing as a performance. Just enjoy the day in the park…and my company.” He winked at her, then lowered his hand from her back. “Any reaction you force, any emotion you manufacture, will appear false to everyone.”

“Very well then, I shall leave the acting to the professional.” Ivy straightened her gown, then cupped her hand and peered up at the sun.

“Just enjoy the day, my sweet.” He passed her by and hoisted the heavy hamper into the phaeton, stowing it behind the seat.

Ivy walked to the pavers and extended her hand for him to assist her into the phaeton’s high perch. Instead, he grasped her waist in his large hands and easily lifted her and deposited her into the phaeton.

Ivy sat down and fumbled for her cutwork fan. My, she must have misjudged the heat of the day, for she was suddenly feeling rather warm.

A high-perch phaeton, though quite fashionable according to Felix, who would know, was probably not the wisest choice of a hired vehicle for one, such as Dominic, who was raised in the country.

Such a speedy, precarious carriage required some skill, and when coupled with pair of spirited young horses, even more so.

“I fear we are going to be late.” There was a hint of blame in Ivy’s words. “I do hope Tinsdale and Miss Feeney do not think we’ve abandoned them.”

Dominic grimaced. “Regretfully, it took me longer to drive from Berkeley Square to your residence than I had anticipated.”

“When did you leave?” Ivy wasn’t going to let it go.

“Noon.” He tightened his fingers around the ribbons and prayed the pair remained at a walk as the carriage turned out of the square and onto Upper Brook Street toward Park Lane.

Ivy thumped his arm.
“Noon?
I could have walked the distance faster!”

“Right then.” Dominic pulled back on the ribbons, and the horses halted. Maintaining the tension, he handed the reins over to Ivy. “Here you go. You may drive.”

The sound that came from her mouth resembled a cough, but he knew it for the mocking laugh that it truly was.

“You can’t handle a phaeton?” Ivy was fighting back a grin. “You, the perfect gentleman?”

He gritted his teeth. “You might have asked if I have driven such a vehicle before sending it around. I know it must have cost you a pile of coin. Not all of us had the privilege of being raised in a family where being a fine whip was something to aspire to.”

“Careful, sirrah, your polish is losing its sheen.” Ivy slipped her fingers around the reins. “And there is quite a bit about my upbringing that you are not aware of and would certainly not envy.”