Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  “The legacy is in our craft, sir. These are family heirlooms.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mary easing open the lower map drawer.

  “Many would pay handsomely for any of them.” He straightened and turned to her. “Would you consider selling some? I would pay whatever—”

  His attention shifted past her. His gaze lit on Mary.

  Bride tried to reclaim his concentration. “I had never thought to sell them. However, perhaps I should. What would the Rembrandt be worth?”

  He did not even hear her. The avarice gleam of acquisition beamed out toward the other table. “There are more, aren’t there? I must see them.”

  He strode toward Mary, who jumped in alarm when she saw him coming.

  Mind shrieking with panic, Bride hurried after him.

  “What do you have there?” he asked. “Small, so they must be German Renaissance, is my guess.”

  Eyes wide, Mary clutched the wooden box she held close to her chest. She looked like a thief caught in the act.

  Fortunately, Lyndale did not comprehend Mary’s reaction. His thoughts appeared to be on nothing more than rare engravings, unknown states, special papers, and other erudite details.

  Knowing all too well just how rare the engravings in that box were, Bride rushed past him and thrust herself between Lyndale and Mary.

  There was only one way to distract him. She prayed it was not as risky as she feared it was.

  “My sister has nothing of value in that box. She is still learning, and that is where she keeps the plates on which she practices, and the prints she pulls as she progresses. They are study pieces by an apprentice, nothing more.” She quickly opened the bottom drawer. “However, there are a few more rarities here. Perhaps you can advise me on their value.”

  The promise of rarities succeeded in reclaiming his attention. Mary eased away while he opened the leather boards to see what was inside the portfolio that Bride handed him.

  His eyes widened just enough for Bride to know Mary had ceased to exist for him.

  Bride averted her gaze from the prints. “I do not know what Father was thinking in owning such things. I found them after his death, and was astonished. I put them away at once, of course. They have been in this drawer ever since.”

  “You were wise to do so. The subject matter is not appropriate for young ladies to see.”

  “I suppose I should burn them.”

  “No! That is, I do not believe that is the best course. Such engravings are not without collectors.”

  “Really? What sort of person would want such scandalous things? No one of good family or breeding, I am sure.”

  She kept her gaze on the wall. She sensed a subtle flexing in the man at her side.

  “Miss Cameron, do you have any idea of what you have here?”

  “Immoral images of an amorous nature.”

  “Yes, but very special ones. I think that you have the Caraglio addendum. Indeed, you may have the only good impressions of it known in the world.”

  She contrived an expression of surprise and curiosity. She turned to him, trying to appear confused. Lord Lyndale quickly closed the portfolio so her virtuous eyes would not be offended.

  “Miss Cameron, you may have heard of the massive catalog of old master prints compiled by Adam von Bartsch.”

  “Of course.”

  “You may not be aware that during the Renaissance, several Italian engravers did series of prints with subject matter that was of an . . . amorous nature, much like these.”

  “All that I know I learned from Father, and he never told me about those.”

  “Well, since you are a woman . . .” He looked at her sympathetically, as if that said it all. “Recently, a scholar has been expanding and completing Bartsch’s catalog. He searches out other images by each old master and creates an addendum to Bartsch. His name is Johann Passavant, and he was in England last year. He told me then that one series of amorous engravings, that by Caraglio, is incomplete in Barstch. Passavant has seen six other images that belong to the series. They were in very poor and worn condition, but he is sure that the set originally contained these other prints.”

  She gestured to the portfolio on which his hand laid possessively. “And those are the images?”

  “They conform to what was described to me. I would need to study them more closely, of course.”

  “Study such scandalous images? I cannot imagine that a decent man like yourself could bear to do so. I could never impose on you that way. No, it would be better to just burn them. If they are so rare, it is probably because others burned them in the past, and for good reason.”

  He shifted his weight. He scratched his head as he glanced to the floor.

  “Miss Cameron, in the interests of truth, knowledge, and art, I am prepared to examine and investigate these engravings and ascertain if they are indeed the addendum to Caraglio’s series. It would embarrass you to request another expert do this, I am sure, and I did come here to aid you.”

  “That is very generous of you, Lord Lyndale. Uncommonly so, since it will be such an unpleasant task.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Perhaps you should take them with you.”

  He tucked the portfolio under his arm. “That is an excellent idea. I will bring them to the chamber I am using. I cannot study them here, where young innocents might come upon me.”

  She encouraged him toward the door. “I did not just mean today. I think that you should take them with you when you depart for London in the morning.”

  The collector’s distraction disappeared. “In the morning?”

  “I am sure you will want to be off as soon as possible. Your mission here is completed now. You have seen how we support ourselves.”

  His sharp gaze raked her, then did a quick survey of the drawing room. “My duty is hardly completed, Miss Cameron. The evidence of your industry only raises new questions and concerns for me. You and I still have much to discuss.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  My, this is cozy,” Michael said. He squeezed past the bed on which Ewan sat that night.

  The accommodations gave physical form to how big an intrusion they were. With Michael’s cot under the window, the chamber barely had enough room for them both to stand at the same time.

  “This must be where the big red one sleeps.” Michael pawed through valises for the night’s necessities. “A regular Bodisha, that one is.”

  Ewan glanced up from his examination of the engravings that he had spread on the bed’s wool blanket. “If you mean the Celtic warrior queen of the Iceni, her name was Boudicca, not Bodisha.”

  “She looks to be a woman quick to kick a man where it hurts, is what I meant.”

  “When you are less green you will appreciate such women more. My mother was taller than most men, and quite formidable, for example. She never lacked admirers.”

  “If you say so. Now Bodisha’s sister Joan is jolly fun, although she likes horses more than I think any female should. She wears breeches, too, did you know that? Had them on under that cloak at the duel. Back at the stable, there she was, very familiar and friendly, talking horses, walking around and bending to her work in those breeches with her bottom just begging to be—”

  “Michael, hear me plainly. Trust my words as your lord and master. No matter how much her bottom seems to be begging, you must beg off. If you touch any one of these young women, I will skin you alive.”

  “That is like forcing me to sit on a rock in the middle of a lake, all parched like, and telling me I can’t drink the water.”

  “Since the lake is so pure, we must die of thirst rather than so much as sip.”

  With a laugh that was not reassuring, Michael laid a shirt on the writing desk so he could refold it.

  Ewan returned his attention to the engravings. He tried to focus on their technique, but his concentration kept wandering to their content. He repeatedly saw the positions being depicted, only
the god and goddess on the paper were replaced by himself and Miss Cameron.

  It was a stupid speculation, of course, even though he had sensed the tremor in her while she stood beside him at that table. She was not very good at hiding such things.

  That only spoke to her inexperience, however. Still, he had not merely considered sipping from the lake while with her in the drawing room. He had wanted to rip off his clothes and plunge in.

  Duty. Duty.

  Forbidden, of course. Not only was she an innocent, her welfare was his responsibility.

  Although . . . perhaps she wasn’t an innocent. He could reconsider the responsibility part if she wasn’t.

  She was in her late twenties. What were the chances that a woman with her face would reach that age without doing a bit of sipping herself?

  His gaze lingered on an especially explicit view of a goddess posed to reveal her treasures. It came alive in his mind. The woman’s Roman coiffure grew until it became a tumble of long, copper curls. The legs lengthened and turned creamy white, and her breasts’ nipples protruded with a dark, rosy hue. The expression on her face softened to one of welcoming ecstasy.

  Hell.

  Of course she was an innocent. What else could she be, living in this isolated glen, caring for three younger sisters.

  That did not stop his imagination, much as he tried to build a barrier against the fantasies. It did not help that he had concluded in the drawing room that Miss Cameron was more than ready for drinking, whether some of her cool water had previously been tasted or not.

  “What do you have there?” Michael peered over to the engravings. “Say, there is no woman in that one there.”

  “That is the god Apollo, and the boy is Hyacinth, for whom he had a tendre.”

  “That is disgusting. The others are nice, though. Even nicer than those ‘Modi’ pictures you have in London. Not as instructive, but fancier.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing. Although Raimondi’s ‘I Modi’ are refreshing in their lack of allusion to mythology. They are boldly and frankly what they are, which is why the artist was imprisoned by the pope. The Renaissance was quite free about such matters, but his ‘I Modi’ went too far.” Ewan gestured to the prints in front of him. “These by Caraglio are ostensibly the ‘Loves of the Gods.’ Less explicit, and ultimately more artistic.”

  Michael snorted. “Artistic, maybe, but they still show people swiving. Don’t be looking too long, sir. No one here but me if you get ideas, and I’m no Hyacinth.”

  Ewan looked up at Michael’s grinning face. “I do not know why I tolerate you. Your presumptuous familiarity and lack of manners are beyond the pale. I should have sent you packing years ago.”

  “You need someone to look after you when you are drunk, that is why. Also, I tolerate a good deal myself, things no respectable servant would, what with the doings in your chambers.”

  His duties completed, Michael shifted around the room, poking at drapes and pictures. Ewan returned to the prints and managed to force some analytical objectivity.

  They looked right. The technique was appropriate to the early sixteenth century, before engravers began employing the swelling contour lines for shadows. The paper had been trimmed right to the plate edge’s indentation, as was typical of the time.

  The images were remarkably fresh, however. They looked as if they had been carefully preserved.

  Considering their erotic subjects, it was entirely plausible they had been hidden away for centuries, of course.

  “Look here,” Michael said. “This must be their parents.”

  Ewan diverted his attention to where Michael sat at a well-nicked writing desk. He had two miniatures laid out on its scratched top. The desk’s drawer stood open.

  Ewan got up and walked the three steps to close the drawer. “The poor woman had to give up her own bed. You might spare her your disgraceful prying.”

  “Handsome man, her father was.” Michael touched the miniature showing a red-haired man of striking countenance. “Mother was pretty enough, too.”

  The mother bore a resemblance to the second sister, Anne.

  “This must be a brother.” Michael’s finger pressed open a little leather holder to show a drawing of a man’s face.

  Ewan picked it up.

  Bride had drawn this. He just knew it. No objective artist would ever catch that expression on a young man’s face. No male artist would even notice it.

  “They have no brother.”

  Michael inched open the drawer again. “Must be Bodisha’s lover, then.”

  Ewan watched Michael’s blond head bend to peek inside the drawer. The last statement had not carried any speculative tone.

  “What makes you assume it is a portrait of a lover?”

  Michael slipped his hand in the drawer and felt around for something interesting. “Joan said something about it being a long time since there had been a man in the house. Not in over a year, since Walter left. Seems Walter was Miss Cameron’s friend. All but lived here, from the way she spoke of it.” He glanced up with a smile. “Not all the water in this lake is pure, is how it sounded to me.”

  Ewan examined the portrait.

  Bride’s “friend.” Gone over a year now.

  Well, well.

  “We need to make some plans,” Bride said.

  She sat in Joan’s bedroom, now cramped with her sisters and Jilly, all decked out in nightdresses, shawls, and caps. The box that Mary had secreted out of the drawing room rested on a nearby table.

  She had just explained all her conversations with Lord Lyndale. Her sisters were still absorbing how precarious their situation had become.

  “I dodged him tonight, because I could not bear any more of his arrogance in one day. Tomorrow, however, I expect he will demand that I accept his grand scheme for easing his conscience and for allowing Duncan McLean’s ghost to rest in peace.”

  “I knew he was trouble.” Jilly shook her head. Her well-lined face folded into deep creases. “Soon as I saw him galloping up like he owned the place.”

  “We can be thankful he does not own the place,” Bride said. “That is the one consolation. He has no connection to Sutherland, or even to the Highlands, for that matter. He is a lowlander through and through.”

  “I say we take his offer,” Mary said. Her eyes sparked with excitement. “It would be splendid. We could go to Glasgow and live there in style. He would buy us gowns and bonnets. We might even get a carriage.”

  “Mary, should we agree to his offer, which we will not because it would be stupid for reasons everyone in this chamber except you immediately recognized, you would never ride in that carriage. Upon arriving in the city I would lock you in your bedroom until you convinced me you would not run off with the first lying wastrel who smiled your way.”

  Mary’s expression turned resentful. Bride heard her thoughts. You would know all about lying, smiling wastrels, wouldn’t you?

  “You only want to stay here because you think he is coming back,” she blurted. “It isn’t fair.”

  “Do not be silly,” Anne said, rousing herself from some daydream. “We need to stay here because we are safe in obscurity. We cannot do what we do in a city.”

  “If we live in a city, and Lord Lyndale pays our keep, we won’t have to do what we do,” Mary said.

  “Stop being selfish,” Joan said. “This is not only about us. If we leave to improve our own comfort, it would dishonor everything our father taught us.”

  “Of course, no matter where we live, we could be transported,” Anne said. Her airy voice was not joining the argument, merely speaking a line of thoughts coincidentally connected to it.

  Unfortunately, she had touched on Bride’s biggest concern.

  They had been safe in obscurity for years now. There were recent indications, however, that somewhere out in the world events were occurring that would land them all on a boat to New South Wales eventually.

  Should those events start closing in around
them, she did not want Lord Lyndale involved in their lives, no matter where they lived. She hated to admit it, but he appeared to be an intelligent man. He also possessed an expertise that might allow him to make certain connections that most other men would never see.

  She opened the box and removed some papers. “Tomorrow I am going to invite Lord Lyndale to ride with me. I will ask to use his servant’s horse and remove him from this house for several hours. While I am gone, Joan, I want you to take our horse and ride to town with these. Try and exchange them for that large banknote at Holland’s inn. I intended to go today, but with Lyndale’s arrival—”

  “You think Mr. Holland will still have the note?”

  “I doubt he has spent it by now. He would want to show it around first. He said it was used by a large hunting party to pay a steep bill. It is vital that we get hold of it, however. Also, see if you can learn where the party came from, but do not be obvious. Just get Holland talking. If he is curious why you want the exchange, say I am planning a journey and it is easier to hide one note instead of ten.”

  Joan took the papers. “These are the last, aren’t they? Anne had better get busy.”

  Bride looked at Anne. “Can you work in this room tomorrow while Lord Lyndale is gone?”

  Anne glanced at the window. “The morning light here should be enough, if the day is fair. I could get a few finished, I expect.”

  “What do I get to do?” Mary asked. “Everyone always has important things to do except me.”

  “You are going to do what you do best,” Bride said. “While we are gone, you are going to charm that servant Michael into the kitchen to help Jilly fix the chimney, which is going to develop a blockage tonight. Jilly, once you get him there, do not let him leave. He is not to roam freely around this house.”

  “Joan should have the horses ready,” Bride said. She pulled on her gloves as she joined Lord Lyndale in the library.

  He looked very handsome this morning. His blue riding coat glowed expensively in the eastern window’s light. His boots appeared to have been newly shined. No doubt Michael had been up before dawn, pressing and polishing.