Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  “She will wear it for me.”

  Lady M.’s eyebrows rose. She gazed critically at Lyndale as he happily admired his choice.

  The modiste gave Bride a heavy-lidded glance that combined disdain and admiration.

  Lady Mardenford rose from her chair. “Lord Lyndale, may I speak with you? Privately? Over there?” She pointed to a corner of the salon.

  Ewan obligingly followed Lady Mardenford to the corner.

  The woman waiting for him did not appear friendly. She looked up at him with eyes as hard and bright as crystals.

  “Lyndale, were you so bold as to ask me to dress your most recent conquest? Is that woman your mistress?”

  “Good heavens, no. She is not. I swear.”

  Charlotte was the image of a suspicious harpy. “Are your intentions toward her honorable?”

  Where the deuce had this interrogation come from? He had been an almost perfect gentleman since Bride had arrived and he had not so much as flirted all afternoon.

  “Well?”

  “Madame, I am thinking. I want my answer to be precise. I find that my intentions are inexplicably changeable these days. Also, exactly how does one define ‘honorable’ in a situation such as this? If you think about it, since she is mature—”

  Charlotte stuck her face closer to his. “Listen to me, sir. You cannot take these four young women into your home and then seduce them. It would be the scandal of the year.”

  “I would never seduce all four of them. What do you take me for?”

  “I know exactly what to take you for.”

  “That was the old me. Now I have duties. Obligations. Responsibilities.”

  “Stop smiling like that. I am most serious. Do you swear that you have no designs on Miss Cameron?”

  “My dear Lady Mardenford, the woman is older than you. Furthermore, she is well schooled in using a pistol. It is comical for you to upbraid me and demand oaths. Miss Cameron is more than capable of guarding her own virtue.”

  Charlotte retreated a bit at his rebuke. Her pretty face still reflected displeasure.

  “Does she know about you?”

  “I daresay she knows enough.”

  “Let us be sure about that.”

  She pivoted on her heel and aimed for the table. “Miss Cameron, I think we are well done for the day. I would be pleased if you would ride back to Belgrave Square in my carriage. I welcome the opportunity to further my acquaintance with you.”

  “He hosted a most infamous party three years ago,” Lady Mardenford continued. Her carriage was taking a long time to get to Belgrave Square.

  Bride suspected the coachman had been instructed to tour the city so this litany of Lyndale’s sins could be shared. The frank description of indiscretions had been both astonishing and fascinating.

  “For several days, it was noted that flowers kept arriving at McLean’s chambers. A parade of deliveries disappeared into the building. Word has it that when the guests arrived, the entire floor of his sitting room was packed a foot deep in petals and the scent was intoxicating. The sofas were not used that night, I have heard.”

  Bride tried to imagine making love on a bed of flowers a foot deep. Actually, the notion had some appeal. She would not want there to be others around, of course.

  “His creativity was much admired,” Lady Mardenford said. “The democratic quality of his guest list was, too, by some. Others think that is the worst scandal. He invites anyone whom he favors, no matter what their station. Even his manservant has been known to participate.”

  “The highborn need not accept the invitation if they do not care to mingle with such people,” Bride said, thinking “mingle” a most inadequate verb.

  “McLean’s visits to London were greeted with joy by a certain set. My brother Dante is among his closest friends, and indulged in these diversions before he married. As for the ladies, many decline, or at least claim they do. Others go, but are usually masked. That only tells everyone they are ladies of high birth, of course.”

  Bride tried to picture that second drawing room filled with naked men and women, coupling in the candlelight. Her mind thoroughly failed her except in one small detail. She could imagine Lyndale’s face gazing down in its severe, mesmerizing expression of passion, as rose petals blew over her body.

  “He has had more mistresses than can be counted,” Lady Mardenford said. “Actresses, singers, aristocrats, widows—the man is brazen. It is rare for any of them to hold his attention more than a month. His pursuits are reputed to be direct and bold, and he ends it without sentiment or regret.” She trapped Bride’s attention with a very direct gaze. “Only the most sophisticated woman could survive such an affair unscathed. Only a woman as indifferent as he to the emotional context of passion should indulge in such a liaison.”

  “You appear to be describing a man without honor.”

  “He does not leave ruined innocents in his wake. Nor has he ever been accused of seducing a friend’s wife or relative. There are men who claim far better morals, who cannot profess that point of honor.”

  “Is that why you are his friend? Because he retains some sense of honor?”

  “I am his friend because he amuses me, and represents no danger at all to me. As for his reputation, I decided long ago to ignore a person’s carnal preferences in forming my judgment of him. I had reasons to believe this was the path of wisdom.”

  “This has been most illuminating, Lady Mardenford.”

  “I only speak so openly because of your dependence on him. I trust you will not think badly of me for alerting you to his history.”

  “Not at all. Even not knowing his reputation, I thought it best to remove my sisters from his house. Now I fear that their reputations will never survive our association with the earl.”

  Lady Mardenford gave her a long, deep look. “Since his standards are as well-known as his seductions, I think your sisters’ reputations will remain intact. The world assumes they are innocents, so they will be safe both from him and from scandal.”

  “That is reassuring, since after today’s indulgence in luxury I do not think I can convince them to leave.”

  “Miss Cameron, I fear that you are missing the reason for my bluntness. It is not your sisters that concern me. Lyndale is not dangerous to them. He is dangerous to you. I fear that he has concluded, for some reason, possibly your age, that you are, shall we say, fair game.”

  Bride swallowed hard. She tried to look shocked. She did not know how Lyndale had surmised she was not an innocent, but her behavior had done nothing to tell him he was wrong.

  “I did not intend to worry you,” Lady Mardenford said more gently. “When I said he was dangerous, I did not mean he would importune you.”

  “That is very good to know.”

  “Certainly you suspected. After all, there is that collection. I hear he does not hide it.”

  “I will admit there were some works of art that startled me.”

  “If you were only ‘startled,’ he must keep the worst of it out of view.” Lady Mardenford leaned toward her, as if someone might overhear. “Much of it is antique, and some is from the Renaissance. A few items are from exotic or primitive cultures, and I hear they are the most explicit. Of course, the ‘Modi’ probably give them good competition.”

  Bride almost jumped out of her seat. “Modi?”

  “That is Italian. ‘I Modi’ translates to ‘the positions.’ Need I say more?”

  Indeed not. Bride was speechless.

  “It is a famous Renaissance series of prints thought lost,” Lady Mardenford explained. “Lyndale owns the only known surviving copy, recently discovered. Vasari wrote about them in the sixteenth century. The engraver was Marcantonio Raimondi, but the drawings came from Giulio Romano, Raphael’s student. The great Aretino provided poems. I have heard, however, that the images are not very artistic at all, considering their pedigree, and remarkably frank in subject.”

  Bride barely heard the historical litany. Her head w
as splitting from a rush of panic.

  Lord Lyndale had recently acquired a newly discovered set of “I Modi.” Those extremely scandalous prints were currently residing in the same house as she and her sisters.

  Of all the tidbits of gossip Lady Mardenford had just shared, this was the most appalling.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  It is a nice dress, though not as lovely as the ones the modistes are making. However, no one will ever know that Mrs. Thornapple added the flounce.” Mary sat on Bride’s bed, assessing the sapphire-blue dress she had just fastened.

  It was one of several that had arrived the day before from the seamstress who kept garments partly made in anticipation of emergencies such as the Cameron sisters presented.

  Mrs. Thornapple had not blinked an eye when she assessed the challenge Bride’s height presented. A full, laced flounce had immediately been pinned to the hem that only reached Bride’s shins.

  Bride tucked a filmy fichu around her low neckline, ignoring Mary’s objections to the attempt at modesty. She eyed Mary’s own deep scarlet dress. It was restrained enough, but the color enhanced Mary’s beauty and made her lips very dark. Her sister looked like a strawberry ripe for tasting.

  Bride looked down at the bodice of her own dress. It fit snugly, forming around her breasts. All the undergarments, bought yesterday in a grand assault on London’s best warehouses, felt wonderfully soft and pretty.

  The daily regimen of measuring and fitting and choosing was finally over. Bride had been unable to avoid Lady Mardenford’s snare after the first day, which meant her own plans had been forced to wait. Beginning tomorrow, however, her days were her own again.

  There were a host of things that she needed to do. One in particular demanded immediate attention. She had not been able to sleep well, because each night she fretted over her inability to deal with the matter.

  Mary lifted her skirt to admire her new silk stockings and shoes. “You may think it good for one’s soul to live in coarse wool, but I say if someone wants to give you silk, there is no sin in accepting it.”

  Bride decided to forgo a lecture on how there was no sin in accepting silk, provided one was not required to give one’s soul in return.

  She sat down at the dressing table and examined herself in the looking glass. From the neck down she appeared almost fashionable. No matter what she did with her hair, however, it always looked the same—lots of copper curls bound to her crown.

  “I wonder if Lord Lyndale will be at dinner tonight,” Mary said. “It would be fun for him to see us turned out properly.”

  “He has not dined at home since that first day. I expect we will rarely see him at table.”

  His lack of hospitality had reassured her. If he saw her as fair game, surely the hunting would be more rigorous. Either his attention had already been diverted elsewhere, or he had been teasing her that first day, nothing more. It had probably been his way of punishing her for intruding on his castle.

  “He must have a wonderful life.” Mary gave a dreamy sigh. “Out on the town most of the night. Sleeping in most of the day. Calling on dukes and princes. Of course, he spends some time tending to his great fortune and doing important things for the government, but not enough to make his life dull.”

  Bride peered at her sister’s reflection in the glass. “How do you know so much about his habits?”

  “Joan told me.”

  “Which means Michael told Joan. What did he say about Lyndale’s government duties?”

  “He explained to Joan how we might hear scandalous gossip about the earl, spread by those who are envious, but in fact, his lord is an important man who is consulted by the highest government ministers. Michael scolded Joan about this just yesterday, when Joan made an impolite observation about Lord Lyndale never exerting himself for more than pleasure.”

  Mary came over and considered Bride’s reflection. She removed two combs and tried to coerce them to be more effective. “I think you should cut your hair. Otherwise, there is not much hope.”

  Walter had loved her hair. She knew she should at least shorten it a little, but for the last year the idea of doing so had always seemed a betrayal of him. Or a surrender to the idea he would never want to wrap his hands in her long tresses again.

  “I must go out with Joan today, Mary. However, I would be very curious whether Lyndale will remain abroad in the city most of the night.”

  “Are you asking me to spy on him, Bride? That seems ungracious, since we are guests.”

  “I am merely saying that should you learn whether he has left the house for a night about town, I would not mind being told.”

  “Jilly and I on occasion go below to the kitchen. The servants know everything, so I am sure I can learn what is happening in the house.”

  Bride swallowed her inclination to ask what Mary was doing with the servants. She decided not to wonder about the handsome footman who had smiled so much at Mary that first day. Jilly was the chaperone, and could keep an eye on Mary.

  Besides, Bride needed the information that Mary could obtain down below.

  “Your craft is excellent, I cannot deny that.” Mr. Downey peered at the prints Bride and Joan had carried to his establishment. “The detailing is meticulous and the tonalities very rich. I see you do not resort to the cruder economies of technique that some engravers employ, either. It must take you a month to complete a large plate.”

  The sheets that he admired were spread on a large table at the back of his establishment.

  Three men sat at another long table nearby, plying their burins on copper plates. Each had a drawing reflected in a looking glass propped on a table easel. It was the reflection being copied, so the plate, when printed, would show the image in the correct direction.

  Three other men worked a large intaglio press near the front of the room. Freshly printed engravings hung from lines like washed linens set out to dry.

  The scent of ink and damp paper made Bride nostalgic for home.

  “We have drawings of old master paintings from Paris and Rome,” Bride said. “They have never been used, and are most accurate. They were made from direct study of the original works, not copied from other engravings.”

  Mr. Downey appeared interested. He also appeared regretful. The latter did not bode well for the day’s excursion.

  “I would not mind having plates of those works,” he said. “I am sure that if they are executed with this quality, I could sell the prints to establishments in London and other cities. I am not in a position to give you employment, however.”

  Bride’s heart fell. This was the second publisher on her list to turn them down.

  Joan donned her most innocent expression. “Sir, if you admire the skill, and covet the images, why are you unable to make use of both?”

  Mr. Downey gestured to the men bent over their plates. “They’ve families to feed. It would be wrong for me to release them, to employ others, especially women.”

  “I understand. We would never want others to be put out to make room for us.”

  Mr. Downey gazed down at the prints wistfully. “Should you decide to work independently, I would be happy to consider any plates you make. I would pay fairly for them.”

  “We have no press,” Bride said. “No way to pull the working proofs to check our progress on the image.”

  “Of course. Yes, that would be a problem.”

  Joan gave Mr. Downey a charming smile. Mr. Downey began blushing.

  Bride realized with a jolt that Joan was flirting. She looked at her sister and saw for the first time that Joan was a woman who might fluster a man. Her face was quite handsome, but just soft enough to imply a sweet temperament. Her gray eyes shimmered when she smiled, and her new lilac-and-purple ensemble fit her neatly, revealing a fine form.

  Bride had seen Joan in loose men’s garments for so long, and apparently indifferent to her appearance for years. Now, transformed by Lyndale’s largesse, Joan shone like a newly polishe
d jewel.

  A silly smile broke on Mr. Downey’s face. It stuck there during a dumb silence.

  “Sir, it is forward of me to suggest this.” Joan managed to sound contrite and confidential. “I was wondering, however, since we are badly in need of funds to support our sisters and aunt, if you would consider allowing us to come and pull our proofs here? We would do so when the press was not in use, at your convenience. We would bring our own paper and inks, and require nothing from you except the machine itself.”

  “It is a splendid solution,” Mr. Downey rushed to say. “If you promise to sell me the plates when they are done, well, that would be recompense enough.”

  “You are too good.”

  Bride took advantage of the man’s pliable state. “We will need to buy plates and paper, Joan. We do not even know where to go for such things in London.”

  Mr. Downey hastened to reassure her. “I will write down some names for you. Places where you can procure good-sized copper plates and paper.” He hurried to a desk and picked up a quill.

  Bride waited for the little list, then examined it. “Are any of these stationers apt to make their own paper? We are very particular about the quality used when we pull proofs.”

  The quill’s feather dipped over the list. “These two will take special orders. However, the others have a large selection and should have anything you need.”

  Joan gave Mr. Downey another bedazzling smile. “You have been very generous. I fear that we have tested your kindness more than is right. To allow us the use of your press is a rare boon.”

  Mr. Downey smiled sheepishly. “Not so rare, I am bound to say. I have on occasion allowed others to hire time on my press.”

  “Truly? This is common, then?”

  “Not common, but I am not alone in permitting it.”

  “Would you be present when we use the press? Is it normal for the proprietor to remain when time is hired on his equipment?”

  Mr. Downey tried to look indifferent, but Bride did not miss a roguish glint in his eyes. “I would want to ensure the proper use of my studio, so I expect I would be here. That is customary. Our arrangement will only be unusual in that you will pay with other than coin.”