Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  Bride packed away the prints. “You have been a great help. It will be some time before we have need of the press, I expect. We will write to you then. I look forward to our arrangement, and trust it will benefit us both. Perhaps, when we visit again, we will have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Downey.”

  She led Joan out of the shop. Mr. Downey followed them to the door, and even stepped outside to watch Joan walk away.

  “It was a most useful visit, Joan, thanks to you. This list of stationers might lead us to papermakers. The forgers had to have their special paper made somewhere.”

  “And if we can hire time on a press, so can the forgers. Mr. Downey says he remains when his studio is used, but for a price I expect a proprietor will make himself scarce.”

  “I am beginning to see how they arranged this,” Bride said. “It was not as hard as I supposed it would be, once they had the plates.”

  “It is unfortunate that the forgers were able to hire a press, but it may be useful that we can do so.”

  Bride looked over at her sister just as Joan looked at her. Their gazes locked.

  Hiring a few hours on a press could be very useful. It opened all kinds of possibilities.

  Ewan placed a big wager on the vingt-et-un table. He awaited the outcome with a discouraging level of ennui.

  In the past such a sum would have made his heart race with excitement. Winning or losing would have affected his whole life for a year.

  Such a bet would have been so completely rash, so outrageously wrong, that he would have been impressed by his own audacity. Tonight the bet barely gave his heart a tiny bump.

  He won.

  He almost sighed. No joy, either. No elation. Worse, he always seemed to win now. It was as if Providence had decreed that he should inherit good luck with the title, so that all the thrills in life would be dulled.

  The gaming room’s owner walked over.

  “Another big win, Lord Lyndale. Notes will do, I trust.”

  Ewan accepted the thick stack of banknotes. He carried them over to a vacant card table in the corner and gave the fifties a cursory glance. They all appeared good, but he would need to study them more closely in better light.

  He took a small piece of paper from his coat and examined the list of names on it. He had visited Leighton’s engraving studio today. When he drew Leighton into a little argument about the best masters of the burin in Britain, this distilled list of highly skilled hands resulted.

  He would have to begin learning about these engravers, and discover if any of them had reason to be suspected.

  He took a small pencil from his pocket and crossed out one name. It was that of Thomas Waterfield, the name Bride and her sisters used on their plates. Leighton had proposed its inclusion, but of course it had no place here, despite their notable skill.

  “Working your accounts, Lyndale?”

  Ewan looked up to see Nathaniel Knightridge smiling down at him. Knightridge was a young lawyer who argued cases in the Court of Common Pleas. His fame derived from other defenses, however. Those of criminals in the Old Bailey.

  The golden-haired, dark-eyed Adonis had a remarkable talent for exploiting the theatrics of criminal trials. Ewan had long ago decided that if he were ever accused of treason, he would want Knightridge speaking for him.

  “Rumor has it that a certain lady has been spending your fortune for you,” Knightridge said. “It is said the dowager Lady Mardenford aims to put you in the poor house.”

  “So she has threatened.”

  Charlotte’s pique over Bride Cameron’s ambiguous status had provoked her to spend very freely the last week. She had written to him today to warn about the huge bills due to arrive. The tone of the letter had carried a note of vengeance.

  The situation was typical of his upside-down life now. For years he had sinned and paid no penance, and now he was being punished for something he had not even tried to do, much as he wanted to.

  “There are those who say you are trying to seduce Lady Mardenford’s affections,” Knightridge said. “I am sure they are wrong, and that you would never insult a fine lady thus.”

  “The lady has suffered no insult, unless having carte blanche is an insult. Since she demanded it, I doubt her sensibilities are offended, even if yours are.”

  “Carte blanche? Are you saying—”

  “She agreed to dress some young women for whom I find myself responsible. I had to promise to accept whatever bills came. I suspect, however, that giving a mistress carte blanche for a year would have cost less.”

  Knightridge sat in a chair at the table. “If the young ladies are expensive, you should do what my cousin did when he found himself with two wards.”

  “What was that?”

  “He married them off. He had them both engaged within three months. The settlements were a fraction of the cost of keeping them, so he counted himself lucky.”

  Ewan looked at Knightridge. What an inspired idea. This was exactly what he should be doing. He would marry off the Cameron sisters forthwith, and foist the responsibility on other men.

  He called for some brandy to thank Knightridge for his brilliance. While they sipped, he turned over his piece of paper and made a new list.

  Anne

  Joan

  Mary

  “How much did your cousin settle on his wards? What amount would be tempting?”

  “I think it was six thousand each. The income would be tempting enough, I suppose.”

  “Would that tempt you?”

  “I suppose it might, if I could be tempted at all. Less than that would not tempt anyone but a tradesman, of course.”

  Ewan pondered that. He would increase the settlements to ten thousand. That would tempt even the untemptable.

  “Here comes Burchard,” Knightridge said. “He has Abernathy in tow. Since they are both smiling, they must be up for the night.”

  Ewan watched his two friends approach. Colin Burchard glowed with the well-being of a man who had enjoyed a good night at the tables. Abernathy always glowed, being a somewhat stupid person who did not understand that life was temporary.

  Ewan did not much care for Abernathy, but he did not exactly dislike the young man, either. It would be cruel to hate someone merely for being born with a lack of wits and an excess of optimism.

  On the other hand, Abernathy possessed a handsome face and trusting demeanor that would make some equally silly woman very happy.

  “What do you have there?” Colin asked.

  “I am making reminders of the duties I have over the next few days.” He gave Colin a hooded look and stressed the word “duties.”

  Colin’s reaction all but said “Ahh.” He understood Ewan’s only duties involved Ewan’s secret investigations for the government.

  “And here I thought you were making a list of potential brides,” Colin said, by way of covering for them both.

  “I must add that to this list. Tell me, gentlemen, what qualities do you think I should seek? Someone who shares my interests? Burchard, wouldn’t you prefer to marry a woman who enjoys equestrian pursuits the same as you, for example?”

  “I expect that would be pleasant.”

  “I think a wife should be practical and intelligent,” Knightridge offered. “God spare me from one of these dreamy women who cannot manage themselves, let alone a household.”

  Ewan licked his pencil.

  “The thing is, should I ever marry, I doubt it will be for any reason one can put on a list,” Colin said. “It will be a match like my brother’s. Having seen that, I cannot settle for less.”

  “It helped enormously that Adrian’s great love was one of the wealthiest women in England,” Ewan said.

  “If she had been one of the poorest, it would have made no difference.”

  Ewan grudgingly turned to his paper again.

  “Abernathy, what do you think I should seek in a bride?”

  “Someone young and pretty and sweet, I would say. Not too clever—only tro
uble there. I think it would be best to marry a girl who is fresh and still malleable.” Abernathy gravely gave his opinion as if it was original and not the list of requirements most men used.

  Ewan felt a warmth near his shoulder as Colin leaned over his arm to eye his list. Colin’s realization that the list had nothing to do with forgers produced a frown. The presence of his own name beside some strange woman’s may have added to his pique.

  “I notice one of their names is not there, McLean,” he muttered.

  “She is too old,” Ewan muttered back. “Besides, she has no fortune. She refused any settlement.”

  “Once you marry off the sisters, how is she to live if she is not some man’s wife? Become someone’s mistress?”

  Ewan had not considered Bride’s financial vulnerability if he succeeded in moving her sisters off the field. He had assumed he would take care of her.

  Ewan tucked the paper away. “If I could think of any man who would suit Bride Cameron, I would throw her at him. Now let us play cards. I have a fortune to squander.”

  As the cards appeared, he considered Colin’s accusation. He would never stand in the way of Bride’s security and happiness. He had to admit, however, that he did not like the idea of her as some man’s wife.

  He very much liked the idea of her as some man’s mistress, however. His. That idea had never been far from his thoughts during the last week of inexplicable, virtuous restraint.

  Bride cracked her door ajar and listened. Silence met her ears. It was very late, and the household had mostly retired. Sticking her head out, she peered up and down the corridor to make sure no one was about.

  Carrying a lamp, she slipped out. She did not aim for the main stairs, but for the back ones that she used to go up to see her sisters. This time she followed the stairway down a level, to the public rooms.

  She should be able to complete this mission quickly and unobserved tonight. Mary had been good on her promise to learn about the earl’s movements from the household staff. She had reported before dinner that tonight Lyndale had told Michael not to wait for his return, a sign that he would be out most of the night.

  Curiosity simmered in her, regarding the diversions that would occupy him. Perhaps he was with one of his mistresses. Or he could be attending a party much like those he gave, and making love in some grand salon strewn with flowers or furs or something else exotic and sensual.

  Clearly this man was far too worldly for her. It was just as well that whatever interest she once provoked in him had quickly waned.

  Only her little lamp lit her way on the first floor. She hurried through the big drawing room and into the library. She eased open the door to Lyndale’s private room.

  Her lamp revealed that the unpacking was completed. The golden glow washed over sculptures and paintings, revealing images too artistic to be merely licentious. The skill of these artists could make the most base subject appear elevated and important.

  She spied a cabinet and moved closer. Behind the glass doors she saw the leather-covered boards of folios. She set down her lamp and pulled the doors wide.

  One by one, she removed the folios, knelt on the floor, and flipped through the prints they contained.

  Lyndale’s collection was superb. With prints, at least, his tastes ran to more than erotica. One folio held engravings of the early Renaissance, when artists like Mantegna first exploited copper plates to make works of art. She set it aside. Another day she would like to enjoy those at her leisure, but tonight she had other concerns.

  She spied a leather binding to the back of one shelf. It seemed the right size. She lifted it, opened it, and knew she had found Raimondi’s “I Modi.” She moved her lamp to a little table near one sofa, and sat down to examine the treasure.

  The engravings had been laid down on the pages. That meant the watermarks could not be examined, since the engravings could not be held to the light. The poems by Aretino had been separated from the images, and adhered to the pages facing the pictures.

  Hoping her initial instincts betrayed her, praying she was wrong, she lifted a little quizzing glass attached to a cord around her neck. She held it to one engraving.

  The black lines jumped into view, each as distinctive as a thick line of a pen. The contours and crosshatching formed patterns as unique as a signature. The technique announced this was produced by the famous Renaissance engraver Marcantonio Raimondi.

  She saw more than those signs, however, because she was searching for them. She saw atmospheric stipples that were longer than Raimondi would use. She saw the rendition of background details that would not match other engravings by that master.

  The man who had made these plates had concentrated on duplicating Raimondi’s technique in the most significant portions of the image, but had gotten too independent in the subsidiary parts.

  A good forger normally would not be so reckless. In this case, however, he could afford a bit of license. After all, there were no surviving examples that could be used for a side-by-side comparison with these engravings. This forger had re-created a series now lost to time, but known to history. He had provided the only known example of a great rarity, and done a masterful job at it.

  And he had fooled the connoisseurs, including the current Earl of Lyndale.

  Bride stared at the engraving on her lap, not seeing anything but the burin work. A wave a nausea rose, then fell, until it affected her body down to her toes.

  She recognized the hand that had made these. She had learned her own craft from the same man. She had also seen the plates from which these engravings had been pulled.

  They had once been hidden in a trunk in her room in Scotland, along with plates that forged banknotes.

  As Ewan mounted the stairs in his house, he retrieved a thick stack of banknotes from his coat. They represented not only his winnings, but notes he had procured off Colin Burchard by means of trades. Tonight, after they left the gaming hall, they had conducted some very private business that involved sizable amounts of money.

  It was only a little past two. Normally he would still be out and about, but this stack begged a close examination.

  He headed for his private salon, anxious to give these notes a thorough study. He ruefully admitted that this inquiry had engaged him more than he expected. Adrian had been correct. Such things could be very compelling, and even great fun.

  He did not go through the main drawing room and library. Instead he approached the chamber from the other side of the stairwell and opened the single door not far from the servants’ stairs. As soon as he did, light poured over the threshold.

  A lamp sat on a table near a sofa that faced away from his spot. Its glow formed golden highlights on amber curls rising above the sofa’s back.

  A glance to his right showed the open print cabinet. Some folios lay on the floor. Bride had spent the evening perusing his collection.

  He never would have left if he had known she intended to do so. It would have been pleasant to spend time with her, discussing these sheets. He rarely had the opportunity to do that with anyone who was knowledgeable, and never with a woman. Their few hours in the print shops together had been among the most pleasant he had spent in years.

  Deciding the banknotes could wait, he entered the chamber and slipped them into the writing desk tucked in the corner. Then he walked over to Bride.

  She did not hear him approach. Her head remained bent over the volume on her lap. As Ewan neared, he saw what had her so entranced. She had discovered Raimondi’s “I Modi.”

  He looked over her shoulder at the explicit sexual activity on the page she observed. He angled his head to see her face. No embarrassment there. No virtuous dismay or blushing shock. She did not flip past quickly, either. She studied the image as if she wanted to commit every detail to memory.

  His gaze drifted over her abundant unruly curls and lovely profile and flawless skin. While she scrutinized the details of “I Modi,” he pored over the details of Bride Cameron, noting how
fine her figure looked in the new blue dress, and how perfectly the bones in her face framed her eyes and mouth.

  He had been avoiding her all week because the alternative was to seduce her. He would never be able to simply look and not touch, especially since he had touched already. Normally, when a woman inspired this hunger, he wasted no time in seeking to make her his mistress. This time he had retreated.

  He had been an idiot again, just like in Scotland. There was no rational reason to be so restrained. He wanted her. He had wanted her since that first day in Scotland, and right now, watching her on that sofa, he wanted her with a savage determination.

  If she was a woman who gave “I Modi” such cool and sophisticated regard, she would not be insulted by a man’s frank and honest desire.

  Now that he thought about it, she had seemed annoyed when he ended things so abruptly on that library sofa.

  Still oblivious to his presence, Bride turned the page to the next print. Ewan stretched to see the new image. Bride lifted a quizzing glass and peered closely, thoroughly engrossed.

  Ewan strolled around the room, locking the doors. Then he walked over to a cabinet where spirits were stored, and poured two glasses of sherry.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Bride frowned at the print while she moved her quizzing glass across it inch by inch. She kept hoping to find evidence this series had not come from her father’s plates.

  She wished she still had the plates. She cursed herself for never printing proofs of them. If she had, she could quickly find out for certain if this set had been pulled from them, too. Now she had to rely on her memory of the ghostly images made by the gouged lines on the copper, and on her knowledge of her father’s technique.