A Sinner without a Saint

by Bliss Bennet

  Saybrook’s eyes narrowed. “A little bird will tell her? Say rather a sly, scheming snake.”

  Dulcie laughed, not taking the least offense. He’d been called far worse, and by men far grander than Saybrook. “The tale will be as unwelcome to Lady Sayre whatever form the bearer takes. Would you have her hear it now, when you’ve only just managed to earn back her respect?”

  Saybrook grimaced, but remained silent.

  “I did not think so,” Dulcie said, answering his own question. “Now, do this one little thing for me, Saybrook, and I promise to give a performance your people will never forget.”

  “What, we have to go through this damned pretense of a sword fight as well?”

  “Why, certainly. I wouldn’t want anyone to say I am in your debt.” Dulcie whipped his foil to the en guard position, then slashed it down with a flourish. “Bid you good day, my lord.”

  Yes, he would have his portrait, and Benedict too.

  “Another dram, my lord?”

  Dulcie lowered his glass and gazed about the Saybrook library, which earlier this Sunday morning had been filled with the gentlemen of Lincolnshire, gathered to raise a glass in celebration of the new Lord Saybrook’s birthday. But now, the room stood nearly empty, the visitors trickling out in dribs and drabs, either to return to their homes or to attend the fair taking place in neighboring Oldfield Village later in the day.

  “No, thank you Parsons. I’ve need of a clear head this afternoon at the fete. I do hope Saybrook has relieved the staff of its duties for the rest of the day, so you may all attend the festivities.”

  “Indeed he has, my lord. A sad day it would be, to miss the Oldfield Village Fair.” Parsons nodded, then moved away to gather the abandoned glasses that littered the scattered tables and fireplace mantel.

  The plan to formally present Saybrook to his tenantry with a birthday celebration before the village fete had struck Dulcie as deliciously feudal. But Saybrook and his people had managed to pull it off without anyone, including the head of the family himself, appearing ridiculously out-of-fashion. Why, Saybrook had looked almost as comfortable taking the center of the stage as Dulcie would have been, if his father had ever thought to host such an event for his own son and tenants.

  At twenty-one, though, when such events usually took place, Dulcie had decidedly not been in Lord Milne’s good graces. His father had hoped sending him to Oxford would cure him of his juvenile attraction to members of his own sex, yet temptation existed at university too, even as the privacy afforded a collegian made it all the easier to turn temptation into act. The sins Dulcie had only dreamed about at Harrow proved wickedly easy to indulge in at Oxford. And after his father had intercepted yet another note, this one not from a besotted boy but from the affronted uncle of an actual lover, a man who crudely demanded not Dulcie’s affection but Lord Milne’s money in exchange for his silence on the matter, he’d hardly been inclined to hold a coming-of-age ceremony for his disappointment of a son.

  Since the excruciating shame of that day, Dulcie had never again been tempted to allow passion to take the reins over reason. Oh, he indulged his carnal urges, yes, but never with the same carelessness or abandon of his university days. And rarely with the same fellow for more than a fortnight or two. No incriminating love notes to betray him that way, and little risk of the wrong person noticing him paying undue attentions to any one man—safety in anonymity and perpetual variety, that was Dulcie’s creed.

  Today, he saved his deepest passion for his favorite paintings. No one could feel shame at expressing regard for a Poussin or a Rembrandt. A lesson he would have taught George Norton, if this whole business with Benedict and Polly Adler had not disrupted his plans. Yes, young George, I am looking at you, his smile of recognition informed the gentleman, who stood by his father by the far library windows. Norton, the hen-hearted boy, had not answered his letter, but it seemed neither he nor his father wished to openly acknowledge the rift between their family and Benedict’s by failing to attend this party for the Saybrook heir. George had stuck to his father’s side like a barnacle on a boat bottom all morning, though, giving Dulcie little opportunity to cut him off from the herd of his fellow Lincolnshire gentlemen and give him an earnest talking-to. And now that the room had emptied, the clock striking noon, it seemed Saybrook himself might beat him to the effort.

  Would Benedict’s brother have the stomach for it, though, to pull a wavering supporter into line? Dulcie would pay good money to observe such a scene. Slipping into the passageway, he shooed away a maid, then sent Parsons to his bedchamber on a made-up errand, giving the combatants the privacy they needed.

  And removing any witnesses who might remark on his own lingering presence just outside the library door.

  Dulcie’s lips pursed as Saybrook fumbled the start of the negotiations, beginner mistakes a more experienced Dulcie would never have made. But when George Norton insulted their sister, Benedict’s brother rose nobly to the occasion, giving the thoughtless cub a witty set-down that had even Dulcie chuckling. And then, before he could even whisper “Jack Robinson,” Saybrook had proposed a deal that not only had the Nortons agreeing to cease their political challenge, but also had them purchasing a piece of Saybrook property they had long coveted, a purchase that would go a long way towards filling the inconvenient gap in Saybrook’s coffers.

  Dulcie grinned. Yes, Saybrook was finally leaving his careless, wastrel ways behind him, prodded in no small part by a certain shrewd viscount of their acquaintance.

  A quiet cough behind him pulled him away from the door. “Your weapon, my lord,” Parsons said, holding out his foil on two flat palms.

  “You are a gem, Parsons.” Dulcie took the sword in hand. “And remember, two of the clock on the Oldfield village green, if you’ve an interest in witnessing the most thrilling martial display in Lincolnshire since the Battle of Winceby.”

  That is, if Saybrook’s triumphs with the Nortons did not embolden him to reject Dulcie’s extortionate challenge.

  “Very good, my lord.” Parsons bobbed, then returned to clearing the detritus of the morning’s gathering.

  Dulcie poked his head around the library door, then tapped the tip of his foil against the doorframe. “Forgive me for interrupting. But you’ve a promise of your own to keep, Saybrook. And I am certain you would not wish to disappoint your dear, dear sister, would you?”

  Saybrook’s jaw clenched in annoyance. What fun!

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, Dulcie. Mr. Norton, George, will we see you both at the fete this afternoon?”

  “Yes, my lord. My wife would never forgive me if we did not visit Mrs. Hawley’s booth before she sells out of her famed gingerbread,” Mr. Norton said.

  “Then I will wish you good morning. Parsons will see you to the door.”

  Dulcie gave the younger Norton a wink as he brushed past him in the doorway. Unfortunate, that the boy’s blushes were so much less attractive than Benedict’s.

  “Dulcie, a word.”

  Dulcie turned to Benedict’s brother with a sly smile. “Do not tell me you’ve misplaced your sword, Saybrook? Or forgotten the time of our match? Two of the clock, it is to be—all you must needs do is listen for the church bells to ring once, then again. Quite easy, really. So easy, even a simpleton could manage.”

  “I am not a simpleton, Dulcie, despite any belief you may have to the contrary. A simpleton would give in to extortion, thinking to escape further harm, not realizing that taking one step back in fear will only lead a bully to demand another, and another.”

  “Ah, you’ve let today’s adulation go to your head, haven’t you?” Dulcie swung the foil in a mocking circle about that head, but his opponent stood his ground. “Not wise, Saybrook, to think you can renege on our agreement without consequence.”

  “If you tax your memory, I believe it will tell you I never agreed to this damned duel, or to persuade my brother to paint your charming visage. If you want Benedict to paint your bloody portra
it, then you will have to persuade him yourself.”

  “Ah, feeling your oats, are you, Saybrook? But will you be so sanguine after your sister hears of your mismanagement of her dowry?” Dulcie tauntingly flicked the tip of the sword against Saybrook’s waistcoat. “For I cannot, in all good conscience, promise to hold my tongue much longer.”

  Saybrook not only shoved the rapier away, he then grabbed it in one hand and pulled, sending Dulcie nearly sprawling.

  “Please, do not trouble your delicate conscience, my lord,” Benedict’s brother said. “I will save you the distasteful task of telling my sister. Tonight, after the fete.”

  If Saybrook had not just brought Dulcie to his knees, he might have kissed him for taking yet another spot of work from his already crowded plate. He rose, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his pantaloons. “Ah, the affable lion finally rears rampant. Forgive me for doubting the Saybrook coat of arms still accurately reflected the character of the family.”

  “Threaten me, or any member of family again, Dulcie, and you’ll soon find out how sharp are the claws and teeth behind my affable front.”

  Saybrook held out the sword, hilt forward, to his opponent. Dulcie stared at it, then at him, for a long, considering moment. Then, with a quicksilver smile, he grasped the hilt and, with a sharp snap of his wrist, flourished it in acknowledgement.

  One crisp bow later, and he was backing from the room. Some might have called it manipulation, what he’d done to Saybrook, but Dulcie preferred to consider it skillful management. Lord knows he’d not done it for Saybrook, but for Per, and Sibilla. And for Benedict, too; if Saybrook finally grew comfortable in and accepted his responsibilities as head of his family, Benedict would have to spend far less time worrying about his brother.

  Leaving him more time to worry over Dulcie.

  “My lord! Might I have a word?” George Norton stood by the foot of the stairway, his chin nearly buried in the folds of his neckcloth.

  Dulcie raised an eyebrow. “With me? The known associate of a seditious demagogue?”

  Norton grimaced. “Words written in the heat of the moment, and regretted almost before the ink had dried on the paper. Would you accept my apology? And extend them to your friend, Sir Peregrine?”

  Though it would be fun to torment the pup, Dulcie could afford to be magnanimous. He gave the boy a brief nod. “Certainly. It would have been a trying waste of your talents, such a fine judge of artistic merit forced to toil away over Whitehall’s tedious writs and dispatches.”

  “Yes. But my father wished me to follow in his footsteps, and Mr. Leverett thought—”

  “I will speak no ill of any man’s father. But in future, you’d be wise not to allow the unworthy to influence you against your own better judgment.”

  “Do you not hold Mr. Leverett in high regard?”

  The dismay on Benedict’s face when he’d forced himself to speak of Leverett as fag-master—no, Dulcie would not soon forget it. “I admire his taste in art, but of his morals—well, perhaps the least said on that front, the better.”

  Norton nodded. “I did so prefer you, my lord—what I mean to say, is, your knowledge of the Fine Arts far surpasses Mr. Leverett’s. I would have been—I still could be—your loyal acolyte, if you would deign to teach me all you know.” He clutched Dulcie’s hand, the one not holding a sword, and squeezed.

  Dulcie clucked under his breath. Clearly, that “all” encompassed far more than a few lessons in les beaux arts. Best to let the poor boy down gently.

  But when he spied a scowling Benedict lurking by the door to the drawing room, he couldn’t resist tormenting the stubborn man. Resting his sword against the wall, he took both of Norton’s hands in his own and raised them to his lips. “You are too kind, sir. Perhaps now that you are relieved from the burden of canvassing, you might find an hour or two to spare me? I’m expecting some new sketches from Paris that I’m certain will spark your interest.”

  The slam of a door told Dulcie his performance had hit its intended target.

  But now he had a starry-eyed Norton to deal with. Ah, was a schemer’s work never done?

  Dulcie took Norton’s arm and directed him towards the front of the house. At Dulcie’s nod, the footman pulled the door wide. “But I fear we have kept your dear father waiting. I will never forgive myself if I cause you to miss Mrs. Hawley’s gingerbread!”

  “But, my lord—” George Norton stuttered.

  “Perhaps after the canvassing is concluded, I will have the time to show you my new acquisitions. Will you be long in the country? Or shall I find you in London come the autumn?”

  “George?” The elder Mr. Norton stood by an open carriage, impatience writ large on his face. “Come along, now, before your mother grows worried we’ve overturned in the lane.”

  Dulcie whistled as he picked up his foil and raced up the stairs. Even if Saybrook refused to participate in a display of swordsmanship at the fete, he’d wager he could goad Benedict into taking part.

  But first, he needed to change into the garments he’d been collecting all week for the occasion.

  And dig up Benedict’s sword.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Benedict stomped about the Oldfield Village green, the joy and pleasure of the fairs’ attendees irritatingly at odds with his own temper. He should have been happy after witnessing the successes of his eldest brother this morning. Despite his lack of self-confidence, Theo had made a more than creditable showing at his birthday celebration, when he’d been formally introduced to the Saybrook tenants as their new lord. He’d listened with patience and attention to the speeches a handful of men had been elected to make in his honor, and had even giving a charmingly modest—and thankfully brief—speech in return. Theo had always pretended not to care that their father had thought him so ill-suited to the viscountcy, but Benedict knew how much doing a creditable job truly mattered to him.

  Theo’s successes, then, should have had him brimming over with pride. But seeing Clair preen and posture in front of George Norton—the very man throwing a spanner into the works of his own friend’s Parliamentary bid—had banished all his better feelings.

  He shook his head. What right did he have to feel jealous of the attentions Clair paid young Norton? Or the attentions he paid any man? Benedict had been the one to reject Clair, not the other way round.

  Stopping by the round-about that had been constructed especially for the fair, Benedict pulled out his sketching pad and stroked short, quick lines across the page. Drawing always helped him calm his churning emotions, giving him the inner quiet in which to sort through of his own feelings. Had it been the right thing to do, rejecting Dulcie’s offer of a casual liaison? He sketched the barker with his blue striped coat and cracking whip. He’d told himself over and over that the unexpected feeling of emptiness and of loss that had followed his rejection of Dulcie would pass, or at the very least would lessen over time. But it had been more than a month, now, and his yearning for the man had not abated in the least.

  His hand shifted, sketching the small boys perched upon the sawdust-filled horses, some holding tight to their hats, others waving them in the air in enthusiastic display. He’d been little older than the tallest one when he’d first met and began dreaming about Sinclair Milne. Had he kissed the man only once? It seemed like a thousand times, so often had he relived that moment as he fell into an uneasy sleep each night

  He drew the tiny girl peeping out from behind her brother from the window of the round-about’s child-sized coach next, braids flying, narrow face giddy with delight. When was the last time he had felt anywhere near as happy as that child? Not since Dulcie had begun to deliberately ignore him. Not since Dulcie had kissed him.

  And then, the shock of watching him flirt with George Norton, the explosive anger that had him nearly bursting out of his skin—well, that had been an unpleasant, if salutary, experience. Some might be able to wish their own feelings away, will them away, by the sheer strength of their mi
nds. But not Benedict. As this damned yearning for Clair showed, suppressing his feelings only made them more insistent.

  Benedict’s charcoal limned the boys pushing the wheel of the round-about, their arms straining, their feet flying. He would offer to take a turn, as he often had as an adolescent, but even the thrill of speed and motion seemed to dull in light of his current frustrations. If he didn’t take care, this unrequited longing for Clair might just suck him down into a boggy, smothering melancholy.

  But if his feelings would not leave, Benedict certainly could. Leave Saybrook House.

  Leave Clair.

  His hand flew to finish his sketch as the round-about slowly came to a halt. When he was a child, he’d always protested the inevitable end to the ride, and immediately jumped back into line again to take another turn. But these children seemed almost eager to leave, laughing as they slipped from their perches and pointed towards some tumult behind him.

  Benedict bit back a laugh as the cause of the uproar hove into view. A Barbary corsair, swaggering about the Oldfield village green? Or at least a fair imitation of one, for those who had never seen a real member of the Ottoman navy. Where had Clair got them, those baggy trousers and richly embroidered vest, and that ridiculous hat—obviously meant to suggest a fez—wrapped about with a brightly striped scarf? Not to mention that absurdly curling mustache, made from hair a far darker shade than his own. What a thrill he was giving the villagers, most of whom had never traveled more than ten miles from Oldfield, and had never come close to meeting an actual pirate.

  But would he truly ruin the entire illusion by pulling out his oh-so English quizzing glass to examine the pies and tarts on offer in Mrs. Hawley’s booth?

  Yes, he would. Benedict pressed his lips tightly together, trying to contain his pleasure as be-costumed Clair swaggered over to Miss Atherton and Parson Strickland. The fellow should have looked ridiculous, strutting about with all the grandiosity of Byron’s Corsair. But Benedict’s breath still caught at the mere sight of him.