Lord of Sin

by Susan Krinard

  Mrs. Tissier retired early, and the others gathered in the billiard room for a game and cigars. No one found the nerve to question Sinjin further about his row with Ferrer or Melbyrne’s absence. Sinjin put off going to bed as long as possible, keeping the men engaged until, one by one, they staggered up to their chambers.

  Sinjin had already sent his valet to his own bed, and was grateful for the solitude as he undressed. He was just inebriated enough to feel the weight of unfamiliar self-pity.

  He had told Nuala that she must lose any war between them. But he knew those words to be no more than a child’s whistling in the dark. He was already well along the road to losing the battle all on his own.

  She had some strange power over him. He saw that now. It wasn’t merely her body, her intelligence or her spirit that drew him. She had cast a spell on him, even if she didn’t know it herself.

  Fool. She’d done nothing of the kind. It was the kiss that had clinched it, no mystical enchantment.

  He climbed into bed, aware of every inch of naked skin against the sheets. He could almost feel Nuala lying beside him, touching him with her fiery hands. Whispering promises of ecstasies no woman had ever given him before. He was so hard that one brush of a woman’s fingertips would make him come.

  Adele. Tomorrow he would go to her and take his fill of her, even if he had to remain in her bed for three days running. If that didn’t cure him, nothing would.

  But the voice returned in his dreams. You will never be free of her. And the flames licked over his body until nothing was left of him but ash.

  “SHE IS NOT COMING,” Frances said, consulting her watch again. “I suggest that we proceed without her. This is, after all, the opening day of our new charity house.”

  Deborah nodded, though she cast one last glance up the street as she climbed into Lady Selfridge’s carriage. It had all been very strange. Nuala had suddenly dashed off to God-knew-where two days ago, leaving only a vague note by way of explanation, and had as yet failed to return. She had known that today was the day that they would officially open the new warehouse in Whitechapel, and had expressed continuing enthusiasm for the project.

  But she hadn’t come. Deborah was certain in her heart that Nuala’s absence had something to do with her exchange with Lord Donnington at Lady Oxenham’s ball. More, she knew that Nuala had been furious at Lord Donnington’s whisking Felix away from the ball. Nuala had been less than subtle about her hopes that Deborah and Mr. Melbyrne’s acquaintance would evolve into a more permanent connection.

  No, Nuala’s absence was surely no coincidence. And neither Felix nor Lord Donnington had made a public appearance since the ball…not in Hyde Park nor anywhere Deborah might have been apt to see them.

  Deborah gnawed on her lower lip and sank back in the seat. If she could but make up her own mind about Felix. He had not yet proposed, but she was increasingly convinced that such a proposal would soon be forthcoming. Nuala certainly wanted to see it happen, but what would the other Widows say? Her confusion only seemed to grow worse by the minute.

  Worrying at a ribbon on her dress with nervous fingers, Deborah closed her eyes as another face rose in her mind’s eye. Dark hair and a straightforward gaze. An earnest, serious face, so unlike Felix’s pleasant handsomeness.

  Today she might see Ioan Davies. He lived in Whitechapel. He had become involved with the charity project when he’d confronted Bray, and he might feel bound to lend his protection again. He was that sort of man.

  And he had returned her handkerchief.

  That means nothing but that he is a courteous young man, in spite of his situation and station. There could be no significance in their meeting again.

  The drive to Whitechapel was completed almost before Deborah had realized the carriage was moving. Most of the carts had already arrived and were being unloaded; a rapidly growing crowd was forming around them, jostling people of all ages eager to be given their rations. While Clara, Maggie and the few other society women Frances had recruited wrapped up the food, the men Frances had hired as guards kept a watchful eye out for those who might attempt to claim more than their due. The guards themselves had been found in Whitechapel and were willing enough to do the work for a generous wage, though Lady Selfridge had insisted that their cudgels be used only as a last resort, and only against men who used violence to bully or impede their fellows.

  To Deborah’s secret surprise, the distribution went smoothly. The small warehouse Frances had acquired was much more suited to organizing the apportionment of rations; only a few could enter the door at one time, and the more needy women and children could be kept apart from the men. Bray never put in an appearance.

  Nor did Ioan Davies. Deborah found herself watching for him even as she wrapped fresh food in newspapers and passed it to grateful women, or laughed with little girls as they received their rag dolls.

  “What is it, Deborah?” asked Frances during one of their rare intervals of rest. “You seem distracted.”

  “Not at all,” Deborah assured her with a smile, and returned to work with renewed vigor. But when she caught a glimpse of black hair at the rear of the thinning crowd, her heart rolled over in her chest. She stood, murmured a request that Clara take her place for a few minutes, and made her way through the men and women clustered by the warehouse doors.

  No one impeded her, but Ioan had disappeared. She stood in the filthy street, clutching her hands together as she examined every figure who passed.

  I must see him. It was a foolish idea in the extreme, but she knew if she did not, she would continue to think about him at the most inopportune moments, and in the most inappropriate ways. For some reason she could not comprehend, she had built up some sort of romantic fantasy about him that must be dispelled.

  Hesitantly she walked a little distance away from the warehouse. The decrepit houses seemed to lean toward her, whispering of the suffering and poverty they contained. The stench of fetid alleys clogged her nostrils. The very sky seemed to grow darker, but she continued on, trying to forget the tales of the Whitechapel killer.

  She had gone perhaps two blocks when she saw the dark-haired figure rounding a corner.

  Resolutely she set off again. A woman in a gaudy, cast-off gown, leaning against a peeling wall, shouted an obscenity as Deborah passed. A pair of men emerging from a tavern paused to follow her progress with narrowed eyes. She walked a little faster, her skirts sweeping through the rubbish that littered the pavement.

  The corner was just ahead. She dashed around it and collided with a man stinking of old sweat and strong drink.

  “Well, if i’ ain’t the li’l tart from Mayfair,” he said, gripping her arm before she could back away. “Fancy findin’ yer ’ere.” He leaned into her, nauseating her with his breath. “Slummin’, are we?”

  Deborah struggled, clenching her fist against the need to strike. “I would advise you to release me,” she said with her best attempt at cool disdain.

  He laughed. “Jus’ loik yer ma. Aw high ’n’ migh’y, as if she ’ad th’ roight.”

  She stared at him in astonishment. “My mother?”

  “You ’eard me.” He smiled, giving her another view of his rotten teeth. “I were wonderin’ wot i’ was wot were so familiar ’bout yer.”

  “Let me go.”

  “But we ain’t done wi’ our conversation, missy. Yer do want ter know abou’ yer real ma? Wot she did fer ’er keep afore she gave yer away?”

  The filthy words coming out of his mouth erased any traces of Deborah’s fear. “You never knew my mother,” she said. “She would never have had anything to do with a man like you.”

  “That so?” He fumbled inside his wretched coat with his free hand, grunted, and withdrew a soiled and creased bit of paper. “Then why’d she gif me this?”

  The bit of paper was a photograph, so stained that Deborah could not make it out at first. She drew back, but Bray thrust the photograph into her hand.

  The face was darkened by
time, the right half of the lower jaw obscured by a smear of dirt or grease. But there was no mistaking the woman’s beauty: the fullness of her lips, the softness of her eyes beneath gentle brows or the thick, dark hair arranged simply on her head.

  “I weren’t wrong,” Bray growled. “I see i’ in yer eyes.”

  Deborah turned her head away, afraid she would vomit. The woman might have been her twin save for the stark simplicity of her dress.

  “Where did you get that?” she whispered.

  “I tol’ yer, missy. She gave i’ me.” He chuckled indulgently, as if Deborah were a favorite niece. “Only roight t’ let yer know the truf. She were a whore, yer ma. A good ’un, roight enough. But she coul’n’t keep a brat, could she?”

  The world tilted sideways, but Deborah managed to keep her head. “My mother was Lady Shaw, wife of Sir Percival Shaw. She was never in Whitechapel.”

  He nodded sagely. “‘At’s wot they tol’ yer, ain’t i’? Yer was too young ter know different. Barely ou’ o’ the womb afore yer fine Sir Percy offered t’ take yer off Mary’s ’ands.”

  Now she knew he was lying. The resemblance Deborah saw in the photograph was no more than a coincidence that this man used to hurt her for inexplicable reasons of his own.

  “I was born in Baden, Switzerland,” she said, meeting his gaze. “A doctor, a wet nurse and my father witnessed my birth.”

  “Yer wants more proof, missy?” Bray called after her. “I c’n find them wot’ll be ’appy ter tell yer aw abou” ow yer real ma sold yer ter them nobs, th’ ones wot claimed ter be yer real fam’ly. ’Ow yer ’igh ’n’ migh’y Sir Shaw used ter know Mary, in ev’ry sense o’ th’ word.”

  She jerked her arm free. “I do not believe you!”

  “Then believe this, missy. I’ll be askin’ yer fer a li’l baksheesh very soon. A friendly l’il loan so’s I don’ decide ter tell th’ papers abou’ yer dear ma.”

  Deborah squared her shoulders and walked away. The man’s evil words clawed under her rib cage and refused to be dislodged, no matter how quickly she walked. The picture of the woman burned behind her eyes. The voices calling out to her from alleyways and sagging buildings could not drown out the voice in her own head.

  You aren’t Lady Orwell, daughter of Sir Percival Shaw. You’re the child of some backstreet prostitute named Mary….

  “Lady Orwell!”

  The calm, familiar voice brought her to a halt. Only when Ioan Davies came to her side did she truly begin to tremble, her legs threatening to drop her to the cracked pavement.

  Ioan saw her distress. He held her up, his earnest hazel eyes sweeping her face.

  “You ought not to be here, your ladyship,” he said, holding her much too close to his chest. “What has frightened you?”

  Deborah tried not to let him see the tears pooling under her eyelids. She had what she wanted; she had found Ioan. At the worst possible moment.

  “It’s nothing, Mr. Davies,” she stammered.

  He shook his head. “You’ve had a rare shock of some kind, madam. Let me escort you to your companions.”

  “Really, I’m all—”

  But it was useless. She badly wanted Ioan’s support, as shameful as she found her weakness and her need for him. She leaned on his arm as he led her back the way she’d come, to the warehouse where Lady Selfridge was speaking urgently to her hired men.

  Frances turned sharply as one of the men pointed toward Deborah. She picked up her skirts and strode to meet Deborah and Ioan.

  “Where have you been, child?” she demanded. “I was about to send the men out to search for you!” Her gaze flicked to Ioan. “Mr. Davies! What has happened?”

  He touched his cap. “That I don’t know, madam, but Lady Orwell has not been harmed.” With what Deborah almost might have termed reluctance, he released her arm. Lady Selfridge took his place.

  “Are you ill, Lady Orwell?”

  “No. Only…I should not have gone out.”

  “What possessed you to leave us?”

  Deborah stared at the ground. She could not possibly tell Frances the truth, either about why she had left the warehouse alone nor why she now seemed so ill.

  “I…I only wanted a little fresh air,” she said. Frances snorted, but she was obviously well aware that they were in mixed company and a full interrogation must wait. She nodded to Mr. Davies.

  “Thank you once again, Mr. Davies, for your assistance,” she said. “I am certain that…”

  “Deborah!”

  A fresh wave of light-headedness nearly undid her. Felix Melbyrne ran up to join them, profound relief in his expression.

  “Thank God. I’ve been searching everywhere for you. When Lady Selfridge told me…” He stopped, glanced at Ioan, and resumed more slowly. “Are you well?”

  Somehow she managed to focus on his face. “What…what are you doing here, Mr. Melbyrne?”

  “I was told by your footman that you had come to Whitechapel with Lady Selfridge. I was concerned for your safety.”

  Deborah tried to laugh. “I was never in any danger, Mr. Melbyrne. I am hardly a hothouse violet to be kept out of the sun.”

  No one could have been convinced by her dismal attempt at levity. Felix looked at her with something very like disapproval.

  “You are ill. You must tell me what happened!”

  “She’s not ill, Mr. Melbyrne,” Frances insisted.

  “Did someone abuse you?” Felix asked as if Lady Selfridge hadn’t spoken. “Tell me where to find them, and I shall see to it that the blackguards never do so again.”

  “The lady has given her assurances,” Ioan said, his voice so soft that it commanded everyone’s attention. “Perhaps she would be best served by returning to her home.”

  Felix stared at Ioan, his judgment of the other man’s station plain in his expression. “Lady Selfridge, may I be introduced to this…gentleman?”

  “Mr. Felix Melbyrne, may I present Mr. Ioan Davies,” Frances said without the slightest hesitation. “Mr. Davies was kind enough to escort Lady Orwell back to us.”

  “Mr. Davies,” Felix said stiffly, briefly touching the brim of his hat, “if you were responsible for aiding Lady Orwell in any way, you have my gratitude.”

  Ioan gave a shallow bow. “Mr. Melbyrne, it was my pleasure to do so.”

  The exchange was so coldly formal that Deborah felt as if the pavement beneath her feet had frozen. “I should very much like to go home,” she said.

  “The sooner, the better,” Frances said. “Mr. Melbyrne, if you will see to the carriage…”

  Mr. Melbyrne’s reluctance was manifest, but he did as he was asked. Deborah found the presence of mind to smile at Ioan.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Davies,” she said. “I am sorry to have caused so much disturbance.”

  “You could never do so, madam,” Ioan said, his grave expression barely giving way to a smile. “I trust you will soon be well.”

  She dropped a curtsey, one she might have reserved for a duke. “Goodbye, Mr. Davies.”

  Lady Selfridge bustled her into the waiting carriage. Felix mounted his horse and took up a position next to the door. Deborah forced herself to look ahead and not back at Ioan.

  Perhaps he could have told her why Bray would say the things he’d said. He would surely know most everyone in this part of Whitechapel, or at least be able to guess at what might motivate such an evil man.

  But then she would have to tell Ioan the unthinkable, and she would rather never meet him again than reveal even the gist of her conversation with her tormentor.

  Never see him again…

  “Well,” Frances said, “you are still white as a sheet. Will you tell me what really happened?”

  “Nothing,” Deborah said, trying to meet Frances’s gaze. “It was as Mr. Melbyrne surmised. There were…men who spoke to me. I was not prepared—”

  “Good God, girl, have you no sense? Had you wished to see more of Whitechapel, I and one of the men would gladly h
ave accompanied you.”

  “Mr. Davies found me before any harm was done,” Deborah said. “I was never in any real danger.”

  “Hmm.” Frances tilted her head like a hawk sighting a field mouse. “Mr. Davies has a keen regard for you, I see.”

  “That is nonsense! He was merely present when I—”

  “And you have a similar regard for him.”

  “He is a kind man, but—”

  “Of course he is of a different station than you, but I am firmly of the belief that such outmoded attitudes have no place in our modern society. Under other circumstances…” She shook her head. “I know that Lady Charles has encouraged your interest in Mr. Melbyrne, and his in you. But I caution you, Deborah. This is not a game.”

  “Is that what you believe? I did not join the Widows under false pretenses!”

  “I know you did not. But if you do not wish to marry again, guard your heart, and do not trifle with the affections of those you admire. Men and women can become extremely foolish when they believe themselves in love.”

  “I am not in love with anyone!”

  Frances sighed. “None of us will disavow you should you choose to leave us.”

  “But I do not wish to leave you!”

  “You must make your own decisions. Only be certain that you know what you truly want.”

  What I want. The same question Deborah had asked herself a dozen times since Ioan’s visit to Belgravia. Nuala would not for a moment believe that her protégée could look twice at Mr. Davies when she had attached Mr. Melbyrne, even if Nuala shared Frances’s disregard for Society’s strict separation of the classes.

  Would she and Frances feel the same disregard if they knew what Bray had said of Deborah’s parentage? If they believed it to be true? And what of Felix?

  “I am very tired, Frances,” Deborah said, sinking back into her seat and closing her eyes. “I would like to rest.”