Duchess of Sin

by Laurel McKee

  “It is very fine,” Anna said. She sipped at the dry, golden- white liquid, hoping it would drown her melancholy.

  “Only the best for Sir Grant’s house,” Jane said. “It is beautifully arranged, don’t you think? So very fashionable.”

  “It needs a mistress,” Lady Thornton suddenly cried. Her ear trumpet trembled in her hand. “Someone to look after it all.”

  “Someone to pay the bills?” the man to Anna’s left, Lord Melton, whispered.

  Anna glanced down the table to Sir Grant, to see if he heard them. He gave her a smile and raised his glass to her in a little toast.

  “Is he in some sort of trouble?” Anna whispered back. “He seems quite comfortable.”

  Lord Melton, who had consumed a great deal of that fine wine, took another deep drink. “Appearances are worth all in our fair city, don’t you agree, Lady Anna? And Sir Grant is better than most at upholding them. He has political ambitions, you know, and those do not come cheap.”

  “Surely he has chosen an auspicious moment for such ambitions,” Anna said, thinking of rumors of the immense bribes the British government handed out in exchange for support of the Union.

  “If one chooses the correct side,” Lord Melton said, taking another drink. “These are uncertain days, Lady Anna. Matters could go either way.”

  Uncertain days—to say the least. Anna sipped at her own wine, unsure what to say.

  “A wife,” Lady Thornton announced. “That is exactly what my nephew needs. A rich wife.”

  Caroline slipped into Grant Dunmore’s library, away from the false laughter and brightness of the party and into a silent realm of books and solitude. Only when she inhaled the wondrously familiar scents of paper and leather could she relax again. Anna and their mother were always so good at parties, at being gracious and sociable and charming. To Caroline, soirees were a miserable business.

  She straightened her spectacles and examined the room. It was not as large as the library at the Henrietta Street house, but the walls were completely lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with rows and rows of enticing books. Beneath the tall, narrow windows were flat glass cases filled with an array of objects. There was not much furniture, but what there was looked comfortable and inviting, chairs and cassocks upholstered in worn green velvet. Everything was lit by a crackling fire in the grate.

  Caroline loved it. It was the perfect refuge from the gossip and card playing. She drifted over to the largest shelf and examined the leather-bound volumes. Plato, Petrarch, Shakespeare.

  “Perhaps Sir Grant is not merely a sporting man after all,” she murmured as she spotted a thick volume of Herodotus in the original Greek. There were also the works of French philosophes and English scientists, treatises on agricultural methods and animal husbandry.

  Most intriguingly, there was a row of books on Irish mythology. Caroline slid one from its place and thumbed through it, all those beloved stories of Cuchulain and Maeve and dark gods and goddesses and fairies. The pages were all cut, and it seemed well-read.

  Sir Grant pretended to be not at all interested in Ireland, like all his crass Ascendancy cohorts. He seemed to seek only land and rent rolls, and the power they brought. Was it all some kind of act? To what end?

  Caroline put the book back in its place. She was better off studying history; it was much easier to understand than men. Especially men like Grant Dunmore.

  She went to examine the glass cases. There were bits of Greek and Roman antiquities, small alabaster statues, coins, and gold and amber jewelry, as well as beautifully decorated medieval prayer books. A small antique cross gleamed with old rubies and pearls.

  But there were also Irish objects. A brooch in the shape of a serpent with emerald eyes. A gold goblet etched with an intricate knotwork pattern. And a small book, open to one page.

  Caroline leaned closer to make out the faded words scrolled across the vellum between a twisting blue-green dragon. It was in Gaelic, and rather dim, but she made out “Ne ceart go cur.…” and the words “Giniuint Mhuire gan Smal 923.”

  “Oh, blast,” she whispered, staring down at the book in stunned disbelief. “The Chronicle of Kildare. It can’t be.”

  “So you found my treasure,” Grant Dunmore said from behind her.

  Caroline had been so preoccupied with the book that she hadn’t even heard the door open. She spun around, her heart pounding in surprise. He leaned in the doorway, all casual grace in his fashionable evening clothes, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. But he watched her closely.

  “I’m sorry if I’m not meant to be in here,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. She usually had no trouble talking to men; most of them cared only to natter on about hunting or cards and required only nods and smiles for their monologues. That was convenient, for it gave her time for her own thoughts.

  Grant pretended to be just like them, but she had the growing suspicion that he wasn’t at all. He was always watching when he thought no one paid attention, always listening. This most erudite collection of books and artifacts confirmed it. There had to be more to that old scandal of the Adair estate than met the eye.

  More to him.

  “I just needed a quiet moment away from the party,” she finished.

  “I don’t blame you a bit, Lady Caroline,” he said amiably. “These gatherings can be quite tedious. Always the same people, saying the same things.”

  “But this is your own party!”

  “Even worse. I am aiding and abetting dullness.”

  Caroline turned back to the glass case, staring down at the beautiful, priceless little book. It was less disturbing than his strange, golden-brown eyes. “You are the host. Surely you could turn them in a more amusing direction?”

  She heard him push away from the door, the soft slide of his shoes on the thick carpet. He reminded her of the tiger that she once saw in a menagerie, beautiful, elegant, seemingly lazy, but able to turn deadly in the blink of an eye.

  Anna was surely in trouble if she did marry him.

  “Have you tried to turn Lady Thornton from talking about the fashion in turbans?” he said. He leaned his palms on the edge of the case, right beside her. He gave her an amused little half-smile.

  She could see all too well why half the ladies in Dublin were in love with him. That smile did the strangest things to her own thoughts, making them feel all twisted and turned in her mind. Yet she could not shake away those suspicions that it was all some kind of façade.

  Dublin was a city of façades, of codes and false words and hidden alliances. Perhaps that was why she preferred the faraway past, when Ireland was a land of clans and warlords, battles and doomed romances. Clear alliances.

  “I see what you mean, Sir Grant,” she said. “Turning Lady Thornton from turbans would be beyond human endeavor. Even Cuchulain would have been foiled by the perambulations of her conversation.”

  “You were quite right to take refuge in here,” he answered. “I often feel the need to escape myself.”

  “It is your fault I neglect my social duties now, you know.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “By creating such a perfect sanctuary as this.” She waved her hand around the lovely library. “It’s such a wondrous room, Sir Grant.”

  “I am quite flattered, Lady Caroline, for you are said to be quite the expert on libraries.”

  “I have found refuge in one or two in my time. You have a fascinating collection.” She looked back down at The Chronicle of Kildare. “Especially this.”

  “It is my greatest treasure. You have a very discerning eye.”

  “The Chronicle of Kildare, written by a monk named Brother Michael in the 900s and hidden away from the Vikings with the other treasures of his monastery. I thought there was only one in existence, the copy at Trinity College. And they would never let a mere woman see it. I have had to make do with old translations, and they are so unreliable.”

  “There are actually three originals that I know of,” Grant s
aid. There was none of the usual fashionable ennui in his voice, only a shy sort of pride. Caroline found it dangerously appealing. “The one at Trinity, which is where I first heard of it when I was at school there, and one owned by a French marquis, which vanished in the Revolution. And this one.”

  “Wherever did you get it?”

  “I fear that must remain my secret, Lady Caroline.” He took a small silver key from a box on the mantel and unlocked the case. Caroline watched, wonder-struck, as he carefully removed the book and held it out to her. “Would you care to look at it more closely?”

  She had never wanted anything more in her life. Her hands trembled with the force of her desire to touch it. “May I really?”

  “Of course.” He gently took her hand and laid the volume on her palm.

  The calfskin cover, dyed green and lettered in gold, was soft and cool on her skin. She drew it toward her, carefully turning over the vellum page. It told the tale of an ancient battle in Kildare, one where the beleaguered forces of the heroic King Connor were saved by the timely intervention of a dragon. Among the fanciful mythology was much real history, long thought lost in the mists of time.

  The letters were faded to a reddish-brown, but the carefully detailed illustrations were still bright, touched with bits of gold leaf and precious lapis.

  “Oh,” Caroline sighed. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Sir Grant.”

  He laughed. “Lady Caroline, I have never seen a woman so happy, even when she has just been given diamonds.”

  “This is far better than any diamond.”

  “I agree. Most people wouldn’t think so, though. They would say it is only an old book, an Irish one at that.”

  “Then they are great fools.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps we are the fools, giving so much for a bit of leather and paper.” He drew out the chair behind the desk. “Here, sit. Take a closer look at it.”

  Caroline was most happy to oblige. She laid the book reverently on the smooth wood, reading more of the dragon battle as Grant sat down beside her. “But it is so much more than bits of paper, isn’t it? It’s history and life. When I think of the man who wrote these words, hundreds of years ago, I feel connected to him and to what happened here so long ago. Connected to anyone who ever read this story and was moved by it. It shows we are part of something bigger than ourselves and this present moment.”

  “Yes, I know. Perhaps that is why I wanted this book so much. To show myself I am part of this land, just as King Connor and Brother Michael were. That perhaps I have something to contribute to it.”

  Startled, Caroline looked up at him over the pages. “Who are you and what have you done with Grant Dunmore?”

  He laughed and shook his head. When he turned back to her, that shy pride she found so very appealing was gone. The Sir Grant everyone knew—cynical, sophisticated, careless—was back. And she felt the sharp sting of disappointment. Their moment of connection, so brief yet so real, had vanished.

  “Perhaps I am just greedy, like everyone else in Dublin,” he said. “Perhaps I just like to possess things.”

  “I wouldn’t mind possessing this,” Caroline murmured. She gently touched the gilt edge of the pages before carefully closing the Chronicle and handing it back to him.

  His hand closed around hers, his touch cool and strong. Caroline found she wanted to twine her fingers with his, to feel his touch grow tighter and warmer. Despite his changeable nature, all his secrets—or perhaps because of them—she was so intrigued by him.

  “Maybe soon we will be family, and then you can read the Chronicle, or any of my books, whenever you like,” he said.

  At the reminder that he was practically her sister’s fiancé, icy water was doused on Caroline’s intrigue. She dropped his hand. “That is very kind of you. Thank you for letting me see the Chronicle. It’s beautiful.”

  Grant took the volume and placed it back in its case. As Caroline watched in sadness, he locked it up and pocketed the key. “I would show it to your sister if I thought it would impress her.”

  Caroline laughed. “Anna reads poetry and novels, but she is not much interested in history or mythology. She makes fun of my studies.”

  “Oh?” He leaned back on the edge of the case, all lazy grace again. “What do you think would impress her?”

  “Sir Grant, you are one of the most sought-after gentlemen in Dublin,” she said bluntly, suddenly impatient with his game playing. She was also angry at herself for being drawn to his scholarly pride, for what she had imagined this collection said about him. “All the ladies are in love with you. Surely she is impressed already.”

  He arched his brow, which made him look like a quizzical young Celtic warrior from the Chronicle itself. “All the ladies?”

  “Well, at least half of them.”

  “But not the so-very-hard-to-impress Blacknall sisters?”

  Obviously one of the Blacknall sisters was not so hard to impress. Caroline was drawn in by the mere sight of a rare book. “If she did not like you, she would say so. Anna is very honest.” Usually. Though Anna, too, had seemed quiet and secretive lately. Everyone was infected by the uncertainty of the times.

  “Then I am glad to hear I may have a chance after all.”

  “I could put in a good word for you,” Caroline teased. “I can easily be bribed with old manuscripts.”

  “I will remember that for the future,” he said with a laugh.

  She longed to ask him what his true feelings were for her sister. Did he care for Anna, not just for her dowry and connections and beauty? Did he even know her at all? Would he be a good husband to her, or would they lead their own separate lives, as so many fashionable couples did?

  Her sister deserved a good match, a man who knew and appreciated her. And Caroline was sure any man with a library like this deserved the same.

  “You should go back to your guests,” she said. “You are the host, and I have monopolized your time long enough.”

  “Of course I should return, Lady Caroline, though I can’t remember when I have so enjoyed being—monopolized. Shall I escort you back to the drawing room?”

  “No, thank you. Luckily for me, I have no pressing social duties at the moment. I’ll just sit here with the books a bit longer.”

  “Lucky indeed. Please stay as long as you like.” He left the room, shutting the door behind him, and Caroline lowered her head to the desk.

  She wished she could just stay with books all the time. With careful study, any conundrum could be solved within their pages. People she could never decipher, no matter how long she puzzled over them.

  Once she could dismiss Grant Dunmore as a very handsome, very sophisticated, idle man of Society. Now she had no idea what he was. But idle he was not.

  After several long, quiet moments she finally felt calm again. Grant Dunmore was Anna’s problem, but the Blacknalls were a close family. They shared each other’s problems, which meant Caroline would keep a close watch on Grant in the future.

  She straightened her skirts, which always seemed to be rumpled, and her hair, which always seemed to escape its pins. She would never be the elegant beauties her mother and sisters were. Then she left the library, closing the door on all its wondrous treasures.

  As she made her way down the corridor toward the drawing room, she thought she heard voices. Low, urgent murmurs from the shadows. She certainly did not want to interrupt some tryst by bumping into the secretive couple. She would just slip quietly into the drawing room.

  But she was brought up short by a quick glimpse of the people who hid behind one of the marble pillars. Grant Dunmore’s beautiful bronze-brown hair glowed, quite unmistakable. His head was bent toward a woman as he whispered intimately in her ear, and his hand splayed across her back to draw her closer.

  The woman was not Anna, but Lady Cannondale in her distinctive green gown. She tilted her head back as she listened to him, a knowing smile on her lips. As Caroline watched, flabbergasted, La
dy Cannondale touched his cheek. Her gloved hand slid slowly down his throat to toy with his cravat. It was a familiar, casual caress.

  Caroline bit her lip hard to keep from shouting in protest. She might be buried in her books most of the time, but she was not a complete fool about how the world worked. This was certainly no chance meeting between these two, Anna’s almost-fiancé and her friend. The way they touched showed they were very intimate indeed.

  The bastard, Caroline thought bitterly as she tiptoed away. They were so occupied with each other that they did not even notice anyone else was there. And with Anna in the very next room!

  She wanted to scream at them and to beat Grant Dunmore over the head with one of his own books. Such a villain did not deserve a treasure like the Chronicle of Kildare, and he certainly did not deserve her sister. Yet such impulsive action would only draw attention and cause embarrassment to her sister. Anna had suffered enough pain in her life already.

  The best thing, the only thing, Caroline could do was make sure her sister never married Grant Dunmore. Which meant the Chronicle of Kildare, glimpsed for one sweet moment, was lost to her.

  She didn’t even want to think of the sharp twinge of disappointment that she felt over the man himself. For a few moments there in the library, she thought she glimpsed his true self, a sensitive scholar and collector, he never showed to anyone. But it had all been playacting.

  Everything in their lives was always playacting. Only the world found in books was real. She couldn’t forget that again.

  She stepped into the drawing room and forced a smile onto her lips. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see something was amiss. Anna, who played a game of piquet with Lord Melton, called out, “Caro, there you are! Hiding in the library again?”

  “Yes,” Caroline answered. “It was rather dull though, no interesting volumes at all.”

  “I’m not surprised, considering the library belongs to Sir Grant,” said Melton, Anna’s partner. He sounded a bit unsteady, as if he had consumed too much wine. “I doubt he reads anything but the racing papers.”