Sinful in Satin

by Madeline Hunter

  Celia checked the drawer in the small writing table. The contents were not notable in themselves, but their arrangement had made her pause yesterday, when she and Mr. Mappleton had done a quick search for those accounts.

  Alessandra was not one to stack letters and papers like this. The spaces and trunks not cared for by her lady’s maid were usually a tossed miscellany.

  She stuffed the letters in her reticule, then went to the dressing room and opened the wardrobes. Alessandra’s magnificent garments, all from the best modistes, shone like so many large flowers in the afternoon light. They, like everything else of value, would be sold now.

  The dressing table also displayed uncharacteristic neatness, but then, Mama had not used it in several weeks. Its few drawers were neat as well, which was less expected. Celia examined the jewels within, and wondered if any of them had been gifts from her unknown father. None of their boxes gave her a clue.

  The apartment offered no help with learning his identity that she could see. She ventured up to the attic, and found the storage rooms there. To her disappointment, they contained very little besides old furniture. One trunk held nothing but garments at least twenty years out of style. She had hoped, even assumed, that her mother’s history would be evidenced in this house, documented by papers or objects.

  She descended to the library and sat down at the elegant, inlaid secretaire.

  She opened drawers to find little of interest besides a collection of old fashion plates, but again she noted the neat organization.

  Had her mother done this, to get her affairs in order? Perhaps she did not want her solicitor to see disarray when he came to do his inventory after her death. It was one explanation, and the most likely one. It would have had to have been before Celia came home, and implied her mother knew the end was near.

  However, Celia still could not shake the sense that someone besides Mr. Mappleton and herself had been in this house since her mother’s death, and also examined the contents of her mother’s private property.

  Maybe it had been her father. If he did not want his identity known, he may have come, or sent someone else, to make sure no evidence of him would be found in this house. It saddened her that he might have gone to such efforts to thwart her attempts to learn the truth. He probably thought she would demand money or use his name badly if she knew him. The truth was she desired only to fill a void that she had carried in her soul all her life.

  She continued searching the secretaire’s drawers and nooks. When she poked deeply into one of the cubbyholes, her fingertips touched something. She extracted a folded paper with her name on it.

  Curious, she opened it.

  My dear Celia,

  If you have found this, no doubt you are searching for money or jewels or, perhaps, evidence of his name. I can save you considerable time. You will find nothing here of value, and learning your father’s identity will bring you no good.

  Maintaining myself in the necessary style quite depleted the gifts I received over the years. As I have often said to you, your real legacy is in your education, not coin. You are more lovely than I, and more amiable, and you sing like an angel. You have already proven that you can fend for yourself. How you choose to fend in the future is your decision alone. I do not worry about you, and that is a great consolation to me.

  Please know that except for one ill-advised affair of the heart, you were the only person I ever loved. It is my hope that you come home before this illness takes me, but if you did not, I understand.

  Mama

  She gazed at the letter. While she traced the elegant penmanship with her fingers, the grief that had eluded her for days finally shattered her heart. Her eyes burned with tears.

  She had come home, briefly, finally. How terrible it would have been to read this letter if she had not.

  She bent low over her palms and the letter itself, and cried out her good-bye.

  “You must admit that my plan is agood one, Daphne.

  It will permit the business to grow with less burden to you,” Celia said two days later.

  Daphne pondered the offer that had just been made. Distraction claimed her gray eyes, but her delicate, flawless face remained serene below her simply dressed pale hair.

  “The sense of your plan does not elude me. I had never thought to have a partner in The Rarest Blooms; that is all. I also thought I was bringing you here to stay for several days only, while you decided what to do with this property. However, now it sounds as if you intend to take permanent residence.”

  They stood in a back chamber of Alessandra’s house on Wells Street. Sunlight poured in its southern exposure, emphasizing the translucence of Daphne’s pale skin. Even on overcast days, this sitting room would be bright. And, as Daphne had noted that first day and Celia had clearly seen for herself, the windows and exposure made this chamber perfect for plants.

  In the last year Daphne’s trade, The Rarest Blooms, had prospered. Now some of the best houses in Mayfair contracted with Daphne to provide plants and flowers from her gardens and greenhouses near Cumberworth on a regular basis.

  Transporting all that vegetation had become a hard chore, however. If there were an outpost of the business here in London, where the wagons could deposit blooms and greenery, the orders could be dispersed with less trouble.

  “This chamber would be warm enough to hold plants for a few days, even in winter. Cut flowers could reside in the cool larder and basement in summer,” Celia said.

  “I agree that this property will meet our needs. If I hesitate, it is because I do not want you to assume the risk of a partnership,” Daphne said. “We could do the same thing without that.”

  “I would prefer if you accepted the money I saved from my allowance while my mother was alive, and made me a partner. Even if I only have a small percentage, it will give me an income, which is what I need if I am going to live here. You will have the use of this house and I will see to the actual delivery of the plants.”

  Daphne lowered herself into one of the cane chairs. Normally she remained a carefully composed and beautiful portrait, but now her brow puckered and her eyes clouded.

  “It is not your proposal that I resist, Celia. My mind knows it is a good one. My heart, however—” She gazed up sadly. “You are determined to leave us for good, then?”

  Celia stepped around the chair, bent, and embraced Daphne’s shoulders from behind. She laid her cheek against her dear friend’s cool face. “I have been dependent on you too long. One year turned to three, and three to five. I will forever be grateful for the home that you provided, but it is time for me to make my own way.”

  “You are really doing this because of the gossip. I do not care what anyone says and I will not allow you to—”

  “You cannot change the world, Daphne. Your business will continue being harmed as long as I am known to live and work with you. Our partnership will be a quiet one, and preserve both your trade and the reputation of your household, while it provides me with a living.”

  Daphne did not answer, and Celia knew her friend still fretted. Daphne did not like accommodating injustice.

  “I am three and twenty, Daphne. I have this house now, and should return to the world anyway. I would have done this even if my name had never been linked to Alessandra’s in the death notices. We will remain close in every other way, however.”

  “If The Rarest Blooms should fail, you might lose this house.”

  “We will not fail. We will flourish.”

  Daphne rested her hand upon Celia’s embracing arm. Celia could not see her friend’s face regain its composure, but she felt it within her embrace.

  “It would be much easier to have one place to bring all the plants for dispersal,” Daphne said.

  Celia skipped around the chair, took Daphne’s hands, and pulled her up. “You will not regret this. Neither of us will. You can take my investment and build another hot-house and we can sell fruit we grow in it out of season for ridiculous prices. We ca
n bring in the wagon when there are extra blooms and sell to the girls at Covent Garden. We can—”

  Daphne patted Celia’s cheek. “First Audrianna left, then Verity, now you. I fear being all alone, Celia, and it was that which argued against your fine plan.”

  “We will see each other so often it will be as if I never left, and you still have Katherine and Mrs. Hill there.”

  “I suppose you are correct.” Daphne picked up her reticule. “I should go home to them now. I will write to my solicitor about this partnership and have it done as quickly as the settlement of your mother’s estate permits.”

  Celia walked with her to the front door of the house. Daphne paused there. “I accept your reasons for living here, but I do not like your being alone, Celia. I wish I had brought my pistol and could leave it with you.”

  “I will not be alone for long, and I will be safe for the short while that I am.” She felt a little guilty not telling Daphne about Mr. Albrighton. The revelation would lead only to more questions than could be answered, however.

  Daphne departed with a kiss. Celia watched her step up into the gig.

  Celia suspected that soon it would probably not be only Katherine and Mrs. Hill at the country property where The Rarest Blooms was housed. Daphne had a habit of finding and taking in stray women of ambiguous respectability and histories.

  No doubt she would find more of them, although Celia sometimes thought it would be better if Daphne did not. At seven and twenty, it might be time for Daphne to step out of that sanctuary herself.

  “Are you sure thatyou wanttheshelf like this,Miss Pennifold? It will be odd.”

  Thomas, a lad of fifteen, held the board for the second shelf, frowning at how the stepped levels in this structure would face the windows and not the chamber’s space. This despite Celia explaining its purpose and showing him the drawing.

  “Just like that, Thomas. That way the warmth and light from the higher plants will not shadow the lower ones.”

  He shrugged, and nailed the plank into place.

  In the last few days Celia had made herself familiar to the shops in the neighborhood through her patronage, and had let it be known she had a bit of work for a boy who knew carpentry. Thomas’s father, who owned a draper’s shop, had been glad to lend him for the work.

  Celia noted how Thomas used more nails for the plank than she had planned. She had bought sparingly and would have to get more. While she calculated how many, subtle noises up above told her that Mr. Albrighton was moving about.

  He had insisted she would barely be aware of his existence. She was discovering, however, that his presence in this house could not be ignored. She might not see him often, but he was very much here.

  She knew, for example, that he was above most of the time during the days. She would hear his footfalls making impressions in the floorboards. They served as little reminders that she did not enjoy either complete privacy or total isolation.

  When she did see him, the experience contained a degree of intimacy that could not be avoided. They cohabited in the same house, after all. Their spirits shared this space even if their bodies rarely occupied the same chamber. And he had touched her twice now. That was like spilling oil that could never be mopped up completely again.

  Every morning he came down to fetch his own water around ten o’clock. She had taken to listening for his steps on the stairs. After the first day he was never again in such dishabille, but he was never entirely dressed yet either. No cravat, of course, since he had not yet shaved. No waistcoat either. He would don a frock coat, however, so that he appeared only halfway disrespectable.

  There was much of the bedchamber in the way he appeared at ten o’clock. Hair long and unbound, mussed and free, neck exposed, and new beard shadowing his jaws—even his very polite greetings unsettled her because he looked like that. His appearance reminded her that he had been close nearby while she had lain in her bed, both comforted by the safety his presence brought and dismayed by her awareness of him.

  The steps sounded a bit louder. He would be making his little journey to the garden well very soon. He did not appear to mind the inconveniences of being a tenant here. Her hope that he would, and would leave as a result, was not bearing any fruit.

  “I need more nails, Thomas. I misjudged how many you will use. Here is some money. Please go and buy twenty more from Mr. Smith.”

  Thomas set down his hammer. He held out his young, calloused hand for the money, then walked out of the chamber with the loose, gangling stride of a colt.

  No sooner had he gone than the boots came down the stairs. Celia directed her mind to what color to paint the shelves. Green? White? She forced her thoughts away from how her blood thrummed with each footfall.

  She had come to look forward to Mr. Albrighton’s rare visibility, she realized to her chagrin. She wanted him gone but also did not. She did not mind nearly enough that he foiled her little plots to encourage his removal. She enjoyed their brief conversations and how sensual and dangerous he looked before dressing for town.

  She laughed at herself. This silly anticipation was the sign of a woman too much alone. She would have to see to hiring a housekeeper soon, if only so she did not grow dependent on such insignificant congress as this.

  “You are building something, I see.” He stood at the threshold, gazing at the two lower shelves. He walked over and lifted the hammer. “Are you doing it yourself?”

  “I hired a boy. I just sent him for more nails. Did the hammering wake you?” She had let Thomas start at dawn, specifically to discomfort Mr. Albrighton.

  “No. I rise early.”

  “And do what?”

  “If you are curious, you are welcome to come up and see. I do not think you have set foot on that level since your first morning here.”

  The memory of that morning flashed in her head, and she felt her face warming. She had not forgotten how badly she had acquitted herself then, or how mesmerized she had been.

  “I have been too busy.” She gestured toward the shelves.

  “Ah. I thought perhaps I had frightened you.”

  “Why would I be afraid of you?”

  He shrugged. “Some women are.”

  Maybe they were afraid because of the way he was looking at one woman right now. Her blood raced faster from how his warm eyes gazed into hers.

  She should not allow him to fluster her. That was his intention. It amused him to tease her about that day. “Perhaps they are afraid because of your hair. It is so unfashionable as to speak of a reckless streak in you.”

  “Do you want me to cut it? I would not want you thinking me reckless.”

  “Of course you would. But do not cut it on my account. How a tenant’s hair is dressed does not signify in my busy life. I daresay even if you did cut it, I wouldn’t notice.”

  “You wound me, Miss Pennifold. Here I was dreaming that you waited to greet me every morning.”

  She felt her face warming again. He left her vexed that he had guessed that, and carried his bucket out the garden door.

  He was correct. She had been avoiding the attic level of the house because he was there. What a conceited man to assume that, however. She would make it a point to go there soon, now that she had settled in. She needed to see what of her mother’s property might be up there, in those chambers used for reasons besides housing Mr. Albrighton.

  She watched him walk to the back of the garden and around a shrubbery, to where the necessary could be found. Then she spied his dark hair at the well. Bucket in hand, walking with a gait so smooth and fluid that the water did not slosh, he came back up the garden path, lost in his thoughts, ignorant of her scrutiny.

  He was a handsome man; that was certain. Dangerous still, somehow, in the intangible depths he seemed to possess. The intimacy of an old friend waited in his warm eyes and playful teasing, however. It beckoned so effectively that she had to remind herself he was really a stranger.

  Nor did it go both ways. For all their war
mth and familiar lights, those eyes revealed nothing of the mind behind them.

  Well, not nothing. The male thoughts were visible. She had seen the low burn of desire just now, set aside but still there. Not only her blood raced when their gazes connected.

  He was good at hiding those lights. She always saw them, however, flickering through him and into the air at her. She saw them and felt them. She knew about male desire in all its forms and manifestations, and could sense it the way some people could smell rain on its way.

  She had been taught by an expert to know it, feel it, and use it to her own benefit, after all.

  Thirty minutes after Mr. Albrighton had gone above, a commotion poured into the house from the street. Shouting and whistles broke the day’s peace.

  Celia strode to the front sitting room and looked out. Thomas stood in the street, face red and body tense, surrounded by other lads. It was not clear if he wanted to fight or cry.

  “In service to her, ya say,” one of his tormenters taunted. “Or was that servicing her?” He roared at his own joke and his friends joined in.

  “You’ve caught a fine one there, Tom boy,” another teased. “Her mother was the expensive sort, we hear. Fancy carriages and such. I don’t think you’ve got it in ya yet to appreciate such as her. You might need some help there.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned lewdly.

  They continued taunting Tom, not letting him out of the circle. It was just boys being what they were, but Celia’s heart sank and thickened.

  Someone in this neighborhood had realized who she was. Word had spread. Now everyone knew the daughter of the famed Alessandra Northrope lived among them. Everything would change now.

  She closed her eyes and tried to conquer the desolation that hollowed her out. She had known for years that she was vulnerable to cruel judgments merely by her birth. She had never before actually experienced it, though. Certainly not while she lived with Daphne.