Sinful in Satin

by Madeline Hunter

  Not even while she lived with Mama, now that she thought about it. She had known it was happening while they rode the carriage through the park back then, but she had not actually seen it. However, Mama had warned that she would someday witness the scorn firsthand. Celia just had not anticipated how the reality would make her breathless from dismay.

  Had Alessandra used a different name when she visited the shops here? Maybe she had never walked among these people at all, but only stayed in this house.

  The ruffians began pushing Tom this way and that, toying with him, daring him to swing the fist that would result in a sound beating. She wished she could spare Tom this, and regretted hiring him. He was no match for these other boys, and could only try to break away to no avail.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye she saw another person approach. Not a neighbor, but a tall man dressed in gentleman’s clothes, and boots that strode with purpose. Mr. Albrighton advanced on the little group like a man taking a brisk turn on these lanes.

  He paused as he passed the clutch of boys. Their noise arrested his attention. At just that moment the boldest of the group broke away and walked with a cocky jaunt toward Celia’s door. His friends lost interest in Tom and cheered him on.

  An arm suddenly appeared like an iron bar, blocking the boy’s path.

  “Where are you going, young man?”

  “I’ve business there, so be moving your arm if you don’t want it broke.”

  “You have no business with this house if it is not your home. Walk away now.”

  “You walk away. We don’t like strangers here. You’re looking for trouble, and over a whore at that.”

  Mr. Albrighton’s arm lowered. Sneering with triumph, the boy took another step. A hand came to rest on his shoulder, stopping him.

  Celia could not see exactly what that hand did. It appeared only to lie there. Yet the boy’s eyes grew large and his knees buckled. His face contorted with pain.

  In the next moment the boy spun across the street toward his friends, like a rag doll cast aside by a child. His friends caught him and he found his balance. Face white and teeth bared, he glared at the man who had bested him without even raising two hands.

  “Damned whore,” he snarled. “I’ve money as good as yours or anyone’s and I’ll be—”

  “You will be doing nothing that insults whoever lives in this house. Now walk on, and do not come back here, or I will have to come back as well.”

  The boys shuffled off. Tom darted forward, palmed some nails and coin onto the step in front of the door, and ran away. Mr. Albrighton picked up the money and nails, then knocked on the door.

  Celia swallowed her humiliation as best she could and opened the door. She could see the boys watching from down the street.

  “These were left for you.” Mr. Albrighton’s smile tried to make light of the incident, but she thought she saw some pity in him too. That only embarrassed her more. She held her own smile with difficulty and summoned the illusion of good humor.

  She took the nails and glanced to the boys. “It appears the whole world assumes that I am thoroughly my mother’s daughter.”

  “Your tenant assumes nothing of the kind. And, unlike callow boys, he does not pass quick judgment on the choices a person makes in life, no matter what they end up being.” He removed a calling card from his coat and handed it to her in a way that ensured the boys saw it. “If you have further trouble with them, you must let me know.”

  She fingered the card so it would not be missed by the eyes watching. He bowed and strolled away. The boys left too, and turned down a side lane.

  She looked down at the card. Other than his name, it was blank. Opaque. The card, for all its quality, revealed almost nothing. A bit like the man who had just handed it to her.

  Chapter Five

  The coffeehouse near Gray’s Inn was crowded at twelve o’clock. Solicitors and apprentices with chambers nearby read newspapers and smoked cigars. Cups hitting saucers added musical notes to the hum of conversation.

  Jonathan spied Edward on a divan against the far wall and went to sit with him. Edward’s greeting consisted of raised eyebrows forming an unspoken query.

  “There have been a few unexpected elements added to my mission,” Jonathan said. “The daughter has taken residence in the property on Wells Street. She rarely leaves. It may be some days before I can enter to thoroughly search whatever belongings Alessandra left there.”

  Edward did not know about that attic chamber. No one did. The vagueness regarding where he lived had begun as a caution during the war, and become a habit that permitted privacy. Jonathan preferred to meet people in their worlds, not invite them into his.

  “You have made no progress, in other words,” Edward said.

  “I have looked in most of the attic. There was nothing there of interest.”

  “And the other house?”

  “I went in the night of the funeral, but someone had been there before me. The daughter, for one, and someone else, she thinks. It is impossible to know if she is correct in her suspicions. The dearth of private papers there leads me to think she may be. Or else Alessandra did not leave anything of note in the house. She knew it would be searched by an executor, even if no one else did.”

  Edward sipped the thick liquid in his cup while his brow puckered. “Which do you think it was?”

  Jonathan thought about the worldly woman with whom he had sometimes conversed. Like many, Alessandra had confided sometimes, but not anything that would bear on this mission. “I think that, knowing the end was near, she would either burn or hide whatever might reveal her true self. Even the account book is missing, if she even kept one, according to her daughter.”

  “That daughter has to leave the other property eventually, but of course you can hardly camp in the garden and wait for it. Odd that she has chosen to live there. I would have thought by now she would have concluded that running away like she did as a girl was a mistake. She could probably step into her mother’s place with little effort. She was a very pretty girl. Men were lining up for when her mother would launch her.”

  “You know a lot about her.”

  Edward flushed to his hairline. “Please. Everyone knew about her, including you. Alessandra teased the ton for a year, showing the girl off, entertaining offers, expecting a fortune from the first protector. When she ran off—the daughter, that is—”

  “Her name is Celia.”

  “Yes, Celia, quite right. When she ran off at the last minute, it was quite the on dit in my clubs.” Edward set down his cup. “So she has returned to town, has she? I daresay that will be the on dit soon too. Several who were interested before probably still are, even if she is no longer a girl.”

  “It is a modest house, and it does not look to me that she intends to take up her mother’s profession. From what I have seen, I think she plans to live quietly.” He lied blandly. Actually, Celia had spoken of bringing other women to live with her. She had teased him with insinuations that she would start a brothel. At least he assumed it was just teasing, to encourage him to leave. Perhaps not.

  “Give it a year, and she will probably be in silks at the theater, displaying her wares.”

  “As professions for women go, it is not a bad one if done Alessandra’s way.”

  Edward found that amusing. “I keep forgetting that you don’t have the normal sort of way of seeing things. Not even whores, it appears.”

  “As the son of a powerful man’s mistress, I am hardly going to condemn other mistresses.”

  “Of course. I did not mean to imply ...” Edward flushed again, and decided to drink more coffee.

  “Speaking of powerful men, when will you see the earl?” Edward tried to hide his chagrin, but Jonathan knew the answer as soon as the question was asked.

  “Thornridge has put me off again. He guesses the topic I intend to broach, and does not want to speak of it.”

  “He has never wanted to speak of it. That is nothing new. Y
ou must make it very clear that I am not looking for money.”

  “He will not believe it. We both know why he does not want to admit you are the last earl’s bastard. He suspects this is only the thin edge of the wedge. He does not trust you to let it end there.”

  Jonathan kept his reaction to himself, but frustrated fury boiled in him. Thornridge’s denial was inexcusable, and had never been made out of ignorance. He knew the truth, and had even executed the last earl’s intentions regarding Jonathan’s education. There had even been an allowance that Jonathan had repudiated years ago because its continuance required retreat. Thornridge remained determined to withhold the acknowledgment that would allow even an earl’s bastard an easier path in life.

  Edward had been the only member of the family to offer that acknowledgment, and even Edward’s acceptance was a private matter, presented years ago as the first step in a long game.

  The game had gotten very long indeed now.

  “Perhaps I should not bother about the thin edge of the wedge, Uncle. Maybe I should go after it all with a blunt cleaver.”

  Edward grimaced. “I am sure you want to. I do continue to investigate in your behalf, however. You may suspect I do not, but I do.”

  “I wonder if my own investigations might not be more fruitful. I have become rather expert in such things the last eight years.”

  “It would be better if you did not. If he even begins to suspect that you are looking for witnesses to your father’s intentions, he will destroy you. I will be unable to stop it.”

  “He does not have that power. No man does.”

  “You of all people know that some men do. After all, you have served as their agent on occasion.”

  Again a spike of anger, but it carried a world-weary quality. “For good cause only.” For good cause mostly, not only, unfortunately.

  “There are other men who are not so particular. Do not provoke him. Have patience, and allow me to do it my way.”

  Jonathan stood to leave before today’s reserve of good will was spent. “For now I will leave it to you. It would be good to get the edge of the wedge in place soon, however.”

  He walked out in a dark humor that indicated that, for all his trying, he had not conquered the anger that the situation with the Earl of Thornridge always incited when he dwelled on it very long. A sensible man would have given up the chase long ago, admitted defeat, and found some peace.

  Right outside the door, he almost bumped into a footman in elaborate livery who lounged against the building. The fellow snapped into proper posture upon seeing him.

  “Mr. Jonathan Albrighton?”

  Jonathan nodded. The servant handed over a letter. Jonathan examined the paper and seal and, surprised, tore it open.

  Tuesday. Eight o’clock. Whist.

  Castleford

  Celia woke the next day to heavily overcast skies. She judged that she had slept later than intended. There were many things to do today. She should not have lain abed so long.

  She donned an undressing gown and wrapped herself in her warmest shawl. Mr. Albrighton might have to fetch his own water, but she had to as well. She did not relish a walk through the garden on a day when the wind blew enough to rattle her window’s shutters.

  On opening the door to her bedchamber, she saw that a bucket waited, full enough for a good washing. She tested with her fingers. It had stood there long enough for the worst of the well’s chill to pass.

  There was only one way for this water to have gotten here. She thought the gesture both endearing and surprising. How would Mr. Albrighton know she had not risen from bed yet? She smiled at the notion that perhaps he looked for her in the morning when he came down those stairs, just as she looked for him.

  While she dressed she heard the distant, rhythmic taps of a carpenter at work nearby in the neighborhood. They reminded her that she needed to find someone to replace young Tom. After the teasing yesterday, he would not be back. That was one more errand to add to a list of matters demanding her attention today.

  Hair dressed, and bonnet and pelisse in hand, she descended the front stairs. With each step, that tapping sounded louder. She realized it came from the back of her house.

  She ventured toward her back sitting room. As she approached she heard a woman say, “I still think she should have a joiner in.”

  “She decided nails would do,” Mr. Albrighton replied.

  “If used properly, perhaps they would,” came the sweet, patient, but pointed reply.

  That woman’s voice belonged to Verity. What devil had devised that she should come here without warning, and while Jonathan was in the house?

  Celia entered the chamber. Mr. Albrighton stood there in shirt and waistcoat, hammer in hand. Construction on the shelves had made good progress. Advising him, sitting aside with the drawing of the plan on the lap of her sapphire carriage ensemble, was Celia’s good friend Verity, wife of the Earl of Hawkeswell.

  Verity noticed her. “There you are. I found the garden door open and ventured in to see your new home. Your carpenter said you had gone above for a spell, so I have been helping him while I wait.”

  Celia walked over and gave her an embrace. “I hope that my friend has not interfered too much, Mr. Albrighton. You did not bargain for the sort of aid she sounded to be giving.”

  “It appears that I am barely competent at this task by the lady’s judgment.” Mr. Albrighton set another plank into place with a firmness that suggested Verity had been “helping” him for some time now.

  “I only encouraged you to do better, sir. Any fool can bang two boards together if he has twenty nails to do the job. Since I have seen them forged one by one, neither the smith’s labor nor my friend’s money should be wasted.”

  Jonathan smiled at the scold. Thinly. Celia expected him to inform Verity that he had never hired himself out as a carpenter, but had tried only to do a good deed.

  Instead he swallowed whatever he had been tempted to say. “You are correct, Madam. Your concern about my excessive use of nails is well-taken.”

  “You can perhaps excuse her, since she is a dear friend, Mr. Albrighton. Your critic is Lady Hawkeswell, and countesses tend to become particular about the particulars, so to speak.”

  “My apologies, Madam.” He bowed his greeting. “Of course, as a countess you are accustomed to more expert work than I can muster.”

  “As a countess I would not know the difference between expert and inexpert. If I am particular, it is the result of my youth in a very different world from where I now dwell.”

  He picked up one of the nails. “Another thirty minutes and all should be in order here. Miss Pennifold, if you want to entertain Lady Hawkeswell elsewhere, I will not mind at all.”

  Celia thought that an excellent way to end this prickly conversation. She put on her bonnet and tied it against the wind. “Let us take a turn in the garden, Verity, and escape the hammering.”

  Celia steered Verity deeply into the garden as the tapping began again. Verity kept looking over her shoulder at the house. Her brow puckered each time she did.

  “Come and give me advice on this bed near the shrubbery,” Celia encouraged, dragging her to the garden’s rear.

  “Your carpenter is not very good,” Verity said. “You should have written so I could recommend one. Did you employ him because he is so handsome?”

  “I clear forget what or who recommended him to me. Truly. Now, look here. I think bulbs must already be planted here, don’t you?”

  Verity glanced back at the house again. Another frown marred her snowy brow. She looked at Celia. She looked back at the house. She looked at Celia. Curiously.

  “He was wearing very nice boots. For a carpenter, that is. His shirt and waistcoat too—”

  “I trust you are not going to hold it against a man that he takes pride in his appearance.”

  “I am more concerned with how a carpenter with such poor skills can afford such things. I think we should not leave him in the house a
lone. He may be one of those fellows who presents himself as a tradesman only to gain entrance to houses to steal.”

  “You are being too suspicious. Now, the reason I think this must hold spring bulbs is because the trees above would shade other flowers once they leaf out. I should like to add some new ones come autumn, and need your help to decide just which ones.”

  Verity looked up at the tree line. Then she leveled her gaze on Celia most directly. “I do not think I have been too suspicious. However, it occurs to me that I may have assumed the wrong thing in thinking he was your carpenter.”

  Celia gazed down at the loamy soil. Stories and explanations lined up in her mind, each one more far-fetched than the idea that Mr. Albrighton was a carpenter.

  “Who is that man to you, Celia?”

  Celia heard the smallest note of merriment in Verity’s voice. She looked up to see Verity’s lovely face smooth of all frowns now. Impish lights dancing in her blue eyes.

  “It is not what you think.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  “Verity!”

  Verity laughed, surprised at herself. “What can I say? He is very easy on the eyes, and a handsome man using his hands—even if not well at all in this circumstance—still compels my attention, my love for Hawkeswell notwithstanding.” She glanced back yet again. “Tell. You must, or I will assume what I will on my own.”

  “He is a tenant. That is all. An awkward intrusion and an embarrassing nuisance. I inherited him, much like the furniture, and he will not leave no matter how uncomfortable I take pains to make him.”

  “Perhaps discomfort keeps him here, although perhaps not the kind you intended. It seems to me, now that I think about it, that he became even more compelling as soon as you entered the chamber.”

  So Verity had noticed the exciting energy in that chamber during their brief conversation. Celia had assumed it came from herself, and from the gentle thrill created when she saw Jonathan standing there, his forearms bare beneath his rolled sleeves and the general form of his body emphasized by the waistcoat and snug pantaloons he wore.