Sinful in Satin

by Madeline Hunter

  “I am no longer one to you, and you know it.”

  “Would that you were, perhaps.” Even anger could not harden the sweetness of her face, but a good deal of it was in her; that was clear. “I thought you were visiting London for a spell, before going elsewhere. I thought that you were here between missions or investigations. I think now that I was stupid to assume that.”

  He could admit it, or he could lie. Or he could say nothing. The last option was his common choice when pointed questions were asked about his activities. He made it again now.

  Fury flared in her eyes. “Will you insult me by refusing to speak of it? Will you ignore my questions as if I am a whore you dallied with and expect to be gone once the coin is paid?”

  “I have not insulted you. You have asked no questions. You are angry but I do not know why.” Except he did. The sense of pending loss inside him said he did. It astonished him, how hollow that truth felt, and how it wanted to grow until it emptied him out.

  “Don’t you?” She stepped close to him and looked up at his face. She peered at him so hard one would think she had never seen him this closely before. “I learned from Audrianna that there were whispers about my mother years ago. About her and a French lover, and about her loyalty. Do you know of this?”

  “Yes. They are rumors only. Nothing more.”

  “Rumors are enough in this world.” She searched his eyes, as if she had to work hard to see anything at all. “Jonathan, are you here because of a mission? Are you investigating my mother? Or me?”

  “Not you. Not even her, in truth. Not investigating. That is the wrong word.”

  “What is the correct word?”

  “I was asked to see if she had left a record of her liaisons. The goal was not to harm anyone, but to protect the innocent.”

  Her expression fell. She turned her head away, dismayed. “It is true, then. Oh, dear God.” She paced to the window and looked out at the night garden below. “Audrianna’s mother-in-law told her about these suspicions. They made no sense to me, but if you also—”

  “There is no proof of it. No reason to think it was true.”

  “And yet you are here.”

  “I was only asked to ensure no man was tainted by association to such rumors.”

  She nodded, but he wondered if she had even truly heard him. She seemed to calm, however. He was not sure that was a good thing.

  “It was not about you, Celia,” he tried. “It was to be a minor mission, to avoid embarrassment for men who were discreet and who counted on discretion in turn. She gave such discretion while she was alive. I was to ensure it continued now.”

  “Of course it was about me.” She glanced over her shoulder at him as her anger bit the air. “You are here, aren’t you? You were in this house that night, and you stayed so you could do what you were sent to do, and deceived me in order to accomplish your goal. You have what you wanted, those names of her patrons over the years. I daresay that you have made a list from the drawings.” She looked away. “Since your mission is finished, I expect that you can leave now.”

  She stilled then, with her back to him and her face to the window. She became a statue of stone.

  “If you wish it, I will go.” They were hard words to say. He almost choked on them. He wanted to argue with her instead, but knew it would be hopeless to do so.

  She did not even respond.

  He donned his coats again, and took a few personal items from the table. He would get the rest later.

  “Did she really give you this chamber, Jonathan? I never saw that document.”

  “She did, but there is no document.”

  She finally turned and looked at him. He waited, standing near the door, hoping she would say something else, but knowing if she did, it would not be what he really wanted to hear.

  “What happened five years ago?” she asked. “You had a particular interest in the drawings from then, and in the men they identified.”

  He saw himself finishing with that folio that afternoon in the library. He had been careless, and left the most interesting crests all together. Celia had noticed, when most people never would.

  “It is a personal matter,” he said. “A private interest, related to one of my last missions during the war.”

  “Yet you thought those crests might help you in this personal matter,” she said. “That means you think the whispers about my mother might be true.”

  She gazed at him long and hard. She no longer appeared angry. The chamber lost its cold, brittle atmosphere.

  “That is something, at least,” she said. “This personal, private part. It makes more sense to me, and less a calculated betrayal somehow, despite the implications for the conclusions you are drawing about the rumors.”

  He opened the door. Her expression turned sad, but she said nothing. He walked over to her and his heart thickened with every step.

  He took her face in his hands and looked at her in the moonlight. He memorized the feel of her skin beneath his palms, and the way she illuminated this space all by herself.

  “I am sorry that I disappointed you, darling.” He kissed her, and let the brief contact brand his soul. Then he walked away, knowing that she would not speak again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You look likehell, Albrighton. Wakeup, andmy man will get you cleaned and shaved.”

  Jonathan opened his eyes at the command that intruded on a very restless sleep. Castleford loomed above him. The duke was dressed for the day and appeared far different from how he had looked the last time Jonathan had seen him.

  Clearing his head a bit, Jonathan noticed that he was sprawled on a sofa in the duke’s dressing room. Memories of the previous night rushed into his head.

  After leaving Celia, he had retraced his steps to this house, and been brought back to these chambers by the servant. Castleford had taken one look at him and guessed that he had not returned to join the debauch still under way. To Jonathan’s surprise, Castleford had summarily ordered the woman in his bed to depart, had thrown on a robe, and had brought his new guest to this dressing room for a long conversation punctuated by too many silences and many glasses of spirits.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. And froze. “What the hell—” He groped around his head, trying to make sense of what he did and did not feel.

  “I had my man cut it while you slept,” Castleford said. “It looks much better now. He did a fine job of it.”

  Jonathan glared at him. “You go too far.”

  “I can’t be seen around town with a man whose hair is so unfashionable. You will thank me once you see it. The women will be swarming you now.”

  Jonathan gave the short locks one final touch. His ire thinned, diluted by the hazy aftermath of all that drink.

  “What time is it?” he asked, peering at a window.

  “Nine o’clock thereabouts.”

  Jonathan groaned. The decanter on a nearby table caught his eye. They had finished that off only two hours ago at best. “You have not slept at all, have you?”

  “It is, regrettably, Tuesday, so I have not. And if I do not, neither do you. Bad enough you interfered last night, showing up with a funereal countenance the way you did.”

  “I expected you to be finished with her by then.”

  “I try never to finish so quickly. Now, up with you. I’ll not have another man lolling about in my chambers when I can’t.”

  “It is rude of you to just throw me out, and even ruder to have cut my hair while I was unaware. I thought dukes had better manners.” He sat up, amazed at how full of wool his head felt. And how, with consciousness, that sick hollow in his gut returned.

  Castleford gazed down, then sat and studied him. It occurred to Jonathan that he should either resent or fear that scrutiny, but he was too dead to care.

  “You left here last night your normal, inscrutable, dodgy self, and returned so distracted I could have stolen your purse while you stood there. What happened in the interim? Did you
find out that you really are only a middling sort of bastard, and not that of an earl, the way your mother led you to believe?”

  The question sobered him faster than a bucket of cold water or a punch to the face. He stared at Castleford, thinking about punches to the face in a less metaphorical context.

  “Ah. So it wasn’t that. And here I was going to banish your gloom by reassuring you the resemblance is notable.” Castleford suddenly looked bored. “It must have been a woman. Threw you over, did she? Probably because you are, I regret to say, no fun.” He stood. “I must attend to my duties now. As for throwing you out—there are at least thirty empty chambers here. If you lost your bed as well as your woman, you can stay in one of them.”

  “That is very generous.”

  “Yes, it is. It is the epitome of the sort of thing a kind, magnanimous duke would do. Be glad it is Tuesday.”

  “You should know that I probably will not be any more fun if I stay here. I will not be going to hell with you.”

  Castleford smiled, like a parent might with an innocent child. “Of course you will, Albrighton. Eventually. We both sold our souls long ago.”

  A gentle jostle jolted Celia awake. Light blinded her eyes when she opened them. Then she saw the window was not the one in her chamber.

  She looked at the angled ceiling and stacked table. A thick misery instantly lodged low in her stomach. She must have cried herself to sleep.

  She had been unable to say the words to stop Jonathan leaving, but the worst sorrow had immobilized her after he did. It had tortured her to remain in this chamber that was so full of his life and his spirit, but she had been incapable of walking out. And so she had given in to her emotions here, her face buried in the pillow that carried his scent.

  She had not thought it possible to feel so horrible. Even after Anthony disappointed her as a girl, even when that truth had been thrown in her face, she had not been this desolate.

  Marian stood beside the bed, her eyes full of concern. Celia sat up and wiped her face of crusty, dried tears. She saw through the open door that the chamber across the passageway was open too. Soft sounds came from it, as though an animal poked around in there.

  “This door was ajar,” Marian explained. “I did not expect to find you here when I brought water to Mr. Albrighton this morning.”

  “He is gone, Marian. There will be no need to bring water tomorrow.”

  Marian sat down beside her and embraced her shoulders with a motherly arm. “I wish I had something to say to make you feel better. The truth is that men are pigs by nature, and not known for constancy, and this one was no worse or better than others on that, I expect.”

  She rested her head on Marian’s shoulder. “Insult men all you want today, my friend. Just do not tell me I was a fool. I feel enough of one already.”

  That was not really true. She did not feel too much like a fool this morning. Not the way she had last night while she waited to hear Jonathan’s steps on the back stairs. Now she only felt tired, spent, and numb, and full of a special kind of grief.

  She guessed this was true heartbreak, this terrible feeling echoing in her emptiness like a raw hunger, making her want to weep again.

  It appeared that she had built more romantic illusions than she had thought around Jonathan. Despite her resolve to the contrary, she had let him touch more than her body. She had not used Mama’s lessons in the most important way. She had not remained in control of their passion and what it meant to her.

  She gazed at his belongings. They would be removed soon. She would return from visiting a friend one day, and this chamber would be as empty as she felt right now, and he would be completely gone from her life.

  She had known it would be brief with him. Just not this brief. Nor had she expected betrayal to taint what had been. Now she could not even indulge in memories, without wondering what he had been thinking the whole time, and wondering if every single moment had been affected by lies.

  The sounds from across the hall got louder. She looked in their direction.

  “Bella is cleaning in there,” Marian said. “I told her to move everything to the walls, and give the floor a good scrubbing. Come warmer weather we will air it out and—”

  A loud thud interrupted her, followed by Bella’s exclamation.

  “Did you hurt yourself, Bella?” Marian called. “I told you not to try and move the furniture without my help.”

  “I am not hurt,” Bella said while she emerged from the chamber. “I lifted one end of that big rug, to move it, and this fell out. It was tucked inside the roll a good ways.” She entered the chamber, carrying a flat wooden box.

  Celia took it from her. She placed it on the bed and moved the simple latch to open it.

  Inside were brushes, pens, and vials of colored pigments. “It is my mother’s paint box. Look, this little mortar and pestle is for grinding the pigment more finely. These tiny bowls must be what she used to mix the paint.”

  “I saw one of those in a shop window once,” Bella said. “It even had a little drawer for paper.” She knelt down and peered at the back of the box. “Here, like this.” She caught an edge of the back wood and pulled open a shallow drawer.

  It did hold paper, several sheets of different textures, all of them heavier than one might write on. Bella took them out, fascinated. In doing so she revealed what lay beneath them.

  Celia lifted out a thin, hardboard journal, such as sold in stationers’ stores. She opened it to see rows and rows of numbers in her mother’s neat hand.

  “Fowl, flour, salt,” Marian read over her shoulder. Marian was not truly literate, but every woman knew these words. “It is a household account book, looks like.”

  Celia scanned the pages quickly. It was not only an account book of what was bought. It also included income. She raised her eyebrows at some of the figures. Alessandra’s entertainment had not come cheaply to the men she favored.

  A pattern caught her eye. A regular expenditure, with her name by it. That must have been the money sent to the country, to keep Celia with the two spinsters who raised her. Each debit came right after a credit, however. A similar amount had come in right before it went out.

  Another name was always with those entries too, unlike the other payments Alessandra had received. It was a name that she recognized. It belonged with one of the colored crests. That of the Marquess of Enderby.

  She flipped the pages, month by month and year by year, and saw the money coming in and going out. It could not be a coincidence. This must be money from her father, and not in return for favors. He had been paying for a daughter’s support while she was a child.

  Her mind raced with her excitement at the discovery. She would have to tell Jonathan when he—

  Her joy disappeared as quickly as it had come. Last night’s sorrow settled on her again. There would be no telling Jonathan now. She certainly was not going to show him this journal either, and allow him to pick through this more detailed accounting of her mother’s life.

  Bella was admiring all the items in the paint box, lifting each vial of dry pigment and holding it to the light of the window.

  “You be putting those back now,” Marian scolded.

  “Let her play with them,” Celia said. She closed the cover of the box. “Take it below, Bella. You can use the brushes and pigment if you want. I will take this book, however, and decide what to do with it.”

  Dear Mr. Albrighton,

  I am told by friends that you now reside with the Duke of Castleford, and I trust this letter will find you there. I am sure that you have every comfort in His Grace’s fine home and I am happy to know that you must be content.

  I want to inform you that there is no need for you to do the favor which I requested of you. I have found the evidence that I seek in my mother’s account book, which was recently discovered. It includes regular payments to her, for my support, from one of the men I had already identified as likely to be my father.

  Do not be dishearte
ned by your failure to find the account book before me, or think that it speaks poorly of the special skills that you were sent to employ in this house. It was well hidden, and it contains nothing that you do not already know from other investigations that you pursued the last few weeks.

  It appears my little quest will be completed soon. I wish you well in finishing yours. In the meantime, do you not want your personal property? If you fear interfering with my day, or having an unexpected meeting, be advised that I will be leaving town, and will not be at home for some days.

  Miss Pennifold

  Jonathan folded the letter and held it to his nose. She had not scented it, yet the lavender water she often wore lingered subtly.

  He had to smile at the letter’s directness, and at the way she could not resist pointing out that he had failed to find the evidence he sought when it had been in the house all the time. You betrayed me and did not even make a good job of it.

  The rest of the letter was less amusing. Especially the part about regular payments. Celia might assume those were for her support, but there were other explanations too.

  Removing himself from Celia’s presence had given new life to his own little quests, as she put it. He had been analyzing what he had learned about Alessandra the last weeks. He was still of two minds about whether the whispers had been true, but if she had been receiving regular payments from someone, especially from an old lover who no longer had a liaison, it was not a certainty those payments were to support a love child. A man could have been buying Alessandra’s silence about indiscretions, or even be the agent for whom she had worked.

  The various possibilities occupied him while he rode to the park. Edward had written to the mail drop, demanding a meeting. The impatient tone of the summons indicated someone somewhere was getting annoyed that Jonathan’s mission was not being fulfilled quickly enough.