Sinful in Satin

by Madeline Hunter

  “I don’t need a damned brief,” Anthony blustered. “I need a damned bailiff to collect a damned debt.”

  The outburst dismayed poor Mr. Watson. He appeared confused at what to do, now that his sensible strategy had turned out so badly.

  “Leave us,” Anthony snarled at him. Mr. Watson was only too glad to obey.

  “The poor man,” Celia observed, once she and Anthony were alone. “He meant well. Did you tell him everything, Anthony? I suppose not. And yet he learned enough to want to spare you embarrassment.”

  Anthony’s jaw twitched. His eyes burned. He was the picture of a man holding on to his temper by one frail thread. “One week, you said. One week and you would let me know. And I have heard nothing.”

  “That was wrong of me. However, surely, when you heard nothing, the answer must have been obvious. If I had accepted your arrangement, I would have hardly kept it a secret from you. The bills from the dressmakers would have been arriving by now.”

  He strode around the room in a fit of vexation. “You are being rash, and stupid.”

  “No, Anthony, I am being honest, with myself as well as you. I could take your money and that fine house. I could play out the drama you envision of a great, if disreputable, love affair. It would be a lie, however, because I do not love you now. Perhaps I did once, but not now.”

  “You are punishing me; that is all. For not marrying you. For not flying in the face of all that was expected of me, and giving up everything for you.”

  “I do not blame you for that. I know how it had to be.” How it still had to be. The funny ache in her heart and tightness in her throat had nothing to do with Anthony. She conquered the surge of emotion. There would be time enough for that when the time came.

  “There is something I must tell you, Anthony. It will perhaps explain what I mean about not lying to you. You think to begin again where we ended five years ago. That is impossible. You have asked about my innocence with unseemly interest since we met again. You should know that it is no longer mine to give you.”

  He stared at her. She felt a little sorry for him, but his amazement did not speak well for his intelligence. He had not been able to marry her because she was supposed to be that sort of woman, after all. Was he now surprised that she indeed was that sort of woman?

  His shock gave way to anger. A very special kind of anger. That of a man jealous when he does not even know his rival’s name.

  He turned away from her abruptly.

  “We should part as old friends, Anthony. Not as two characters in a bad operatic comedy.”

  He refused to turn around. “We do not have to part at all. You have refused my protection, and I will accept that if I must. You have squandered your innocence on some fool, when I would have taken care of you for life, but it is something that cannot be undone. If I must settle for less, I will eat my pride and do so. Just tell me what you expect for it.”

  Good heavens, he was asking how to buy her favors, only in less exclusive ways. He wanted to know how to join the queue.

  “You will have to settle for nothing, Anthony. I am sorry if I did not make that clear.”

  He did not move for a long count. Then he abruptly walked to the door and called for Mr. Watson.

  “You are to send Mrs. Northrope’s executor the claim on that property,” he instructed the solicitor. “I expect an inventory of its contents within a week.”

  “Hello, Uncle.” Edward startled so badly that Jonathan saw the back of his head rise in a little jump. Then Edward twisted his entire torso and looked over the back of the library sofa to the garden doors where Jonathan stood.

  “What the—? What are you doing, sneaking in through the garden like that?”

  Jonathan strolled over and looked down. Edward’s frown faltered. He glanced to the windows and door, and the bell near the mantel that was used to call the servants.

  “I wanted to see you, very privately,” Jonathan said. “I think it is time for an honest conversation, about this odd mission you gave me, and about that list that you sought.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “I have it.”

  Edward thrust out his hand. Jonathan walked around the sofa and sat in a chair.

  “I don’t have it that way. I have seen it. I know the names. I know the dates.” He tapped his temple, to indicate where it was all stored. “It does not exist as a normal list or accounting, and it is doubtful that anyone would even know what they had if they chanced upon it.”

  “Does the daughter know of it?”

  “Celia, Uncle. Miss Pennifold to you. I would appreciate it if you finally remembered her name.”

  “Does your Miss Pennifold know of it?”

  “No. She is ignorant.” He lied without hesitation. He had done so often enough in his life, and this lie had as good a reason as any other.

  Edward visibly relaxed. He peered over, looking for something. Waiting.

  “Those rumors about Mrs. Northrope—was the Marquess of Enderby ever suspected of being a part of her scheme?”

  Edward’s face fell in shock. “Enderby? That is preposterous.”

  “Why? There were a few peers enamored of Napoleon. Impressed by all the imperial grandeur, I suppose. He could have been one.”

  “Enderby? You are mad. Put the notion out of your mind at once. I will not have you impugn him because of a theory you have concocted out of air.”

  “I never concoct out of air. You taught me better. You know if I am wondering about Enderby, it is because I have reason to.”

  “You have no reason to wonder about anyone. You were not told to find out who the Northrope woman took secrets from, or gave secrets to, or even if there were any secrets to begin with. You were only to bring me a damned list.”

  “Enderby is on the list.”

  Edward threw up his hands in exasperation. “As are many others, I assume. It was not he, I tell you.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Damnation, yes. I am sure.”

  Jonathan believed him. It was good news. It meant those payments Celia had found in the account book had indeed been for her support. There had been the possibility that, faced with that admission, or the assumptions Jonathan had alluded to in that note he wrote on the stone, Enderby had chosen the paternal lie over the seditious truth.

  It appeared not now. Jonathan was glad to be able to put aside a concern that, in confronting Enderby, Celia had given a traitor cause to worry about her knowledge of those payments.

  “There is only one way you can be sure, Uncle. You must know the honest truth behind those rumors. If you know Enderby was not involved, you must know who was.”

  “You are wrong there.”

  “I do not think so. I think I was not sent to protect the reputations of many men, but to protect that of one. Who are you doing this for? Tell me, or I will go to the Home Office and tell them all about this mission they did not initiate, and about Enderby’s payments to Mrs. Northrope.”

  “You would sully the good name of an innocent man? A man guilty of nothing more than dallying with a whore a few times?”

  “I hope that you are not trying to appeal to my conscience. That quiet voice has not whispered in my soul for a long time now. I am not feeling kindly toward Enderby these days, so it would not bother me if he saw a spot of trouble over this.”

  Edward closed his eyes. He looked old suddenly. Tired. “It is not what you think. It is not quite what I said.”

  “Why am I not surprised to learn that?”

  “I merely simplified matters. It was more complicated. Less neat. You did not need to know about it, and you still do not.”

  “I insist on knowing. Either you tell me, or I will find out my own way.”

  Edward sighed deeply. He stood and walked pensively to a shelf and took a cigar from a box. He lit it at the fireplace. Five puffs later, he sighed again.

  “Alessandra Northrope was not collecting secrets. She was giving them out. Only they were no
t accurate. There was a man spying for France, and she was given things to tell him. Some of it was good, but of no real significance. That was so the game would not be seen for what it was. Some of it was bad, however, and designed to throw iron bars into the machinery of French strategy.”

  The revelation surprised Jonathan. He experienced a good amount of relief too. He did not want to think he had been so blind that he had not seen Alessandra for what she was. He also was glad that Celia would now know the truth about her mother. He could spare her that disillusionment at least.

  “His name is not on that list you found, so don’t be wondering about all of them. She was not stupid. She would have left no record of this.”

  “He was English, then? It wasn’t her old French lover?”

  Edward ignored that. “You cannot tell her,” he said. “Miss Pennifold. You must not.”

  “Of course.” He would, though, and Edward could go to hell. “Did anyone die from the good information that was insignificant? This was a dangerous game.”

  “No one died. It was handled very carefully. Timing was everything, as you know. She would drop something to this man, something she claimed to have heard another patron say. By the time he got it to his contact, and it worked its way back to France, it was too late to be useful. It made her look good, however. It primed the pump for when she dropped inaccurate things that would cause them big trouble.”

  “Who worked with her? You?”

  He shook his head. “They chose a trustworthy man who was not one of the regulars, so there could be no suspicion of the game. Even I only learned it was done after the war. This was begun by the Home Secretary and the military. It came from the highest levels, and was handled with total discretion.”

  Yet someone had worked with her. Someone “trustworthy” provided that information for her to drop.

  Jonathan stood to leave. He would learn nothing else from Uncle Edward. He had everything he needed now, anyway. “You do not need the list. You were right. None of the men involved in this are on it.”

  He looked back as he slipped through the French doors to the garden. Edward’s expression had shattered, and considerable worry showed in his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Lots of pillows. Celia wondered if the ones she had accumulated on her bed would be enough. They would have to do since they were all she had.

  The fire toasted the chamber. Wine waited on the table. The fawn satin caressed her body. The rest would be easy. He wanted her aroused, and already anticipation titillated her.

  She would escape tonight, in the best way. This chamber might not be hers much longer, but for now it remained her home. No matter what happened in the future, she would remember this house and this room and this passion.

  She lay on the bed, amid those pillows. Their soft sensuality cradled her weight. She wondered if Mr. Watson would send someone to do that inventory tomorrow, and whether all Anthony needed was a bailiff to throw her and the others out of the house. She would have to find a solicitor, and discover if she could at least delay that.

  The day’s events should make her sad or worried, but they did not. Refusing Anthony had freed something in her. It had been a decision, she supposed. A better one than the first she had made regarding him. She was very proud of how she had acquitted herself today. She would be sorry to lose the life she had made here, but not regret the reason for it.

  Could she have been so strong if she had not come to know Jonathan? If he had not seduced her, and closed that other path? He probably thought he might have set her in the direction of her mother’s life with this affair. Instead she had discovered that she did not want to avoid the profound emotions that could arise in such intimacy, even if the final cost was very high.

  She wondered what Alessandra would say about that. Nothing good.

  Familiar sounds down below said that Jonathan was back in the house. He would be coming to her soon. She closed her eyes while her body responded with a delicious liveliness.

  Erotic, not vulgar, Celia. She rearranged her dress in a manner that Alessandra would approve.

  The visit to Edward left Jonathan in a black mood. He relived the conversation many times on his way back to Wells Street that night. He saw his uncle’s expressions in his head and studied them carefully. He saw the exact moment when Edward had realized that the implications of his tale had not been missed by his nephew.

  Jonathan assumed nothing in his manner had revealed his thoughts, but then, Edward knew him better than anyone except maybe Celia now. Well enough, perhaps, to merely assume that the unspoken conclusions would be obvious to the one man to whom they mattered the most.

  He entered the house still distracted. He mounted the steps with his mood tossing between a fury waiting to explode and a desolation more profound than he had ever known.

  At the first landing he looked down the passageway to Celia’s doorway. It would be best not to bring this mood to her. He walked to her door, to make some excuse.

  He opened the door to the kind of warm, alluring environment that Celia had such a talent for creating. A low fire burned, and a few candles, and wine waited by the two chairs near the hearth. One of her knitted shawls hung over the arm of one chair, adding a domestic touch. Feminine details, like the little bowl of evergreen clippings, spoke of the comfort to be had here.

  The bed spoke of other comforts and a different side of her femininity. She was there already, her body draped over soft mounds of pillows. The light reflected in ripples off the satin on her back, and piled in elegant drifts around her waist. From there down she was naked, her round bottom and shapely, parted legs exposed to view.

  It was the most elegantly erotic image he had ever seen.

  She rose up on her forearms. The movement made her back dip and her bottom rise. Her gaze acknowledged what she was doing to him.

  “Lots of pillows, as you requested. Marian will probably object that I stole hers,” she said.

  He remembered then, the morning’s games, and his demand for satin and pillows. It seemed so long ago now.

  “You are so beautiful it is painful sometimes to see you, Celia. You are perfect there, and I want you. However, this would not be a good night for it, after the day I have had.”

  “Something bad happened? My day was unpleasant too. That makes it a perfect night for it, don’t you think? We will forget the insults of the world for a short while.” She bent one knee and her foot tapped the air. “Whatever you wanted, remember?”

  He cast off his coats and stripped off his cravat. He drank some of the wine while he watched her tease him with that foot and her sultry gaze.

  Whatever he wanted. Right now he wanted to release some of this fury before it split him apart. He wanted to bury himself in her until her scent and sighs made him oblivious to this odd sickness of the soul. He wanted her screams to drown out the ugly truth in his head.

  He continued undressing. “Pillows and satin and whatever I want. Did you remember the rest?”

  “Oh, yes, Jonathan. Can’t you tell? I have been ready for a good long while now.”

  He flipped her, and knelt below her on the bed. He propped her hips high on those pillows and parted her knees wide. He touched her and her hips rose from the sensual shock. He gently caressed her damp folds of delicate flesh.

  Soon she whimpered with impatience. “Now,” she breathed.

  “Not yet.” He lowered himself, and lost himself in her taste and scent. He used his tongue until all he heard were her cries and his own blood pounding in his head. The fury finally had its way, making him ruthless. He made her beg, and took too much pleasure in the way he forced a desperate need for him that left her powerless.

  He made her climax hard, violently, with thrashes and trembles that made her scream. Then he rose and flipped her again, so the satin fell down her back and her bottom rose high in an erotic position that stoked his madness. He took her hard, savagely, incapable of restraint, and, good to her word, she
let him have whatever he wanted.

  “Let us go out to the garden,”Celia said. “The evening was fair, and it is probably not very cold.” “You will catch a chill.”

  “I will wear my most sensible bed dress and my low boots and my cloak. It is more than most women wear to the theater at night.”

  He rose from bed and reached for his garments.

  She took a candle and led the way downstairs to the garden door. Jonathan wore his frock coat but carried his waistcoat and cravat. He left them inside the door. She noticed. He would not be staying with her tonight.

  The air was crisp but not too cold. There was enough moon to highlight the plantings.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked after they had strolled a few minutes.

  “No. I guessed how it would be when I saw you. I am only sorry that your mood has reclaimed you again. I regret that my body did not give you more than momentary relief, since I do not think you would trust the rest of me to help at all.”

  “That is not true. Your mere presence helps.”

  “Well, that is something at least.”

  They walked on, through patches of shadow and vague light that moved with the clouds.

  “Celia, do you remember my telling you about a mission I had on the coast five years ago?”

  She nodded. “The one where the boy died.”

  “That happened because someone revealed I would be there. There had been a betrayal. I have recently been trying to discover who was behind it.”

  Her heart sank. They were back to the subjects of their row. They had never really talked about any of that again. She had assumed they never would.

  “You think it might have been my mother, don’t you?”

  “I thought it was tied to the rumors about your mother. And it was, only the rumors were wrong and so was the tie.”

  He told her an odd story, about how Alessandra had worked for the government, giving a man information that she was given, in order to fool the French.