An Invitation to Sin (2 page)

According to the latest printed reports, Eleanor and Valentine were enjoying their honeymoon in Venice. Nell's latest letter said the same thing, but he always found it interesting to hear about the Griffin clan's exploits from an outside perspective.

"Good morning, Uncle Zachary," six-year-old Penelope said as she pranced into the breakfast room.

"Hello, Peep." He leaned sideways to plant a kiss on her cheek. "Nell and Valentine went for a gondola ride last week."

With the butler's assistance Peep selected her breakfast from the sideboard and plunked herself down at the table beside him. "I'm going to go to Venice. You may come with me if you want to."

"I'm meeting someone for luncheon at White's today," he countered, hiding a grin, "but I'm available tomorrow."

"Not now," she protested, rolling her pretty gray eyes at him. "When I grow up."

"Oh. I'll be available then, of course."

"Good." She bit into a peach. "Because I think Papa and Uncle Shay might be too strict."

"And I won't be?"

"Uncle Zach, you let me taste your glass of scotch."

Wonderful
. "We aren't ever going to mention that again, remember?"

"I forgot." She smiled, carefree and fearless as only six-year-olds could be. "Papa's taking me riding this morning on Buttercup. You may join us, if you'd like."

Before he could decline, Peep's father strolled into the room. Sebastian, the Duke of Melbourne, looked like precisely what he was—at age thirty-four one of the most powerful, influential men in England, and the head of a famously distinguished family. What he didn't look like was a man dressed for riding.

"I was beginning to wonder whether either of you was going to appear at all today," Melbourne drawled, moving around the table to kiss his daughter.

"Late night," Zachary said, declining to mention in whose company it had ended. The waltz was only one of Lady Amelia Bradley's talents.

"I had to dress Mrs. Hooligan." Peep looked up at her father. "She wants to go riding, too."

The duke tugged one of her dark, curling ringlets. "My apologies, Peep, but I've been called to Carlton House."

Penelope bounced in her seat. "Are you going to see Prinny?"

"I imagine so." Melbourne straightened. "Perhaps Uncle Zachary will take you and your doll out riding."

Zachary stifled a scowl. "What about Uncle Shay?"

The duke's gaze slid over to him. "Shay would suffice, I'm sure," he continued in the same easy tone. "Did you have something else planned?"

"He's going to luncheon at White's," Peep supplied, starting on her honey and toast.

"Really." Melbourne nodded, turning for the hall door. "That reminds me. Do you have a moment, Zachary?"

Zachary nodded and rose, reminding himself that while Eleanor swore their eldest brother could read minds, it had never been proven. "Leave my strawberries be, Peep," he warned his niece, hearing her responding giggle as he left the breakfast room.

Melbourne led the way into his office.
Hm
. An office chat was never a good thing. Zachary headed for the window; he wasn't going to sit in one of the "victim chairs" as he and his siblings called them, whatever the duke had in mind.

The door clicked shut behind him. "I have a task for you," Melbourne said.

"I'll take Peep riding tomorrow," Zachary countered. "As I told her, I have a few obligations today."

The duke took a seat behind his massive mahogany desk. Zachary kept his gaze out the window at the Griffin House garden, reminding himself that however much power Melbourne had over the rest of the world, he was still just an older brother.

"I don't care about your luncheon," his brother returned dismissively. "Shay can escort Peep. I wanted to discuss a family matter."

That didn't sound too ominous. Nobody had strayed from the well-delineated Griffin boundaries lately—not since Nell and Valentine had made their much-reported run to Scotland. And Melbourne had somehow managed to turn even that into a preapproved romantic escapade by the time the newspapers got hold of it. Zachary turned around, leaning a haunch against the deep windowsill. "Discuss away, then."

"Aunt Tremaine has asked me to provide an escort for her."

"She wants to go to the races at Derby again, doesn't she?" Zachary cracked a grin. 'The last time she attended, th—"

"Her gout is acting up," Melbourne cut in. "She wants to take the waters at Bath, probably for the remainder of the Season. I told her that you would be happy to accompany her."

Zachary took a moment to absorb that, though his mouth had already formed an answer. "No."

"I beg your—"

"Send Charlemagne. I have plans."

"I need Shay in Brighton to finalize the purchase of another half dozen cargo ships. And you never have plans."

"I do now."

Melbourne sat back in his chair. "Care to enlighten me about them?"

"I did enlighten you," Zachary retorted, trying to keep his voice level. He didn't need to fight about it; he'd already made his decision. "You just chose not to take me seriously."

For a long moment the room remained so quiet that Zachary could hear Peep chatting with the butler down the hall. The duke didn't move, but Zachary knew Sebastian was running past conversations through his mind, calculating responses, deciding how to enter the discussion at an angle that would give him the greatest advantage. There was a reason Zachary never played chess with Melbourne; he never won. Ever. But this wasn't chess. This was his future. And as long as he remained resolved, he couldn't lose.

"Tell me then," the duke finally said, "why you have the sudden urge to join the army."

So he had been paying attention
. "It's not sudden. I've been thinking about it for some time. I tried to discuss it with you a month ago, and you weren't interested."

"I'm interested now."

"I thought you had a meeting at Carlton House."

"Zachary, I don't want you to join the army."

Resisting the urge to shoot to his feet, Zachary settled deeper into the window. "What do you want me to do then? Chaperone Nell at parties? Wait, she's married now. I'm not needed for that any longer. Which leaves me with escorting Peep to her tea parties, I suppose, and Aunt Tremaine on made-up journeys."

"It's not made up. And there are always—"

"Business concerns? That's you and Shay. Buying and selling things for no discernable reason makes me want to lock myself up in Bedlam, anyway."

"I'm certain there's something you'd enj—"

"You
enjoy doing that," Zachary interrupted again, willing his oldest brother to understand his frustration. "You and Shay. I don't. I want something else. I want some damned responsibility, Sebastian. And if some excitement and some glory come with it, so much the better."

The butler scratched at the door. "Your Grace?"

"What is it, Stanton?" Melbourne called, irritation edging his voice.

"The coach is ready, Your Grace."

"I'll be there in a moment."

Zachary straightened, pushing away from the window. "I believe we'll have to finish this conversation later, then," he said, taking Melbourne's usual parting line. And after luncheon with Major General Picton, he'd have considerably more ammunition—and perhaps even a commission.

"We'll finish it now."

"But you—"

"No, now it's my turn," Melbourne countered sharply. "What about when you were going to take your orders?"

Zachary frowned. "I never really wanted to join the priesthood. That—"

"That's why that scheme only lasted a week. And then there was training racehorses."

"That is not fair, S—"

"You sold off your interest in that after two months," his brother cut in again. "What about taking up land management?"

Straightening, Zachary aimed a finger at his brother. "That was your fault. Bromley Hall is the least significant property you own. It was dull as damned door knockers there, Seb."

"The irrigation channel was a good idea—or it would have been, if you'd finished it."

"So I'm useless. Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying you have no patience for anything. If it immediately satisfies your requirements, then you're done with it. If it's something that takes work, you lose interest. So if you want responsibility, get a dog. If you're bored, take up painting. You don't need to parade about the Peninsula in a bright red uniform so some bloody Frenchman can blow a hole in you."

"Thank you very much for your faith in my stupidity and utter incompetence."

"It's not stupidity by any means, but you know how you are," Melbourne countered. "And a lack of patience wouldn't serve you in the army, either. You aren't going to buy a commission, Zachary. I won't permit it, and you know I can prevent it."

Zachary glared at him, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles trembled. "I'm a third-born son in a noble family, Seb. My opportunities—"

"Are more than sufficient, if you would make a choice and abide by it."

"I have made a choice. Thank you for the advice." Turning on his heel, he strode for the office door.

"Zachary, you—"

"I what, Sebastian? We're at an impasse. And while you might have the ability to prevent a Griffin from joining the military, I can pretend to be someone else." He stopped, taking a breath and hoping he hadn't just foiled his own plans. He really needed to learn when to stay silent and just leave the room. "I know what you're afraid of," he continued anyway. "And I'm sorry Charlotte died. I know how much you loved her. But you—"

Melbourne shoved to his feet with enough force that his chair went over backwards. "
Enough
!" he roared. "My wife has nothing to do with this."

"She has everyth—"

"You will escort Aunt Tremaine to Bath," Melbourne snapped, his gray eyes glinting with barely suppressed anger. "When you return and
if
you have proven to me in the meantime that you can show some patience and restraint and a reasonable level of responsibility, and
if
you're still determined to join the army, we will continue this discussion."

Zachary took a deep breath. As usual, he'd gotten angry and said the wrong thing, and now that Melbourne had handed down his proclamation, he couldn't take it back. "I apologize, Sebastian," he said.

"Don't." His oldest brother strode to the door and back, obviously in an attempt to regain his usually even temper. That in itself was unusual; Melbourne rarely let anyone see him out of countenance.

"All I meant to say was that you can't keep all of us safe in glass cabinets and expect us not to try to get out," Zachary said more quietly.

"I suggest you go pack a trunk," Melbourne returned in the cool voice his siblings dreaded hearing. "You're leaving in an hour."

"Very well. One day though, Melbourne, you're going to give one order too many, and you'll find that all of your troops have deserted."

Damn it all. They both knew that the threat was empty, but at least his brother didn't laugh at him. Zachary had his own generous monthly income, but it had all been set up by Melbourne. If he pushed too hard, the duke could simply cut the purse strings—which would ensure that his next career choice would be the one he stayed with.

Her sister scratched her left ear. "It's not my fault. This hat itches."

"It's not a hat. It's a turban. And please sit still. I only need two more minutes."

"That's what you said five minutes ago, Caro. And it still itches."

For the space of a breath Caroline closed her eyes. Trying to focus on a subject who squirmed every which way was giving her nothing but an aching head. That didn't mean, however, that she had any intention of giving up. Patience might be a virtue, but in this instance it was also a necessity. "It's taking longer because you keep moving. And you're the one who wanted to be a Persian princess."

High-pitched voices echoed up from the foyer two stories below. "Grace! We're going! Hurry up!"

Damnation
. Caroline grabbed another pencil and began sketching madly, concentrating on the wisps of her sister's blonde hair where it curled from beneath the silk turban. She could sketch the turban sans occupant later. "Wait, Grace," she muttered as she drew. "You promised."

The wisps of hair began edging for the door, along with the rest of her sister. "They'll leave without me," she protested, "and I need a new bonnet."

"Grace—"

The turban hit the hardwood floor. "Sorry, Caro," Grace called over her shoulder as she hurried down the hall toward the stairs. "I'll be back after luncheon!"

"But the shadows will be diff…" Caroline started, then trailed off. With a grimace she set down her pencil and stood to stretch her back. Grace didn't care about light or shadows; she cared about a new bonnet.

She could recruit another sister, she supposed, but as she went to the window and looked down at the drive, she counted six bonnets wedging themselves into the Witfeld barouche. Apparently all of her siblings needed new bonnets.

Of course the urgency they felt to visit Trowbridge might have had something to do with the fact that it was Tuesday— and that Mrs. Williams's son Martin, recently returned from the Crimean, helped restock her linen shop on Tuesdays. Caroline smiled. Poor Martin. After three months of Tuesday torture, she would have changed restocking day, or at least done it after hours. Of course the shop sold more on Tuesdays than any other day of the week, so perhaps Martin's appearance in the middle of the morning wasn't a coincidence at all.

Caroline retrieved the turban and set it on a stack of books at the appropriate height, then returned her attention to the sketch pad. By now she could probably draw any of her sisters from memory, but the slant of the head, the light in their expression—she'd never been able to capture any of that without the subject in front of her. She could finish the hat, however.

"Caro?"

She started, blinking. "Up here, Papa. In the conservatory."

"What do you think of this?" her father asked as he walked into the room. In his arms he hefted a wooden box filled with a tumbled chaos of miniature papier-mache columns and blocks of faux stone. "It's not to scale, of course."

Edmund Witfeld looked how she imagined any father of seven daughters would—fingertips stained black from doing the accounts and trying to come up with a way to provide seven dowries, hair silver and beginning to thin now that five of those daughters were of a marrying age, jacket a little loose across the shoulders and a little snug around the waist from worry and frustration and the inability to do anything about it. He was, after all, badly outnumbered.

Caroline looked over the meticulously arranged diorama. "Those are new," she said, indicating the pair of broken columns resting beside the miniature painted streambed.

He smiled. "Yes. I thought adding a sixth and seventh column on the north side would balance the quarter-wall on the south."

"It's beginning to look like the Parthenon in ruins—or what I imagine it would look like, anyway. Antique and romantical."

"Ah ha! That's what I was attempting to evoke." He kissed her cheek. "I'm going to order the additional columns for the meadow tomorrow." Muttering figures to himself, he toted the box into the hallway. "Oh, I nearly forgot." He reentered the conservatory. "The post just came. You have a letter."

Her body turned to ice. "Is it a reply?" she asked.

He fumbled in his pocket with his free hand. "I think so. Here. Hold this a minute."

She took possession of the miniature ruins. "Papa."

"I'm not trying to torture you, but I knew I'd never get an opinion from you about the ruins after I told you about the letter. Ah. Here it is." He pulled a letter from his inside jacket pocket.

Caroline took it, nearly dumping his diorama as she handed it back. Her fingers shaking, she turned the missive over to view the address. "It's from Vienna. The Tannberg artists' studio."

"Open it, Caro."

Sending up a quick prayer, she slid a finger under the wax seal and unfolded the letter. Her heart hammering, she read through it—and the breath froze in her throat. "Oh, my goodness. Oh my, oh my."

"Well?" her father prompted, carefully setting the diorama on the floor. "Do they accept you? It's past time somebody showed some damned sense."

She cleared her throat to read it to him. " 'M. Witfeld, Thank you for the series of portraits you sent with your application. I see no reason you should not be admitted into our apprenticeship program. For final consideration,'" she continued, her voice shaking with a sudden wave of breathless excitement, " 'please submit a portrait of an aristocrat, along with a signed affidavit from said aristocrat attesting to his or her satisfaction with your work. Yours in anticipation, Raoul Tannberg, director, Tannberg Studio.'"

"That seems a reasonable request," her father said, nodding. "All the money in portrait painting likely comes from commissions from wealthy citizens. They probably want proof that you can bring the studio income and clients."

She didn't know how he could be so calm. Caroline could scarcely breathe. It wasn't an unconditional acceptance, but it wasn't one of the twenty-seven rejections she'd received previously, either. One more step, and she would be able to grasp her dream. No more fighting to make her sisters sit still while she tried to shape them into something a studio would find artistic. No more having to ask Cook if she could borrow dinner for half an hour in order to perfect the sketches of chicken or quail beaks. It would be real. It would be heavenly.

"I suppose you'll be calling on Lord and Lady Eades, then."

The excited bubble of her dream popped.

She'd painted the earl and countess before, actually, and the portraits hung in Eades Hall. But this was the most important work of her life, and the local aristocrats were two of the most eccentric people in Wiltshire. She wasn't about to submit
Lord and Lady Eades as Egyptian Pharaohs
to Vienna. Raoul Tannberg, director, would laugh her off the Continent.

"You need to secure their agreement for this," Edmund Witfeld pursued, his voice solemn.

"Yes, I'll manage something." Perhaps she could switch paintings. Lord and Lady Eades would never know. All she needed was a letter expressing approval—it didn't have to describe the painting.

"This is good news, Caro," her father said, taking the missive from her to read it again himself. "I hadn't wanted to say anything, but now that you have a letter, you need to know."

She frowned, her chest tightening. "What's wrong, Papa?"

"Nothing. But you're three and twenty. And as your mama keeps reminding me, you have six younger sisters all eager to marry. For their sakes we can't keep doing this."

"Doing what? I'm not hurting anything. This is my dream, Papa. It has been forever."

"I know that. And that's why I've been encouraging and supporting your efforts. Lord knows I understand what it's like to have a dream. But you
are
hurting something—your sisters' chances at finding husbands. This is a small estate with a limited income and a desperate need to find dowries for seven dau—"

"Six," she interrupted, tears trying to push to the front of her eyes. She felt what she wanted so clearly that she tended to forget that her sisters wanted different things. So now she was a roadblock to what they all considered to be their path to happiness. Marriage. "I've asked you to pass me by."

"I accept that, my dear. But you are still a part of a household with limited resources. Paints and canvases and—"

"I pay for most of the supplies myself," she broke in.

"Don't get upset now that you have good news," he returned, handing back the letter. "But I wanted you to know. This is the last year we can allow this."

"So what happens if I'm rejected by Monsieur Tannberg?"

"You won't be, of course."

"But if I am, what happens?"

He drew a heavy breath. "Then at the end of the summer you will either marry, or you will accept the governess position generously offered to you by Lord and Lady Eades. They would love you to teach their children how to paint."

"Their chil…" She trailed off.
Horror
. No other word could describe the ice that gripped her heart at the thought of teaching wealthy, spoiled children how to paint posies.

"But you don't have to worry about that now, do you?"

From his mouth to God's ear. "No, I suppose not."

"That's the spirit." He lifted his box again. "I'm going to pace off the new columns," her father said, leaving the room again, "and to tell your mother that you've been all but accepted at the Vienna studio. We're all relieved."

She watched him go down the hall, then sat again. The situation was worse than she'd realized. The frustration and the humiliation of being repeatedly rejected because she was a female, or because the studio had too many applicants, or because she couldn't afford the attendance fees, was nothing compared to being a governess. She'd have to put away her brushes, and would never have an opportunity to pick them up again. No more painting, no more feeling that… lift inside her when she captured part of someone's life on canvas. It would be like cutting out her own heart.

Thank God her father had told her the consequences of failure this time. She
would
convince Lord and Lady Eades to dress in their present-day finery, and she
would
be accepted as an apprentice at the Tannberg Studio.

There was no other choice.

"Zachary, if that blasted thing bites my toe one more time, I am going to have someone serve it up for dinner."

With a sigh Zachary leaned down and grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck, returning it to the carriage seat beside him. "Apologies, Aunt."

Gladys, Aunt Tremaine, looked at his new companion. "What is it, anyway?"

"I believe it's half foxhound and half Irish setter," he returned, absently wriggling his fingers so the pup would consume him rather than his aunt.

"And you've acquired it for what reason?"

"Melbourne said I should get a dog. Apparently to him it demonstrates patience and responsibility." He winced as a sharp tooth grazed one finger. "I named it Harold."

"That's your brother's middle name."

"It is? What a coincidence."

His aunt turned over her embroidery hoop and lifted it to bite off the blue thread she'd knotted. Without pause she pulled a spool of green thread from her sewing basket.

"I have a knife, you know," Zachary said, watching from the opposite seat as she measured a length of thread and bit that off, as well. "And a sharp-toothed attack beast."

"This is faster," his aunt returned, deftly threading her needle and going back to work. "You never know when it might be handy to be able to embroider in an emergency."

"Yes, one never knows when one might need one's initials put onto a handkerchief," he said dryly, the sight of the intricate stitches making his eyes want to cross in sympathy.

"Make fun now, but I have thirty more years of wisdom than you, my boy."

"But you'll be blind by the time we get to Bath, trying to embroider in a moving carriage, and toothless from chewing off the threads."

She chuckled. "I've been doing this since before you were born, Zachary. It passes the time better in a moving carriage than attempting to read, or than sitting about while a wild dog attempts to chew off my foot."

He had to agree with part of the statement, anyway.

Zachary eyed the book his brother Charlemagne had foisted on him yesterday morning when they'd left, as if two dozen Byron poems would compensate him for being exiled to Bath. Harold obviously felt the same; he'd already torn the cover off. And in addition to the feeble quality of the bribe, he was certain it was worse than that. No, he didn't doubt at all that Aunt Tremaine had instructions for her gout not to subside until she received word from Melbourne that he'd found a way once and for all to prevent his brother from joining the army.

Yes, Melbourne's delaying strategy annoyed Zachary, but whether it took a week or a month, it wouldn't stop him. He needed a change. And unless the almighty Griffin clan came up with some miraculous plan before then, he was going to join Wellington on the Peninsula. At least there he could be more than the extraneous third brother, the spare's spare, the token escort for the family's females, famed more for his healthy appetite and popularity with chits than for any other attribute or interest he might have.