Lord of Sin (13 page)

“Where did you get that?” she whispered.

“I tol’ yer, missy. She gave i’ me.” He chuckled indulgently, as if Deborah were a favorite niece. “Only roight t’ let yer know the truf. She were a whore, yer ma. A good ’un, roight enough. But she coul’n’t keep a brat, could she?”

The world tilted sideways, but Deborah managed to keep her head. “My mother was Lady Shaw, wife of Sir Percival Shaw. She was never in Whitechapel.”

He nodded sagely. “‘At’s wot they tol’ yer, ain’t i’? Yer was too young ter know different. Barely ou’ o’ the womb afore yer fine Sir Percy offered t’ take yer off Mary’s ’ands.”

Now she knew he was lying. The resemblance Deborah saw in the photograph was no more than a coincidence that this man used to hurt her for inexplicable reasons of his own.

“I was born in Baden, Switzerland,” she said, meeting his gaze. “A doctor, a wet nurse and my father witnessed my birth.”

“Yer wants more proof, missy?” Bray called after her. “I c’n find them wot’ll be ’appy ter tell yer aw abou” ow yer real ma sold yer ter them nobs, th’ ones wot claimed ter be yer real fam’ly. ’Ow yer ’igh ’n’ migh’y Sir Shaw used ter know Mary, in ev’ry sense o’ th’ word.”

She jerked her arm free. “I do not believe you!”

“Then believe this, missy. I’ll be askin’ yer fer a li’l baksheesh very soon. A friendly l’il loan so’s I don’ decide ter tell th’ papers abou’ yer dear ma.”

Deborah squared her shoulders and walked away. The man’s evil words clawed under her rib cage and refused to be dislodged, no matter how quickly she walked. The picture of the woman burned behind her eyes. The voices calling out to her from alleyways and sagging buildings could not drown out the voice in her own head.

You aren’t Lady Orwell, daughter of Sir Percival Shaw. You’re the child of some backstreet prostitute named Mary….

“Lady Orwell!”

The calm, familiar voice brought her to a halt. Only when Ioan Davies came to her side did she truly begin to tremble, her legs threatening to drop her to the cracked pavement.

Ioan saw her distress. He held her up, his earnest hazel eyes sweeping her face.

“You ought not to be here, your ladyship,” he said, holding her much too close to his chest. “What has frightened you?”

Deborah tried not to let him see the tears pooling under her eyelids. She had what she wanted; she had found Ioan. At the worst possible moment.

“It’s nothing, Mr. Davies,” she stammered.

He shook his head. “You’ve had a rare shock of some kind, madam. Let me escort you to your companions.”

“Really, I’m all—”

But it was useless. She badly wanted Ioan’s support, as shameful as she found her weakness and her need for him. She leaned on his arm as he led her back the way she’d come, to the warehouse where Lady Selfridge was speaking urgently to her hired men.

Frances turned sharply as one of the men pointed toward Deborah. She picked up her skirts and strode to meet Deborah and Ioan.

“Where have you been, child?” she demanded. “I was about to send the men out to search for you!” Her gaze flicked to Ioan. “Mr. Davies! What has happened?”

He touched his cap. “That I don’t know, madam, but Lady Orwell has not been harmed.” With what Deborah almost might have termed reluctance, he released her arm. Lady Selfridge took his place.

“Are you ill, Lady Orwell?”

“No. Only…I should not have gone out.”

“What possessed you to leave us?”

Deborah stared at the ground. She could not possibly tell Frances the truth, either about why she had left the warehouse alone nor why she now seemed so ill.

“I…I only wanted a little fresh air,” she said. Frances snorted, but she was obviously well aware that they were in mixed company and a full interrogation must wait. She nodded to Mr. Davies.

“Thank you once again, Mr. Davies, for your assistance,” she said. “I am certain that…”

“Deborah!”

A fresh wave of light-headedness nearly undid
her. Felix Melbyrne ran up to join them, profound relief in his expression.

“Thank God. I’ve been searching everywhere for you. When Lady Selfridge told me…” He stopped, glanced at Ioan, and resumed more slowly. “Are you well?”

Somehow she managed to focus on his face. “What…what are you doing here, Mr. Melbyrne?”

“I was told by your footman that you had come to Whitechapel with Lady Selfridge. I was concerned for your safety.”

Deborah tried to laugh. “I was never in any danger, Mr. Melbyrne. I am hardly a hothouse violet to be kept out of the sun.”

No one could have been convinced by her dismal attempt at levity. Felix looked at her with something very like disapproval.

“You are ill. You must tell me what happened!”

“She’s not ill, Mr. Melbyrne,” Frances insisted.

“Did someone abuse you?” Felix asked as if Lady Selfridge hadn’t spoken. “Tell me where to find them, and I shall see to it that the blackguards never do so again.”

“The lady has given her assurances,” Ioan said, his voice so soft that it commanded everyone’s attention. “Perhaps she would be best served by returning to her home.”

Felix stared at Ioan, his judgment of the other man’s station plain in his expression. “Lady Selfridge, may I be introduced to this…gentleman?”

“Mr. Felix Melbyrne, may I present Mr. Ioan
Davies,” Frances said without the slightest hesitation. “Mr. Davies was kind enough to escort Lady Orwell back to us.”

“Mr. Davies,” Felix said stiffly, briefly touching the brim of his hat, “if you were responsible for aiding Lady Orwell in any way, you have my gratitude.”

Ioan gave a shallow bow. “Mr. Melbyrne, it was my pleasure to do so.”

The exchange was so coldly formal that Deborah felt as if the pavement beneath her feet had frozen. “I should very much like to go home,” she said.

“The sooner, the better,” Frances said. “Mr. Melbyrne, if you will see to the carriage…”

Mr. Melbyrne’s reluctance was manifest, but he did as he was asked. Deborah found the presence of mind to smile at Ioan.

“Thank you again, Mr. Davies,” she said. “I am sorry to have caused so much disturbance.”

“You could never do so, madam,” Ioan said, his grave expression barely giving way to a smile. “I trust you will soon be well.”

She dropped a curtsey, one she might have reserved for a duke. “Goodbye, Mr. Davies.”

Lady Selfridge bustled her into the waiting carriage. Felix mounted his horse and took up a position next to the door. Deborah forced herself to look ahead and not back at Ioan.

Perhaps he could have told her why Bray would say the things he’d said. He would surely know most everyone in this part of Whitechapel, or at least be able to guess at what might motivate such an evil man.

But then she would have to tell Ioan the unthinkable, and she would rather never meet him again than reveal even the gist of her conversation with her tormentor.

Never see him again
…

“Well,” Frances said, “you are still white as a sheet. Will you tell me what really happened?”

“Nothing,” Deborah said, trying to meet Frances’s gaze. “It was as Mr. Melbyrne surmised. There were…men who spoke to me. I was not prepared—”

“Good God, girl, have you no sense? Had you wished to see more of Whitechapel, I and one of the men would gladly have accompanied you.”

“Mr. Davies found me before any harm was done,” Deborah said. “I was never in any real danger.”

“Hmm.” Frances tilted her head like a hawk sighting a field mouse. “Mr. Davies has a keen regard for you, I see.”

“That is nonsense! He was merely present when I—”

“And you have a similar regard for him.”

“He is a kind man, but—”

“Of course he is of a different station than you, but I am firmly of the belief that such outmoded attitudes have no place in our modern society. Under other circumstances…” She shook her head. “I know that Lady Charles has encouraged your interest in Mr. Melbyrne, and his in you. But I caution you, Deborah. This is not a game.”

“Is that what you believe? I did not join the Widows under false pretenses!”

“I know you did not. But if you do not wish to
marry again, guard your heart, and do not trifle with the affections of those you admire. Men and women can become extremely foolish when they believe themselves in love.”

“I am not in love with anyone!”

Frances sighed. “None of us will disavow you should you choose to leave us.”

“But I do not wish to leave you!”

“You must make your own decisions. Only be certain that you know what you truly want.”

What I want
. The same question Deborah had asked herself a dozen times since Ioan’s visit to Belgravia. Nuala would not for a moment believe that her protégée could look twice at Mr. Davies when she had attached Mr. Melbyrne, even if Nuala shared Frances’s disregard for Society’s strict separation of the classes.

Would she and Frances feel the same disregard if they knew what Bray had said of Deborah’s parentage? If they believed it to be true? And what of Felix?

“I am very tired, Frances,” Deborah said, sinking back into her seat and closing her eyes. “I would like to rest.”

“Of course,” Frances said. She kept her opinions to herself for the remainder of the drive. When they reached Nuala’s house, Mr. Melbyrne was at the carriage door before the footman could perform his office. He and Frances personally saw Deborah into the care of the housekeeper, Mrs. Addison. Felix lingered in the hall until Frances persuaded him to leave Deborah to her rest.

Deborah allowed Mrs. Addison to coddle her and gave herself up to Stella’s ministrations, but she couldn’t relax. Bray’s contorted features, and the gentle face of the woman in the picture, whirled about in her brain like a child’s pinwheel.

What the man had said was impossible, of course. Bray had developed an irrational dislike of her—perhaps because she had been born into a life of privilege, perhaps for some other unfathomable reason—and he had only meant to hurt her.

But no one could mistake the woman’s—Mary’s—perfect likeness to Deborah. She had never resembled either her mother or her father.

Flinging herself out of bed, Deborah pulled back her heavy bedroom curtains. It was just four o’clock, but she felt as if the calm and civilized London scene below were somehow unreal, part of a life she could barely comprehend.

She had come late into her parents’ lives, born when her mother was nearly past the age of childbirth. There had been no other children. She had been told the story of her birth at Baden many times, because the pregnancy had been difficult for Lady Shaw and—as Sir Percival Shaw had so often said—they considered Deborah their “little miracle.”

Had it been a miracle? Or had it been a transaction with a woman who was willing to sell a child she did not want…a transaction carefully concealed from the world? Had Deborah married Lawrence under the worst of false pretenses?

Foolish, foolish. There was no proof. Bray had
implied that he could produce witnesses, but how could one trust anything such a man’s friends might say? Surely his implied threat of blackmail was no more than empty bluster.

Her best course would be to ignore the entire matter, and perhaps avoid returning to Whitechapel for a few weeks. Once Bray knew he could not frighten her, he would surely leave her alone. Yes, she ought to occupy herself with the many pleasant diversions available in Mayfair and Belgravia.

But when she recalled Mrs. Saunterton’s soirée tomorrow night, her heart sank. She could not imagine going back to her regular social routine. She would constantly be wondering if she really belonged in good Society at all.

Deborah let the curtains fall and returned to her bed. She tried to sleep again, falling prey to ugly dreams of being cast out, mocked, despised. Sometime after midnight she put on her dressing gown and went downstairs. The house was dark and silent; there was no more comfort to be found in the lower rooms than in her own.

If only Nuala were here, she would set Deborah’s mind at ease. She would gently but firmly assure Deborah that she’d let her imagination run away with her.

Feet dragging with every step, Deborah returned to her room. She had no sooner lain down again than she heard a rattle on her windowpane.

Starting up, she ran to the window. Another pebble struck the glass and bounced off. She opened the sash and stared down into the yard.

A man stood beside the small kitchen garden…a man whose compact figure Deborah recognized at once. She backed away from the window, shrugged into her dressing gown and flew down the stairs.

I
OAN WAS STILL WAITING
when she slipped through the door from the servants’ hall. She didn’t demand to know why he had come. She simply flung herself at him, felt the warmth of his arms close around her, let the tears spill over without any thought of shame.

He held her for perhaps a dozen seconds and then released her, his breath sighing into her hair. “Lady Orwell,” he said with his usual formality.

The reminder immediately brought Deborah back to her senses. She retreated, breathing quickly, and turned her head to hide her embarrassment.

“I…I beg your pardon, Mr. Davies,” she whispered.

He cleared his throat. “Please, Lady Orwell…” His boots shuffled in the grass. She felt his gaze on her face. “Are you…quite recovered?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I think you are not.”

She couldn’t seem to find the will to contradict him. Her gown blew close to her body, and she was keenly, devastatingly aware of her undress. “I am…I am in no state to receive visitors,” she stammered. “I am sorry, Mr. Davies.” She turned to rush back into the house.

“I care nothing for your state.”

The snap of anger in his voice startled her into immobility. She forced herself to meet his eyes. They had a peculiar light in them, as if he had been holding something inside for far too long and had finally determined to let it out.

“I know you are as far above me as the moon, your ladyship,” he said, “but I cannot allow you to suffer.” He flexed the stiff fingers of his right hand. “I took the liberty of learning who had assaulted you. I had little difficulty in finding the villain, or in discovering what he had done.”

What he had done
. The gorge rose in Deborah’s throat.

“You must think nothing of what he told you, madam. His vile purpose is to give pain to anyone he can. But I think he will not do so again for some time.”

For the first time Deborah noticed the cuts and bruises on Ioan’s newly healed knuckles and the swelling on his left cheek. She gasped and started toward him again.

“You’re hurt,” she said. “You must come into the servants’ hall and—”

“Please do not trouble yourself, madam. I have had worse.”

His rebuff kept her where she was. He
knew
. He knew everything, and yet he stood here and looked at her as if nothing had changed.

All common sense and propriety demanded that she bid him leave at once. But she was no longer
entirely in control of her own mind or body, and when she spoke she realized the full depth of her despair.

“Did you believe him?” she whispered.

“Ach-a-fi!” he exclaimed, his expression losing every last scrap of detachment, “I would no more believe him than I would the Devil himself.”

Absolution. That was what he offered her. Freedom from the nightmares that had haunted her whenever she’d closed her eyes.

It was not enough.

“You saw the photograph?” she asked faintly. “Did you know her?”

He was as fierce now as he had been composed before. “I never knew her, the poor lass. But she—”

“You must learn the truth for me.”

His shock was so mingled with befuddlement that Deborah almost laughed. She covered her mouth with her hands and prayed she wouldn’t begin to weep again.

“I meant what I said, Mr. Davies,” she said, lowering her hands. “You know the people of Whitechapel. You can search where I can never enter.” She took a step toward him. “Bray implied that he could produce witnesses to confirm his claims. I
must
know if there is any truth to what he told me. I cannot…I cannot simply behave as if he never showed me the photograph.”

A deep compassion brimmed in Ioan’s eyes. “He is a liar.”

“And until I am certain of that, I will always wonder. Can you understand, Ioan?”

The sound of his name rebounded in the air like a gunshot. “Madam…” he began, very slowly.

“My name is Deborah.”

He swallowed. “Madam, I would do as you ask. It would be no trouble to me. But it is a door which, once opened, cannot be closed again.”

So he did think it possible that Bray had told the truth. There was a kind of relief in the thought, that he believed she could be a prostitute’s daughter and not flinch from her company.

But she knew nothing of his background. He might have come from similar origins. He might be anyone.

And she didn’t care.

“Will you help me?” she asked.

He stared at the ground between his boots. “Aye, madam. I will.”

“Thank you.” She fought the impulse that demanded she fly into his arms again, feel his warmth and complete acceptance. “Thank you, Ioan.”

He lifted his head. Gazed at her. Swallowed a second time. “When shall I come again?”

“Whenever you have information.” Dear God, let it be soon. “I shall never forget this kindness.”

“It is no kindness, madam.” He bowed. “Good night.”

Then he did what she should have done minutes ago: he fled, his stride swift for one of such modest height, and vanished into the darkness.

Deborah backed up until she reached the wall of the house and let it take her weight. Surely none of
this had been real. Nothing had been real since yesterday morning.

“Mr. Davies has a keen regard for you, I see.”
Lady Selfridge’s words, which Deborah so hotly denied.

And you have a similar regard for him.

Hadn’t she proven the truth of Frances’s words the very instant she went to Ioan in the yard?

It was too much. Too much for her mind to hold. She hurried back into the house and up the stairs to her room.

Nuala came in before dawn. She sat beside Deborah’s bed and smiled, though there were lines around her eyes that Deborah didn’t remember seeing before.

“How are you, my dear?” Nuala asked, laying her hand on Deborah’s forehead. “Frances tells me that you had an unpleasant experience in Whitechapel.”

Deborah pushed herself up against the pillows. “I’m so glad you’ve returned. Where have you been?”

“Seeing to some business that could not wait.” She was silent for a moment. “I should have been with you.”

“I am quite all right.” Deborah leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. “You do not look well yourself.”

“Oh,” Nuala said with a short laugh, “merely a few minor complications. Nothing that will not quickly be resolved.”

So Nuala was not prepared to discuss the reasons for her own obvious distress. But Deborah felt as if some veil had been lifted from her eyes…not a veil
of ignorance, but one tightly woven of rules and custom and expectations, all designed to create as many “complications” as possible.

“Is it Lord Donnington?” Deborah asked quietly.

Nuala started, then quickly composed herself again. “You might as well know, as it will doubtless become gossip soon enough. I went to visit Lord Donnington at his estate in Cambridgeshire.”

“But why?”

“For reasons I prefer not to divulge at present.”

Of course she did not. Yet Deborah’s thoughts tripped over the possibilities, following the paths her own bewildered mind had opened up to her.

Lord Donnington and Nuala were in love. And they would do anything to keep the world from finding out.

“Have you seen Mr. Melbyrne while I was away?” Nuala asked with a casualness that not even a fool would believe genuine.

Deborah rested her chin on her updrawn knees, wondering how she could answer without either prevaricating or leading Nuala to the wrong conclusion.

“Yes…at Whitechapel,” she said. “He had heard we were doing charitable work there.”

“Then he was there to help you? I’m so glad.” She pressed Deborah’s hand and rose. “I will leave you to rest. Do not hesitate to send for me if you wish to talk.”

“Nuala?”

The older woman turned, smiling with a serenity that did not quite reach her eyes. “Yes, my dear?”

“When two people care for each other, it is not only a matter of their own hearts’ desires, is it?”

Nuala sank into the chair again. “What do you mean?”

“There are so many things that can get in the way. Misunderstandings, mistaken assumptions…”

“Such challenges exist in all relationships, especially those of love. They can always be overcome.”

“But what if there are other obstacles? Questions of wealth and position and birth. The opinion of Society.”

“Wealth is transitory. So is position. And as for the opinion of Society…” She gestured with her hand as if sweeping dust away with her fingertips. “It cannot stand in the way of a true match.” She leaned forward, brows knitted in concern. “Why such questions, my dear?”

“It is only that…what I have seen in Whitechapel…it is so unjust. I wish everyone shared your views.”

“Many do. Lady Frances…all of the widows, I am quite certain. The time will come when the artificial barriers between people will fall.”

“I hope you are right.”

Nuala touched Deborah’s hair. “You are part of a new generation, Deborah. You will see the world change.” Her eyes grew sad, and then she smiled again. “But you will have no such obstacles to face. Of that I am quite sure.”

She rose again, walked to the door and quietly left the room. Deborah slid under the sheets, wondering
what Nuala had really been thinking when she spoke of artificial barriers and the changing of the world.

Perhaps the world
would
change. But not today or tomorrow. For the time being, she must live with the world as it was. Until she heard from Ioan, she would remain at home as much as was realistically possible without attracting too much attention from well-meaning friends or Society at large. She would not encourage Felix in any way.

Only when she knew the truth would she be able to determine her future course.

For the first time that night, Deborah was able to close her eyes and see nothing but Ioan’s steadfast, compassionate face.

S
INJIN SPRAWLED ON
the sheets, his body bathed in perspiration. He stared at the ceiling, wondering if it might be possible to bring the building down around him with a sufficient application of sheer will.

Adele curled up beside him, her expression all sympathy and good humor. “It isn’t so bad as all that, Sin,” she said.

Oh, it was every bit as bad as all that. One of the most glorious examples of the naked female form lay in his bed, and he could not serve it as it so richly deserved. As
Adele
deserved.

She twisted a lock of his hair around her finger. “I am in no hurry, darling. I shall brew you a nice pot of tea, and we shall enjoy a nice afternoon together. It has been so long since we have simply talked.”

As indeed it had. Sinjin had seldom been inter
ested in merely “talking” with Adele when there was so much better sport to be had…sport in which she enthusiastically participated.

“You are kind, Adele,” he said hoarsely. “But I think it best that I not waste more of your time.”

“Time?” She sighed and laid her small hand on his chest. “I should rather spend an hour here with you, just as we are, than an eternity of delight with anyone else.”

He finally looked at her, prey to the pathetic sort of gratitude he’d never wished to owe any woman again. He staunched it quickly. “You were always very good at flattery, my dear.”

He rolled up out of bed before she could respond, tossed on his dressing gown and went to the window. A thrush fluttered about in the half-wild garden splayed out against the high wall that protected the cottage from the street beyond. Adele crept up behind him, though she had more than enough sense not to touch him again.

“What is it, Sin?” she asked softly. “What is it really? If you’ve grown tired of me…” She gave a soft laugh. “You seem so ferocious and forbidding, but I know you. We are both grown-up people. I will not be offended if—”

“It isn’t you.” Sinjin took a breath and lowered his voice. “You’ve done nothing but please me, Adele.”

He heard her leave the room and reappear a few minutes later with a steaming pot of tea. “Come,” she said. “Sit down and tell me all about her.”

“There is no ‘her,’” he snapped.

“Oh, Sin. Give me a little credit for eyes to see and ears to hear with.”

The sweat chilled on his skin. “Gossip, Adele?”

“Even if there were not, I would know.”

Grudgingly, he recognized defeat, followed her into the small drawing room and sat in the chair she offered. He allowed her to pour and then stared blankly at the cup. Adele rose, swept away with her lavish dressing gown trailing behind her, and returned with a bottle of whiskey and a single snifter.

Without comment, Sinjin took the glass and poured himself a measure. It was early in the day for drinking, but he felt in dire need of the fortification.

“It is no use fighting it, you know,” Adele said.

Sinjin finished his drink, brooded over the bottle and decided against another. Shakespeare had made it plain enough: drinking would in no wise improve his ability to perform.

Not that he would wish to attempt it. He had no desire to repeat the humiliating and unfamiliar experience of failure.

“We have had a good run together,” Adele said. She tentatively rested her hand on his shoulder, a touch lacking all sensuality. “But every good thing must come to an end.”

“I don’t wish to end it.”

“Do you really have any choice?” She laughed, sadness in her voice. “You need not be concerned for me. I always land on my feet. But you will never be free until you acknowledge what your body and heart desire.”

“My heart isn’t involved.”

“Of course not.” She squeezed his shoulder and let
him go. “She is a woman of good reputation, your Lady Charles, but she is also a woman.”

He got up abruptly, crossed the room, spun about and faced her again. “What do you advise, Adele?”

But she only smiled, picked up the tea tray and walked from the room. Sinjin was left standing there like a fool, remembering the way Nuala had felt in his arms, the way her lips had given under his.