Lord of Sin (17 page)

“I am grateful.” Sinjin bowed shortly and strode for the front door. A woman was entering the house just as he reached the end of the hall. She was small and mousy, with unremarkable brown hair and eyes, but when she stopped to stare at Sinjin he was instantly aware that she was not as ordinary as she seemed.

Sinjin had had enough of extraordinary women. He tipped his hat and bowed, intending to continue on his way, but his feet refused to obey his will.

“Lord Donnington,” the woman said, though they had not yet been introduced.

“Mrs. Summerhayes,” Deborah said, coming to join them, “may I present Lord Donnington, the Earl of Donbridge. Lord Donnington, Mrs. Adolphus Summerhayes.”

Sinjin bowed again. “Madam.”

The young woman continued to stare with a strangely unconscious rudeness. “Have you come to see Nuala?”

Her frank question left Sinjin temporarily speechless. Lady Orwell stepped into the breach.

“I have informed Lord Donnington that Lady Charles is not at home,” she said.

“Oh,” Mrs. Summerhayes mumbled, as if her thoughts were far away. “You can’t go on as you are, you know,” she said to Sinjin. “There are too many things left undone.”

“Lord Donnington was just leaving,” Lady Orwell said quickly.

“It isn’t over,” Mrs. Summerhayes said, as if Lady Orwell hadn’t spoken. “You must purge yourself, Lord Donnington, or he will ruin you both.”

“What is she talking about?” Sinjin demanded of Lady Orwell, aware that he had begun to perspire. Deborah made no answer. He turned back to Mrs. Summerhayes. “To whom are you referring?”

She blinked. “Hasn’t he told you?”

“Who?”

Her gaze focused again. “Forgive me,” she said in a small voice. “It is not my place to interfere.”

Sinjin’s skin had gone icy cold. “
Who
wishes to ruin us?”

As if she had felt his chill, Mrs. Summerhayes shivered. “I cannot…see clearly,” she murmured. “There is one who plagues you. One who speaks with your voice.”

How could she possibly know?
“Nuala…Nuala told you….”

Mrs. Summerhayes took a deep breath. “Is it your desire to know the truth, Lord Donnington?”

“For God’s sake.” Sinjin glanced again at Lady Orwell, but she had vanished. He could feel his knees begin to turn rubbery, his brain to fill with fog. “Make yourself plain, madam.”

“I will help you,” she said, “for Nuala’s sake.”

“Help me? Help me how?”

“I can draw him to you. Make him…speak.”

“Who is he?”

But she had returned to her strange inner world. “Come to my house when you are ready. I shall do what I can.”

“What
are
you?”

“I speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves.”

Then she wandered away, into the shadows of the corridor that disappeared behind the staircase. Sinjin stared after her, laughed under his breath and slammed his hat more firmly on his head.

She was mad. As all the Widows were mad, in one fashion or another. But she knew things she shouldn’t have known. She had looked into his soul. She had seen the…thing that had frightened Nuala.

I speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves
.

Ludicrous. Beyond ridiculous.

Sinjin waved his carriage away and walked briskly back to his club. Male acquaintances tipped their hats as he passed; young women simpered and curtseyed. He paid them no heed nor noticed his surroundings until he nearly collided with Felix Melbyrne.

“I say!” Felix said. He backed away, removed his hat and played with the brim in a nervous manner, though his smile remained fixed in place. “How are you, Sin?”

Sinjin grunted, in no mood for conversation. Felix wasn’t put off.

“I know I was a poor guest at Donbridge,” he said slowly. “I couldn’t bear to see Lady Charles…That is, I had reached the conclusion…” He swallowed. “Sin, I’m going to ask Deborah to marry me.”

The declaration penetrated Sinjin’s consciousness. “Marry her?”

“Yes. I love her.” His smile became almost fierce. “You won’t stop me, Sin. Not this time.”

If it was outrage Felix wanted, he was to be disappointed. “Good luck,” Sinjin said gruffly. “If you will excuse me…”

“You…you don’t object?” Felix stammered.

“You are your own man, Felix. You may do as you choose.”

“Then…have I your blessing?”

“If you require it, yes.”

Melbyrne’s grin became positively incandescent. “Thank you, Sin. I shan’t forget this.”

He was off before Sinjin thought to ask what had precipitated this sudden urge to propose. It didn’t really matter. The boy had never been committed to the Forties in any case.

Sinjin took a few more steps, stopped again, glanced at his watch and looked back the way he had come.

Where the hell was Nuala? And what would he do when he found her again?

Destroy her
.

Dragging his hand across his face, Sinjin banished the evil voice. He would keep it buried with enough whiskey to drown a whale.

Until she returned.

N
UALA KNELT BEFORE
the graves, head bowed.

The headstones were crumbling. They bore no names, no adornment; no one who did not know precisely where they were located could have found them.

That was how it had been meant to be, so no vengeful witch-finders could despoil the graves. Not that much had been left to bury, but at least some dignity had been granted the remains of the bodies left behind.

Mother
. Nuala laid her palm on the grass that covered Mrs. Moran’s resting place. Father, next to his beloved partner and wife.

There were others, nearly all of whom Nuala had known, worked beside, loved. Gregory, Sally, so many who had fallen.

The flowers Nuala had brought stirred in the wind. With barely a thought she sent the breeze away. She had been looking for peace here, some explanation for her returning powers, for what she had heard in Sinjin’s voice and seen in his face. She had hoped for some gentle spirit to explain what she must do, how she might earn an end to the memories.

But the graves were silent. The rustling leaves in the nearby wood made no answer. The small animals who crept so near had no advice to give.

Slowly she rose, automatically brushing the soil and grass from her skirts. She wandered back along the barely visible path through the wood, beside several fields and into the village. It, too, was a quiet place, never touched by the witch-hunts. To these farmers and villagers, such horrible events might never have occurred.

Nuala retreated to her small room at the inn and lay on the bed, praying that a few hours’ rest would bring some clarity to her mind. It did not. At dinnertime she descended to the dining parlor, prepared to eat another meal alone with her thoughts.

“Mind some company, gal?”

Nuala emerged from her brown study and glanced at the old woman in surprise. She hadn’t seen the woman before; she might have been a fellow guest at the inn, or simply one of the villagers come in for a meal or a gossip with the innkeeper. Her appearance was unremarkable, her clothing very plain and patched, her skin weathered from much time spent out of doors. A straggle of thin, gray hair peeked out from beneath her bonnet.

“Please,” Nuala said, indicating the chair next to hers.

The old woman sighed as she sank into the chair. “I see yow sittin’ aloon here and thought ya might like a talk.”

“That is very kind of you, Mrs….”

“Simkin.” She signaled to the barmaid, with whom she was clearly acquainted, and grinned at Nuala. Her teeth were surprisingly white, and all seemed to be present.

“You’ve come a long way, haven’t yow, gal?” Mrs. Simkin asked, meeting Nuala’s gaze with watery blue eyes.

Nuala relaxed. In over two centuries, she’d had far more dealings with common folk than the Society of which she was now a part, and she was almost grateful to be called something other than “Lady Charles.”

“I have, Mrs. Simkin,” she said. “All the way from London.”

“Huh.” The old woman cocked her head. “More’n just from Lonnon, I think.”

The air felt a little cold in spite of the warm weather. “We all make many journeys in life, do we not?”

Mrs. Simkin laughed. “Aye, that we do. Wise yow are, for such a fine lady.”

Before Nuala could answer, the barmaid arrived with two pint glasses of ale. Mrs. Simkin immediately picked up her glass. Nuala left hers untouched.

“Come on, then, gal,” Mrs. Simkin said. “Yer not too fine for a pint, or I ain’t old enough to be yer granny.”

Nuala couldn’t help but smile. “It’s been a very long time,” she said.

The old woman set down her glass and studied Nuala with a grave air. “What is it, then?” she asked. “What’s troublin’ yow? It’s him, innit?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s plain as day, gal. Yer runnin’ away.”

The ale exerted a suddenly powerful appeal. “What makes you assume such a thing, Mrs. Simkin?”

She shrugged. “Comes to me sometimes. Feelin’s I get.”

The old woman might have been talking about Nuala herself, of those long years when
feelings
had guided her in her work.

“We’re both of us different, yow and me,” Mrs. Simkin said. “That’s why I have advice to give yow, unasked though it be.” She finished her ale and stared pointedly at Nuala’s glass. “Might be best if yow drink up, gal.”

Nuala made no move to take it. Was it possible that she had found another witch, a survivor of the dark times? “What advice do you have for me, Mrs. Simkin?”

“There are things yet undone atween yow and this man. Runnin’ away won’t ease yer pain.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

The blue eyes narrowed in their nests of wrinkles. “Lyin’ don’t suit yow, gal.” She placed her hand at the small of her back and groaned, regarded her empty glass with disfavor and turned her unyielding gaze back to Nuala. “Yow understand well enough. Yow think yer afraid of him, but it’s really yourself yow fear. That’s why yow have to go back.”

“Of course I intended to return. I only came to Suffolk—”

“—because yow thought the answers would be here. But they lie in yer own heart, gal.”

Nuala stared at the nicks in the well-worn surface
of the table. The old woman was correct. She would not find answers here. What was there left to do but return and face Sinjin again?

“You are right, Mrs. Simkin,” she said slowly. “I will find nothing more in Suffolk.”

The old woman nodded, though she didn’t smile. “Beware yer anger, gal. It lies at the root of the evil yow fight.”

Her
anger? Was that what the old woman had meant when she’d said that Nuala feared herself more than Sinjin? Hadn’t she been angry with Sinjin from the beginning…angry that he’d held her to blame for Giles’s death, angry that he had kept Felix Melbyrne from Deborah, angry that he had made her feel…

Nuala rose, making quite certain that she was steady on her feet before she let go of her chair. “Thank you for your advice, Mrs. Simkin,” she said, laying several coins on the table. “I shall keep it in mind.”

“There is something stronger than anger or hatred,” the old woman said before she could walk away. “It is the one thing yow have lacked since the day of yer sin.”

Nuala turned back, feeling faint. “Who
are
you?”

But the other woman got up and hobbled away without another word, never slowing until she was out the door.

Suppressing her impulse to follow the old seer, Nuala spoke to the innkeeper and arranged for a carriage to be brought round in two hours’ time. She
retraced her steps to the graveyard and knelt on the giving earth.

“I understand now,” she said. “You sent me the answer I needed, even if it was not the one I hoped to hear.”

Leaves swayed, and a mouse rattled through the grass. Nuala lowered her hand, and the tiny rodent scurried into her palm.

“Is that what I’ve been missing?” she whispered. “Is that why the price has not yet been paid?”

The mouse twitched its whiskers at her, leaped from her hand and scurried away. Nuala got up, touched each of the headstones in turn, and made her way back to the inn.

T
HE WRITING IN THE LETTER
was as ugly as its sender.

Deborah laid the sheet of paper facedown on her desk and gazed out the window at the black, starless sky. She need never read it again; its contents were seared into her mind, misspelled scrawls that nevertheless made their meaning clear.

Bray had given her five days. Five days to pay the man before he released his “evidence” of her low birth to the gutter newspapers, those cheap and common scandal sheets whose editors had no compunctions about printing scurrilous items that might embarrass the nobs with their fancy carriages and palatial houses.

Strangely enough, Deborah hadn’t been alarmed by the threat. She had told herself that the low papers were scarcely to be believed when it came to the
most pernicious gossip. She knew that hardly anyone in Mayfair or Belgravia was likely to read them. And she had promised to wait for Ioan to confirm or deny the existence of the “witnesses” Bray had claimed he could produce as evidence of Deborah’s shameful origins. She had placed her faith in Ioan’s certainty of Bray’s deception, and so she had not paid the blackguard a single penny.

But now she understood that such hopes and assumptions had been misplaced. The five days had passed, and Bray had made good on his threats. He had sent Deborah a copy of the testimony given by the “landlady” who had agreed to confirm his assertions. It was plain, unadorned and entirely convincing. There were others just like the landlady who were prepared to come forward, and not all of them could have been bribed or bullied into supporting Bray’s story.

So it must be true. The sooner Deborah accepted the consequences of that truth, the better. The papers containing the sordid news might already have been released. In the best of all possible worlds, no one in Society would ever learn of the scandal.

But
she
would know. She could never forget.

Returning the papers to the desk drawer, Deborah found that her thoughts were strangely clear. The best thing she could do now was quietly leave London. Her parents—the only parents she had ever known—had left her a cottage at Baden. She might not merit the title she had received from Lawrence, but the cottage was hers by law. There she would be safe.

Nuala ought to be told. But she had gone out of town again, clearly preoccupied with troubles of her own—doubtless involving the earl of Donnington—and Deborah had no desire to add to them.

No; it would be wisest to escape the city while Nuala was away. Once Deborah had reached Baden, she would write to Nuala and explain everything. Felix would also have to be told, of course, when she was well settled. If Society determined that he was courting Lady Orwell and she had jilted him, surely no one would blame
him
. Any embarrassment he might suffer would be short-lived.

And Ioan wouldn’t have to worry about her any longer.

Resolved on her course of action, Deborah entered her dressing room and began to consider which of her gowns she would take with her. She intended to live modestly; there would be no need for ball gowns or evening frocks. Two trunks would suffice for her journey; she would secure Stella another position before she left. There would doubtless be girls in Baden that Deborah could employ to help her in running her new household.

She was examining one of her half-mourning gowns when Stella’s familiar knock sounded at the door. Deborah let her in, careful not to reveal any untoward emotion.

“Mr. Davies has come to see you, Lady Orwell,” Stella said, a certain eager gleam in her eye. “He is waiting at the kitchen door.”

Deborah studied Stella closely. The girl had known of Ioan’s first visit, and doubtless servants’ gossip had spread throughout the household. The world below stairs was a stratified one, in which the staff were very proud of their own ranks and the positions of their masters and mistresses, yet there was nothing but approval in Stella’s manner. She quivered like a hound on the scent.

“No one will speak of it, your ladyship. I swear it.”

Deborah believed her, but still she hesitated. Ioan had promised to return when he had proof that Bray’s claims were either true or false. He would only be confirming what she already knew, and her shame would be complete.

But to say goodbye, and thank him again…that seemed the least she could do.

With Stella’s aid, she dressed again and went downstairs. Ioan waited, cap in hand, his features picked out in moonlight and shadow. His solemn expression brightened when he saw her. Deborah’s heart turned over.

“Lady Orwell,” he said. “I have good news.”

She tried not to look into his eyes, tried not to think of the strong, warm body under the worn and humble clothing. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Davies,” she said.

He frowned a little, as if he were wondering why she seemed so uninterested in his “good news.” “I have searched Whitechapel and talked with many people,” he said. “There is no evidence that anything Bray said is true.”

If only that were so. If only…
Deborah took herself in hand and managed a smile.

“I am grateful for your efforts,” she said. “You have put my mind at rest.”

But she knew he didn’t believe her. His frown, confined at first to his dark brows, reached his eyes.

“If you will forgive me, your mind is not at rest,” he said.

How could she possibly tell him that she thought him to be lying, if only to protect her? “I have reason to believe that this…episode is not over,” she said, feeling her way. “I have decided to leave London for a little while, until—”

“Leave London?” His quiet voice rose to an angry protest. “Why? You have no reason to do so. Not while I—”

He broke off. They stared at each other.

“You think I am lying to you,” Ioan said.

“No! Not lying. It is just—”

“You’ve seen him again.”

“No. Not since my last visit to Whitechapel.”

He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I shall find him again. I shall do what I ought to have done in the beginning.”

“No!” She began to walk toward him, stopped, tried to shake the confusion out of her head. “It has nothing to do with you, Mr. Davies. This is
my
concern. I have made my decision.”

Never had Ioan Davies looked so close to violence. “And how will you explain this sudden departure to your own people?”

Her own people. The cream of Society, to which Ioan could never belong.

“Please understand, Ioan. Whether or not the story is true, I…need to return to the place I always considered my home.”

“Where?”

“In Switzerland, at Baden. My…Sir Percival and Lady Shaw left me a cottage, and—”

“I will not let you go.”

“We may be friends, Mr. Davies, but—”

He moved too swiftly. His arms closed around her, and his lips caught hers…firmly, decidedly, with all the leashed force of determined masculinity.