A Sense of Sin (27 page)
Because his father did not like anything he could not control, had always been Del’s opinion. But there was no answer to give that would not insult them both.
“It is because you are your own man. You set yourself out to be, ten years ago, wholly outside of my influence or interference. Once I knew what you had done—joined His Majesty’s Marine Forces rather than merely run away or having been carried off by some miscreant, as we imagined—I thought you had done it to prove yourself worthy and capable, on your own terms, of the power and privilege that had come to you by right of birth. Was I wrong?”
It was a good thing Celia had him so accustomed to shocks. “No, sir. You are not wrong.”
“Yet
you
have not been satisfied. You have not come back to Cleeve ready or willing to take on any of the responsibilities for which you have proven yourself so immensely capable. This I do not understand. I cannot comprehend why, after nine years of meritorious, courageous service, you should have spent the past year wasting everything for which you labored, throwing off every characteristic you set out to earn.”
you
have not been satisfied. You have not come back to Cleeve ready or willing to take on any of the responsibilities for which you have proven yourself so immensely capable. This I do not understand. I cannot comprehend why, after nine years of meritorious, courageous service, you should have spent the past year wasting everything for which you labored, throwing off every characteristic you set out to earn.”
His father rose out of his chair in his agitation and paced behind his desk. “So I can only wait until you are satisfied, and pray that day will not come at my death.”
Del swallowed hard, his misconceptions a bitter pill lodging in his throat. That his father understood his motives, and perhaps even approved of them, had never, ever occurred to him. That he should be waiting,
waiting
patiently for Del to come back on his own, was astounding and remarkable. And wholly new.
waiting
patiently for Del to come back on his own, was astounding and remarkable. And wholly new.
His defiance, his refusal to even attempt to see the world from his father’s side of that desk, began to seem childish and ultimately, simply wrong.
“I take your point, sir. And I . . . apologize. I am ready to take up my responsibilities to you and to Cleeve in the very near future. But I have one last task to complete—this business about Emily—I need to finish before I can be at your disposal.”
That his father was surprised was evident in the utterly blank look on his face and in the abrupt way he resumed his seat. “It cannot be that easy.” His father frowned at him. “I finally avail myself of the opportunity to speak to you on the subject and it simply comes to an end? Great God. I would have spoken to you a year ago, had I known it could be so easy.”
Del shrugged sheepishly. “Perhaps it is simply time.”
His father’s wry smile showed he thought it well past time, but Del was surprised to note his father refrained from voicing his sentiments, and said only, “However it comes to pass, I am glad for it. Finish whatever business you have about Emily—but kindly do remember to spare your mother any greater heartache—and come back to us as soon as you can. I should be very glad to have you for my own sake, but also for your mother’s and your brothers’.”
Del took up the ledger and moved through the suite to the library, warming with the pleasure of being understood. Then, the first person who had introduced him to that pleasure came in the door. Celia wore a worried smile.
“The footman told me I could find you in here. How did it go with the Earl? What did you find?”
“Nothing yet. This ledger contains the inventory of Emily’s things brought home from school.”
Celia’s brow puckered even as she peered at the page. “A formal inventory?”
“My father has something of a penchant for record keeping.”
“Oh.” Her face cleared as she considered that. “I can see why he might, with so many properties to keep track of and so many people under his care and responsibility.”
So eminently reasonable. Of course she would see it as such. But even with his newfound understanding of his father, Del discovered he was not yet ready to give over all his resentments. “I don’t know, perhaps he might accomplish it by actually knowing the people involved and listening to them. Then he might remember things instead of having to rely upon his neat little ticks and numbers in ledgers. People ought not to be reduced to neat, tidy columns. Dead daughters should not be reduced to a list of durable goods. Life is too precious, though it is generally neither tidy nor neat.”
Celia stared at him with her wide, startled eyes and then she simply put her arms around his middle and hugged him. He slowly put his arms around her, and felt the fragile strength of her body. “Thank you. Come, let us look at the lists.”
They poured over them together, side by side, her rich sable head bent close to his. Celia pointed to a particular entry. “I think this means there are, or at least
were
, three sets of letters. How do we get them?”
were
, three sets of letters. How do we get them?”
Del immediately called for Mrs. Starling, Cleeve’s housekeeper, who informed them she would have the items brought down from storage within a half hour.
The footman delivered three meticulously labeled leather boxes, dusted and cleaned before they were brought downstairs from whatever attic in which they had been found. The first box contained the Countess’s letters to her daughter, still bound in blue ribbon. The letters shouldn’t have surprised Del. After all, Emily had been an active correspondent with him, why should it surprise him she had also been writing to her mother? It was just that he had never imagined it. He had thought of his tie to Emily as so wholly private, he did not consider she might have had other familial ties as well.
The second box knocked him over the head with the wrongness of his assumptions. For there, also carefully banded with ribbons, were letters from his father, the Earl of Cleeve, to his beloved daughter. Del picked one up to assure himself they were real. They were written, not in Mr. Sands’ clean, elegant hand, but in his father’s more crabbed, intense style. They were many in number, at least two letters a week for the entire two-year period she spent at school. And they were signed, one and all, not by the Earl of Cleeve, or even Cleeve, but by
your loving Papa.
your loving Papa.
Del read another and another. They were full, not just of the social events their mother had detailed, but of personal concerns and inquiries. Did she have enough pin money, was the school warm enough, did she like her classes, could he send anything for her comfort?
That his father was a cold, demanding man, withdrawn from his family, had been one of Del’s longest-held beliefs. And it was simply not true. Or at least it was not true for Emily.
Celia had somehow followed the direction of his thoughts. “Del, why did you leave?”
“I didn’t leave. Not in the beginning. I was sent away, as most boys are, to school. And then, later, I simply went on an adventure.”
She frowned at him. Clearly, a longer, better answer was in order.
“When I went away to school, I loved it. I was freed, at least temporarily, from the restrictions of being the heir. I could play and talk with boys my own age, and my own station in life. And others who were not. I fell in with a group of boys who were younger sons—they called themselves the Ready Seconds. I came to admire them. They had more pluck and substance, more ability to do things for themselves than I did. As younger sons, they were more used to doing things, achieving their ends by their own merit. I resolved to be like them. I used Delacorte as a name—not Darling. As the time came to leave school, most of them were destined for the military. So I signed up, too. But lacking my father’s approval and patronage, I could not buy a commission, so I simply enlisted in his Majesty’s Marine Forces. I took the king’s shilling and off I went from Portsmouth.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Only for someone born an heir. For almost every other man I encountered in my years of service, such a story is all too ordinary.”
“I see.” She nodded, then held something out to him. “Here they are.”
The last two of Emily’s letters. Written, he could see, a day apart, starting three days before her death. They were still sealed. No one had ever read them. Del took them to the window and sat down to read them. His fingers were shaking. Celia stayed where she was, alternately biting her lips and the nail of her thumb. He could do nothing for the moment to relieve her anxiety. Because he shared it.
He broke the seal and read. When he finished he looked up at Celia. “Emily was being blackmailed—with the rumor of your supposed illicit relationship.” It was so close to their own circumstance, Del had no doubt he knew the name of her blackmailer. He broke open the second letter.
Celia rose. She could not keep still. She lifted her hand to cover her mouth.
He scanned the second letter, then spoke. “It was Melissa Wainwright. Emily confirms it. She states her intention of confronting Melissa, who, I’m quoting from the letter,
somehow knows the exact amount of guineas I have in my possession. Almost as if she had counted them herself. But she has counted far less than I know I ought to have, for they are quite regular in arriving, but not in being spent. I can only suspect she has been stealing them and now wants to get ahold of the whole lot free and clear without being accused of stealing
.”
somehow knows the exact amount of guineas I have in my possession. Almost as if she had counted them herself. But she has counted far less than I know I ought to have, for they are quite regular in arriving, but not in being spent. I can only suspect she has been stealing them and now wants to get ahold of the whole lot free and clear without being accused of stealing
.”
Del looked up at Celia. “It took her far less time to figure it out than either one of us.”
“Will your father have a record of what monies he sent Emily?”
“No doubt.”
“We can cross-check against this inventory.” She ran back to the table to scan the ledger they had brought up from the library. “No monies recorded as being amongst her possessions. Are you sure she did not intend to pay Melissa?”
Del turned back to the letters. “Quite sure.”
“Then Melissa is quite possibly a thief as well as a blackmailer. I remember Emily used to be a little cavalier about the money—saying it was always more than she could ever spend. I think she thought your father spoiled her in that regard.”
“I’m glad if he did.”
“And shall you tell him so?”
He grinned at Celia, with her incredible insights. “Yes, Celia, I think I shall.”
Del found his father in his book room.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes, we did. I must tell you, Emily was being blackmailed over a supposed liaison.” He kept the nature of the rumor to himself. It would only serve to embarrass Celia. “I know the identity of the blackmailer, and I intend to bring her to justice.”
His father hid his surprise, but not his outrage. Del could see his jaw flex hard before he spoke. “How? On what sort of a charge?”
“Theft, if nothing else. It is my belief this person, Melissa Wainwright, stole considerable monies from Emily. All the pin money you had sent her during the time she was there. I wonder if you could have Sands confirm the number for me?”
“Of course. But I know myself what I sent to her—four guineas a month. It seemed little enough.”
“Celia’s memory was that Emily rarely spent the money, so even if she spent some, that still leaves well over two hundred pounds. People are transported for far less.”
“But how shall you prove it?”
“I am not yet sure, but I will need to leave immediately, before I lose track of Miss Wainwright.”
“Then I will wish you Godspeed.”
“Thank you, sir.” Del lingered another moment.
“Was there something else?”
“Yes, I wanted to thank you for keeping such good records, and for keeping all the letters. They were invaluable.”
“I’m glad.”
“So am I.” Del swallowed his pride. “But I am also angry.”
The Earl’s head came up. “Why should you be angry?”
“Because those letters, so meticulously kept, showed me a side of you I had not the wit nor the maturity to think even existed. I am angry I denied it to myself.”
His father was completely, utterly still for a very long moment. “As it happens, I owe you an apology as well. Because if you had not run off, if you had not gone off to make your own way, I might not have felt the loss so heavily. I am sorry it took your leaving to make me a better father.”
Del could not believe there was heat welling in his throat.
“Will you not stay? At least for a short time? It would mean a great deal to your mother.”
Del swallowed over the knot in his throat at the thought of his mother’s welcome and generosity. “I will come back, but this business of Emily’s death is unfinished. I have reason to believe . . . I no longer feel confident Emily’s death was a suicide.”
“Because of the theft? Perhaps Miss Wainwright was simply being an opportunist after Emily’s death. Rupert, it is a bitter truth to swallow, but I have her note. The note she wrote just before she killed herself.”
Without moving from his chair, his father opened a locked drawer of his desk and drew out a folded note.
A pain, which could only have been his heart breaking, knocked the breath from Del’s lungs. “You kept it.”
His father gave a rueful smile. “You have noted my record-keeping tendencies. But this isn’t a record this is . . . a reminder. As I said, some truths are too bitter to swallow all at once.”
“May I see it?”
“Yes, of course.”
C
HAPTER
26
HAPTER
26
C
leeve Abbey fell away as the Earl’s traveling coach headed southeast, back to London. Back toward Melissa Wainwright. Del and Celia sat side by side on the forward-facing seat. He held her hand tightly in his lap but did not say anything for miles and miles, disquieted, Celia thought, from his conversation with his father.
leeve Abbey fell away as the Earl’s traveling coach headed southeast, back to London. Back toward Melissa Wainwright. Del and Celia sat side by side on the forward-facing seat. He held her hand tightly in his lap but did not say anything for miles and miles, disquieted, Celia thought, from his conversation with his father.
“Did you mean that?” he asked at last. “What you said to my mother? That you had already fallen in love with me long before you met me, or did you just say it to ease her mind?”
“I told you when I first met you, I had made up my mind to like you long before I ever met you. And that was why. I was abominably in love with you.”
He reached across and lifted her clear off the seat and onto his lap. She folded herself into his warmth and comfort. “How very intelligent you were to do so.”
“It was not particularly intelligent. It was
daring
.”
daring
.”
He kissed her, gently at first, but what began in sweetness and gratitude soon became something more, something hungry and yearning. His lips, his lovely, firm, bow-shaped lips pressed into hers again and again. His hands left her waist to skim along her jaw and angle her mouth for his opening. His tongue stroked and licked at her, kindling the fire between them with each blissful sear. Everything within her, every nerve, every fiber of her being reached out to him, with heat and urgency.
She slid her hands along the strong line of his jaw, marveling at the strength inherent in each and every part of him. Marveling at the difference between the rasp of his clean-shaven skin and the opulent softness of his firm lips. Such a dichotomy, such contradiction, all within one man.
His mouth left hers to kiss his way down her neck. She arched her neck to give him greater access even as she ran her own hands through his soft, shining hair and pulled herself closer to him, closer to his heat and his warmth. Closer to his love.
Then his gloved hands were at her bodice, quickly stripping away her buttons, parting her short redingote and waistcoat, pulling apart her chemisette, until he bared her to her stays. His mouth was on her skin above the line of her shift and she was arching and throwing back her head to help him, to show him what she wanted. To show him her love.
Del was as intent, as ravenous as she—kissing and pushing away fabric, layer by layer, and working the laces of her stays until he freed her breasts, so he could ravage her with his eyes, his mouth, and his tongue. She held him to her, her hands tangling in his hair, as he sucked and tongued her over and over, moving from one tightly furled peak to the other, leaving a trail of fire from her breasts to deep within, to her womb.
He let her go, lifting his mouth from her body. He picked her up off him and pressed her into the seat opposite, leaving her there, bared to the waist, gasping and panting with need, while he divested himself of unneeded clothing.
Del pushed his hat away and stripped off his gloves, throwing them onto the seat without even looking. He unbuttoned and shrugged his way out of his coat, and flung away his cravat. He looked at her with such heat and intent, it knocked the breath from her and she was in pain, aching without being touched. She thought he would lift her to him to kiss and fondle. But he reached down and raised her legs to either side of him, resting them on the opposite seat.
Celia’s heart began to pound. She remembered only too well the night they had been in the carriage together and his feet had been set high on the seat, surrounding her. “Del?”
“Brace yourself, Celia.” He flipped up her skirts and ran his hands up and down her legs, over her stockings to the edge of her garters.
“No.” She was shocked at the openness, the sheer carnality of his intentions.
He grinned and nodded in the affirmative. “Oh, yes.”
“Del, you can’t—”
Del slid to his knees in front of her. “I can. I will.”
“But the curtains. Someone could see.”
“Only you. If you pull your bodice back into order no one will know, will they? They’ll just see a lady sitting, oh so very primly in her carriage, and they’ll never suspect that I’m under your skirts, licking your quim and making you come into my mouth.”
She was shocked by his raw carnality but helpless to resist him and his sleepy-eyed intensity. Celia felt heat flash under her skin, and her head felt light, faint with anticipation and need. Del put his hands upon her legs and pushed them wider. He lowered his head to feather kisses inside her thighs and she felt herself come undone, inch by tantalizing inch.
Oh, God, yes, he could.
Celia nearly shrieked at the first warm, wet lick of his tongue across her. But the sound that came out of her mouth was all animal pleasure.
Celia nearly shrieked at the first warm, wet lick of his tongue across her. But the sound that came out of her mouth was all animal pleasure.
“Mmm,” he agreed, and she could feel his voice vibrate through her as he tongued and probed her. She was afloat, warm and languid, buoyed along on a current of soft, infinitely pleasant sensation.
With a precise touch she could never have prepared herself for, he kissed her
there
. On that spot, on the place from which her desire arose. Her pearl, he had called it and she felt like a pearl—smooth, flowing with liquid light. A craving, a hungry yearning, rose within her and her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him to her, pressing his lips, his beautiful clever lips against that most sensitive place. She felt feverish with the relentlessly gentle onslaught of his tongue against the center of her very being.
there
. On that spot, on the place from which her desire arose. Her pearl, he had called it and she felt like a pearl—smooth, flowing with liquid light. A craving, a hungry yearning, rose within her and her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him to her, pressing his lips, his beautiful clever lips against that most sensitive place. She felt feverish with the relentlessly gentle onslaught of his tongue against the center of her very being.
Her fingers curled and dug into the upholstery, frantic to hold herself down, anxious to bind herself to him, but she was falling away, upward, carried aloft by his strength and his gentleness.
Her unruly, daring body was still rooted upon the earth, writhing upon the seat, twisting and turning until, with one precise elegant touch she flew, blinded by the explosion of light and heat behind her eyelids.
She had time to rest in the afterglow of her release. While she was still wet and still shaking from the outrageous force of his love, Del wasted no time. He unbuttoned the flap on his breeches, lifted her up like a rag doll and just as easily lowered and impaled her upon his ready cock.
And they burst into flame.
Celia woke with a headache, something she was normally unaccustomed to. She told herself it was due to the distress and tension of the whole affair, the hideous apprehension that Melissa’s “independence” might actually have come from Emily’s stolen guineas.
It might also have been due to the fact she woke up alone. Instead of her husband’s shining head, there was a note on the pillow beside her.
My dear, forgive me. I thought it best to get this business out of the way and done with. Younghusband goes with me, as does a magistrate from the Bow Street Court. I hope to bring you news by this afternoon.
The clock had not yet struck seven. Celia pelted out of bed and grabbed up the first garment she could find to cover her nakedness, her husband’s elegant silk banyan.
“Del? Del!” Her words echoed in the corridor as she pelted down the stairs towards the back of the house. “Don’t you dare be gone. Del!”
Celia went down the servants’ stairs into the kitchen, where she found only Mrs. Bobbins. “Where is everyone?”
“My lady.” The cook bobbed a quick half-curtsy, moving a pot easily from the stove to the table. “Gone off early, they all did. Gosling with my lord. And your girl Bains, she’s gone off to get me some eggs. We had no word you were coming back so soon, and Bains didn’t think you’d be up this early, else she’d be here to see to you.”
“Yes, of course, that’s fine. How long ago did they leave? The Viscount, that is?”
“Couldn’t say, as they didn’t take any breakfast. Shall I get you your chocolate, then, my lady?”
Celia didn’t answer and ran back up the stairs to poke her head through the drawing room curtains and scan North Row. Empty. She was too late—Del must have left at dawn. She didn’t even have Melissa’s direction—only that she was somewhere in Marylebone.
She would have to wait.
By the time she stomped barefooted back down to the breakfast room, muttering vile imprecations against overprotective husbands, Mrs. Bobbins had brought a lovely pot of chocolate. “You just start on that and I’ll have the rest up in a tic, sure as Sundays.”
Celia sat down, poured herself a cup, and was in the midst of contemplating whether or not she had better take the cup back upstairs to attempt to dress when Mrs. Turbot, towing Melissa Wainwright by the hand, appeared in the corridor. At first glance, Celia had the impression of a governess hauling along a reluctant, naughty pupil. Had Mrs. Turbot brought Melissa there, to her, for a reckoning? But where was Del? It seemed so . . . wrong.
She stood when Mrs. Turbot sighted her and came straight for the breakfast room. There was no other way out of the room. “Mrs. Turbot, Melissa, to what do I owe the honor?” Her voice was thin and quavering, and could not carry it off with any aplomb.
“Honor,” Mrs. Turbot sneered. “I’ve had more than enough of your honor, thank you very much. You and your husband, both.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You may beg all you like. In fact, by the time we’re through, my lady, I’ll wager you’re going to beg whether you like it or not.”
Gooseflesh prickled across Celia’s skin. She did not know what to do, but she knew she had to do
something
. “Mrs. Turbot, you appear greatly agitated. Let me get you a dish of tea.”
something
. “Mrs. Turbot, you appear greatly agitated. Let me get you a dish of tea.”
“No farther,” the woman cried, and pulled out a small pistol from the pocket of her gown.
Celia almost laughed. The gun, however tiny, looked entirely ridiculous in the hands of Mrs. Turbot, with her lace mobcap perched atop her head like a large white toadstool. Celia slid slowly into the chair, and tried to employ the sort of voice Del used upon her, hypnotic and soothing.
“I fear you are greatly overset, Mrs. Turbot. Perhaps you and Melissa might sit down to recover yourself.” She glanced at Melissa, who looked positively green. “Melissa looks like she could particularly use a cup of tea.”
“I am not overset. And I’ll be damned before I let you and that bloody Viscount Darling ruin everything we’ve worked for.”
“I told you we never should have—” Melissa stopped at a murderous look from Mrs. Turbot.
The aim of the gun in the woman’s hand wavered only momentarily before settling back on Celia. “Get up and come with us. You’re going to be our guarantee of safe passage. I’ve got a hackney carriage outside. Get up and come.”
Celia kept her eyes on the gun shaking in Mrs. Turbot’s hand and knew if she left the protection of her husband’s house—where her husband would, at some point, return and where someone surely could be called upon for assistance—if she went out into the streets with this woman, her chances of survival would diminish exponentially with every step away. She had to stay put. She had to be resolute.
“And how am I to do so? I would be happy to accompany you, but I am not at all dressed. If you will but give me—”
“No!” The gun wavered again. “You will go nowhere.”
“But surely if we are to leave in a hackney carriage, I must have clothes, or someone will notice. You cannot drag a half-naked woman through the streets of London without drawing attention.”
“Ma—”
“Melissa!” Mrs. Turbot cut her charge off. “Take that”—she motioned to the silk curtain ties—“and bind her hands.”
“How’s she to write the letter to Viscount Darling with her hands tied?” Melissa asked.
“It doesn’t matter who writes it, as long as he knows we’ve got her.”
“I think Melissa might be better employed in getting me a plain gown from my chamber, so I might be suitably covered when we leave.” Celia knew she was grasping at cobwebs, trying to come up with some way to stall for time, to get them separated. There was already friction between the two women. Perhaps she could exploit it to her benefit. “My dressing room is the last door on the left. The green should do very well.”
“No! Stay where you are, Melissa, and bind her.”
Melissa was half rebellion, half petulance, but she began to do as she was bid, unwinding the cord from the drapery.
“Don’t do it, Melissa. People are transported for stealing handkerchiefs. Imagine what a judge will do to someone who stole more than a hundred pounds from the Earl of Cleeve’s daughter. Not to mention blackmailing a peer.”
From her place at the window, Melissa’s nervous eyes darted to Mrs. Turbot.
“You should have listened when Viscount Darling warned you the first time, Melissa.” Celia kept at her. “You should have run when you had a chance.” Celia stepped toward her.
“That’s exactly what we aim to do now. Get away from her, before I have to shoot you where you stand. Don’t think I won’t! The Earl of Cleeve’s stubborn daughter died easy enough and if you don’t do exactly as I say, you’re next.”
Celia felt her heart stutter to a painful, lurching stop. “You killed Emily Delacorte?”
“That’s right,” snarled Mrs. Turbot at the same time Melissa blurted, “It was an accident.”
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