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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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And yet this
betrayer
presumed to speak to his pain. It was all he could do to stand it. “We have not been introduced.” His brain was beginning to work but so was his uneven temper.
“No, sir. I do apologize for my impetuous behavior but I felt I could not let you pass unnoticed. I am Miss Burke, Celia Burke, and I was a great friend of your late sister.”
“Ah, yes, The
Ravishing
Miss Burke.” He arched one eyebrow at that, indicating he found her sadly lacking in the ravishing department, and wasn’t about to be put off by the fact that she was clearly everyone’s favorite. She had chosen to tangle with him. He would let her do so at her peril. “One wonders how you came to be ravished, but it’s no wonder if you’re secreting yourself in closets, accosting men, and waiting for opportunities for assignations. You ought to be more careful. You’ll make yourself an easy target for blackmail.”
Her face registered his hit: an instantaneous recoil of her head, a dramatic paling of her skin, and the startled parting of her lips. But she did not run away in tears as she ought. Though clearly shaken, she spoke.
“Your very great pardon, sir. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me how I have offended you?”
It was an elegant little volte-face.
That she refused to be sensible of the danger into which she was putting herself made him irrationally angry. Did she not understand he was on to her filthy little game? Did she not comprehend her mistake in tangling with him? He stepped closer, so he could tell her in no uncertain terms exactly what he thought of her. But that moment brought him close enough that her scent wafted across his senses and ensnared his brain. That scent, something beyond just the light note of fragrance she wore, was like the answer to a question he had forgotten he had asked.
What do you want? The answer was,
this woman
.
He was acting completely irrational, he knew, but he inhaled again, deeply, his body commanding him to find more of the bliss that burst within his chest like an opiate, heady and intoxicating, knocking him off center.
He tried to force himself to act rationally and logically, as if that would give him armor against the feeling that the deck had turned to water beneath his feet. All he could think was that she smelled like the Garden of Eden, all fresh temptation.
His body, his senses would not let go of her
rightness
.
What had he been about to say? He had called her ravishing and she was, entirely. She had ravished
him
somehow, without a word, without him knowing how. Without his bloody, goddamned consent.
Del straightened and armed himself with his newfound knowledge. The little hothouse flower of a girl was the most dangerous woman he had ever met. He did the only sensible thing to do when faced with overwhelming enemy forces. He turned smartly on his heel and made his retreat.
That had not gone well. Celia realized Viscount Darling had just given her the cut direct. How strange, when
he
had been the one to burst in on
her
.
Yet, she was not sorry she had spoken to him. Her memory of Emily had demanded it. The knowledge of the close relationship Emily had shared with her brother had prompted Celia to speak. Emily had shared her letters from her brother, to ease their homesickness at school. At least Celia had been homesick, missing her family and her friends from Dartmouth. Emily had not missed her own home and family in the same way, but she had spoken constantly of her older brother, Del, and had read every letter of their secret correspondence out loud.
And Celia had fallen in love with him, that faraway, daring, adventurous man.
When he appeared, it was as if she had conjured him out of fantasy. She would have known him anywhere, he looked so much like his sister. The same blue eyes and golden blond complexion, all sunshine, open sky, and far-off, adventurous places. Of course, Emily had been willowy where the viscount was tall and broad, and undeniably feminine where he was all unbridled masculinity.
It stung, his out-of-hand rejection of her approach to him. More than stung—it hurt deeply. She had meant to be kind. She of all people knew the loss he had suffered. She knew from his letters how much he had loved his sister. How could she not speak to a man whose feelings, whose hopes and joys she had come to know as well as her own?
But she didn’t know him so well, after all. He was no longer the white knight of her schoolgirl infatuation. He was a blackmailer. Her blackmailer. He could not have stated his involvement any more clearly. How could he have become so different, so unworthy, so cold and uncaring? How could he have come to hate Emily’s memory so much, he would betray the love and affection she had so freely bestowed upon him?
It was a question without an answer, a pain with no antidote.
She would be the sorriest of friends if she would let him tarnish either her memories or her future in so callous and high-handed a fashion. He was not going to bully and blackmail her. She would not allow it. She had talents and intelligence. She would use them.
She would be obedient and compliant Celia Burke no longer. She would be resolute. She would become daring.
But at the moment, she was covered in ink. Her gown, which Bains had worked so hard embroidering, was ruined. Her mother was going to poke and prod and chide her over the incident.
Fifteen minutes spent arranging their hasty departure bore her out.
“Celia Augusta Burke,” her mama began as she was handed into the coach by Celia’s father. “You will kindly tell me where you disappeared to. And, oh my God, child, what in heaven’s name have you done to your gown?” Her grammar was slipping along with her elaborate feather headdress, crushed against the brocade, upholstered roof of the carriage.
“I spilled ink. You don’t need to upbraid me for my stupidity. I feel quite bad enough about it as it is. I’ve already thanked Papa for his kindness in cutting his, and your, evening short and allowing me to go home. I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, Celia.” Her mama heaved a long-suffering sigh. “And I suppose your gloves as well?”
“No, they survived quite unscathed. I had taken them off before I had my fateful encounter with the inkwell and Aunt Margaret’s housekeeper was kind enough to find me lemons from the orangery with which to bathe my hands and bleach the stains out of my fingers.”
“At least you had the presence of mind to do that. But this is what will happen when you keep disappearing.”
“Now, Caroline.” Lord Burke spoke up to ease Lady Caroline’s temper.
“Oh, well. Although, I don’t suppose you could have chosen a more opportune or auspicious moment. The Vile Viscount Darling, Rupert Delacorte, graced the ball with his scurrilous presence. I don’t know what could have possessed my sister-in-law, the Marchioness, to invite him. I daresay he was up to absolutely no good. He quite looked like the cat amongst the pigeons, he and the rest of that rather disreputable Royal Navy bunch out at Redlap Cove.”
“Mama, please. You know very well Captain Marlowe and Lizzie have gone off on one of his ships and the Lieutenant—no he’s Commander now—
Commander
McAlden is in residence at Glass Cottage to see that the free traders don’t dare come back to Redlap Cove. Viscount Darling was in His Majesty’s Marine Forces. It makes perfect sense he should know both Captain Marlowe and Commander McAlden.”
Lady Caroline’s owl-sharp eyes narrowed. “How do you know so very much about the man?”
“I don’t,” Celia covered. “I was at school with the viscount’s sister, Lady Emily Delacorte. You remember.”
“Be that as it may, I forbid you to know anything about him. You are not to so much as speak to him, under any circumstances. You are to give him the cut direct.”
How ironic Viscount Darling had already done the same. “I’m sorry, Mama, but I already have. Spoken to him.”
“What?” The exclamation was nearly a screech. Celia grabbed onto the leather carriage straps in case the horses bolted.
“I could hardly have avoided it, Mama. He found me quite by accident. But as I said, his late sister was a particular friend of mine from Miss Hadley’s in Bath. It would have been strange, not to mention rude, not to offer my condolences.”
“There was no reason for you to speak to him. He is a libertine. He is a rogue and a gambler. He is not seen in polite society.”
“Then you had best speak to Aunt Margaret about her guest list, rather than me.”
“Celia Augusta Burke! What has gotten into you?”
Celia closed her eyes on a sigh. She knew exactly what had gotten into her—or rather under her skin. Viscount Darling and his wretched blackmail.
Celia had never been the sort of child to make trouble or sail against the tide. It was only after the tumultuous events of a year ago that she had begun to grow out of her terrible awkwardness—thanks to her studies and the steady application of Lizzie’s outrageous affection. It was Lizzie who had teasingly given Celia the title The Ravishing Miss Burke. If Lizzie said it, all Dartmouth had decided it must be true.
Having people think she was beautiful had not mattered in the least. At least, not until Viscount Darling, the one man in all the world whose good opinion she had thought she wanted, had burst in upon her and looked at her with such infinite disdain. As if he were a lion and she was too skinny a Christian to bother killing. Not worth his time. The lion image suited him well. He had all but prowled into the bookroom, with the same rangy, swinging stride as the great lion pacing in its cage at the traveling zoological exhibit, all tawny, ferocious hunger, and pitiless, searching eyes.
As a lion, Viscount Darling ought to have an unruly, golden mane. Yet, his shining blond hair had been cropped brutally short, like new-mown wheat lying upon the ground, as if he had no time to waste upon the vanity of poetic, tousled locks. But even cropped short, in the candlelight his hair had been luminous, like the halo of a fierce martyred Christian. Or a pale, avenging Renaissance angel.
She had recognized him instantly because he looked so much like Emily, who had always appeared lit from the inside by the saintly glow of inner passion.
“What would you have had me do, Mama?” Celia lowered her voice and spoke softly to hide the strange feeling of restless, confusing disappointment. “Should I have cut him? Would that be the gracious, ladylike, Christian behavior you are always urging me to? I thought not. But you needn’t worry. We exchanged only a few words. I offered my condolences, and he did not seem pleased by my sentiments.”
“I imagine he was rude. He is no credit to his family, poor people. Careless, ratchety young man, that’s what he is,” Lady Caroline opined. “Ran away from his family to enlist, of all things, though he is the heir. No respect for what’s proper. He could have been dead for all they knew. Then suddenly he turns up, like a bad penny, straight from the Marine Forces where he had been the whole time. Years it was. Although they do say, he became an officer.”
“A Colonel, Caroline,” Lord Burke pointed out. “A position of rank and respect.”
“That is as may be. He is not an officer now, no matter what coat he wears. He is a careless, heedless libertine who drinks and gambles too much, and is too often found in the company of”—she looked at Celia and censured her language—“people of questionable morals. He is not the sort of man with whom Celia should associate, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
What a curiously careless lifestyle for a man engaged in blackmail.
He
ought to know better.
But it gave Celia ideas. Daring, adventurous ideas.
C
HAPTER
4
“H
ave you given up this infernal idea of yours about Miss Burke?”
Del could tell Hugh McAlden was still deucedly tetchy on the topic. He wouldn’t even pass the ale across the breakfast table at Glass Cottage, the remarkable, huge house perched near the cliffs at Redlap Cove, which McAlden was minding for Captain Marlowe.
“No, but what’s it to you?” Del reached across for the pitcher himself. “You harboring a secret
tendre
for The Ravishing Miss Burke?” The sudden unease in his gut was merely anger, nothing more. Nothing to do with disappointment or useless jealousies.
McAlden, damn his eyes, was neither flustered nor amused. “Don’t be any stupider than you can already help.”
“You seem to take a particular interest in her.”
McAlden shrugged away the suggestion, but his expression remained serious. Two parallel lines had etched themselves into his forehead. “It’s not particular on my part. She’s a nice girl, but she’s Mrs. Marlowe’s
particular
friend. God help you if
she
finds out about this.”
“She?”
“Captain Marlowe’s lady. Miss Elizabeth Paxton, as was, Lord Paxton’s daughter. If she gets wind of your plan, or if, God help you, you actually accomplish the ruination of Celia Burke, you’ll be lucky to escape with your life. She doesn’t forgive or forget, that one. And she won’t rest until she tracks you down.”
“Then we’ve a great deal in common.”
“Hmm. It gives me an idea.” McAlden eased himself back in his chair and smiled behind half-closed eyes. It was a look that spoke of pleased satisfaction.
It was a look, Del thought, of a man in love. He sat up straighter. “Ah. Now, I begin to see. It’s not Miss Burke you’re harboring a secret fondness for—it’s the absent Mrs. Marlowe.” It was a capital revelation. Del could drink on Hugh’s tab for months if he played it right.
“Oh, no secret at all. I am all open admiration for Captain Marlowe’s very fine wife. She’s a woman of admirable, uncommon qualities. She’s got a very long arm, a dead eye, and an uncanny ability with a wicked fowling piece. Not entirely housebroken, our Mrs. Marlowe.” McAlden’s grin curved up the entire side of his face. “Do you know,” he mused, “I think I
shall
write to tell her what you’re up to. It seems only fair. She can be counted upon to even out the odds. I reckon she’d take great pleasure in blasting a few holes in you.”
“Don’t interfere, Hugh.”
“Christ, Del, someone’s got to. It’s not right. Furthermore, it’s simply not
you
.”
“Isn’t it?” Del pushed away from the table. “You have no idea.”
“Then tell me,” McAlden insisted, leaning forward on his elbows. “Explain yourself like a man. Your dislike of Miss Burke, who from all accounts wouldn’t harm a flea, is”—he searched for the word—“irrational, a mania almost. Not at all the kind of logical, soldierly, and even gentlemanly behavior I would expect from you.”
“Gentlemanly? Does not a gentleman seek to revenge a wrong?”
“On Miss Burke? What on earth could she have done to wrong
you
?”
“Not me. My sister, Emily.”
McAlden’s mouth turned down in surprise before he sat back and crossed his booted ankle over his knee meditatively. “Didn’t know you had a sister. Didn’t know you were the bloody heir to the Earl of Cleeve and a Viscount to boot either, so it’s hardly surprising.”
“No.” Del hadn’t shared his family story or name with any of his shipmates or fellow officers. He’d been obsessed with the idea of earning his way on his own merit. McAlden knew almost nothing of Del’s past but that portion of his history they had shared aboard His Majesty’s Frigate
Resolute
.
“So what does your sister Emily have to do with Miss Celia Burke?”
“Emily was at school with Celia Burke. At Bath. They were friends by Emily’s account. Particular friends. Until Celia Burke betrayed my sister.”
“Betrayed? Doesn’t square with what I know of Miss Burke, but women are unpredictable creatures.”
“Exactly what Emily thought.”
McAlden took a long, meditative breath. “So you’re going to publicly ruin Celia Burke as a revenge for a betrayal?”
“You needn’t worry about it becoming public. I’ll be quiet enough.”
“Then a private revenge only. What does your sister say to that? Does she know what you plan?”
“No, she knows nothing. She’s dead. Emily killed herself. Threw herself off a bridge, I’ve come to find out. Because of the rumors. And it is
that
woman’s fault.” He jabbed his finger onto the wooden tabletop. “I will not rest until I have served her some of the same rough justice she gave Emily.”
The money was an impossible amount. Simply put, Celia had almost none. The small wooden chest containing what amounted to her life’s savings contained only one guinea, given by her grandmother on her last birthday, and three pounds in sovereign coins with assorted shillings and pence. A grand total of four pounds, four shillings, and a ha’ penny.
A pittance compared to how much she needed. She had some small pieces of jewelry she might take to a pawnbroker, but most would be missed if she did not wear them. Still, if she had any hope of coming up with the money, she would have to part with some of the pieces. There was no other hope for it.
Bains would no doubt object to find she was not to be given Celia’s cast-off clothing, but there were rag traders down on the quay who gave good money for clothes like hers. Celia would have to appeal to her.
She rang for Bains and laid out her plan in characteristic straightforward fashion, giving in to only a little falsehood. She could not bring herself to tell Bains the real reason behind her need for the money. Bains was loyal, but not to a fault. If she knew, she would feel compelled to tell Celia’s mama. Thankfully, Bains only raised her eyebrows but got to the business at hand.
“We can’t sell all of them, miss. And not round ’ere. These gowns of yours’d be recognized, sure as day. I’ll ’ave to get ’em down to Plymouth, somehow. Happens my sister’d do for you, as she goes down there time to time on a market day. She’ll get a fair price for ’em. But not that ’broidered silk, miss. I ’broidered that with gilt and silk thread, I did. You sell that, an’ your lady mother, Lady Caroline’d know straight off it were missing. Ruint as it is, I’ll cut up and rework that one.”
“All right. I’m sure you know best. How much do you think they will fetch?”
“Can’t rightly figure it, miss, but my sister Suzann’ll get you all she can.”
“Thank you. We’d best go through the jewelry as well.”
“You keep those lovely pearls Lady Caroline and Lord Thomas gave you ’pon your come out. And that cross, too. You part with those and they’ll be no end o’ trouble. Jig’ll be up right quick.”
“Thank you, Bains. I know this will be a loss for your pin money, but I’ll make it up to you. I will. Now let’s bundle these up and be off to your sister’s, before my lady mother makes other plans for my day.”
As it turned out, the lady had. Lady Caroline called out from her parlor as Celia and Bains made for the door.
“Celia? Where are you off to? I had thought to visit my cousin Harriet. You know her ball is only days away.”
“Yes, exactly. We are on our way to the town, Mama. I thought to look at some lace for my gown for Lady Harriet’s ball.”
“How nice you’re finally taking an interest.” Her mother gave her a genuine smile. “I believe I shall accompany you. What a wonderful summer for balls we’re having, to be sure, but you must look your very best at Cousin Harriet’s. Some of her guests will be coming from London,” she added meaningfully. “Though why anyone would want to live in London all the year round, especially in the summer, makes no sense.”
Celia felt Bains dig a thumb into her ribs from behind. “No! I mean, I’m taking the pony trap. It’s already at the door and . . . and Bains and I need to get there at the earliest possible—”
Bains piped right in on cue. “Mr. Morris, he did say as he could only hold that lace so long, miss, as there was others wanting it, though he’d rather sell it to you. Devon bobbin lace that is. Very fine.”
“Yes, of course.” Lady Caroline could only agree with such mercenary, if mercantile, logic. “If
you
are known to wear lace from Morris’s establishment, then all the other young ladies will be mad for it and he’ll sell twice as much. Canny man.”
“Yes, Mama. So we had best be going straightaway. You may trust between Bains and me, we’ll do very well. That last gown Bains made up was quite lovely—the embroidery alone . . .” She realized it was perhaps not an auspicious time to remind her mother of
that
particular gown. “We’d best be going.” She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek and let Bains hustle her out to the waiting pony trap.
“That was a near run thing, miss.”
“Yes.” Celia took up the reins and clucked the pony onward, away from Fair Prospect, as the house was called, with relief. Her mother would have insisted upon all the pomp and circumstance of a liveried coach with a full complement of servants, but the pony trap suited Celia’s country ways and her preference for a more low-profile approach to Dartmouth. Low profile, meaning invisible. Celia pulling up in a pony cart outside of Bains’ sister’s cottage would not be remarked upon, whereas a coach and four in the lane behind the village was sure to draw more than one eye.
“How much shall your sister be able to get? I should like to get at least fifty pounds.”
“Fifty pounds? Lord bless me, miss! You’ll be lucky to get a few pounds a dress, and that if Suz bargains hard.” At Celia’s astonished, crestfallen expression Bains added, “Bless me, child, you’ve no idea at all, do you?”
Celia blinked back the foolish heat building behind her eyes. Bains was right. She had no idea. “No, I don’t suppose I do. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself now, miss. Lord bless me, but if I had ever got fifty pounds selling your castoffs, I’d have no reason to work now, would I?”
“No, I suppose not.”
It came to Celia just how little she knew of the world, even the little that lay between the gates of Fair Prospect and the town. She was completely and utterly ill-equipped for dealing with the present circumstance. Her own maid knew the value of a pound far better than she. “If you don’t mind my asking, Bains, if it’s not too personal a question, how much do you earn in wages?”
“Well, I’m a ladies maid for you, so I get fourteen pounds per annum in wages, plus room and board and the pin money that comes from castoffs and what not. I’ve skills, haven’t I, what with hairdressing and the dresses I make for you. The only ones to earn more are Fells, your lady mother’s maid, and Lagman, who does for your father, Lord Thomas. Personal servants earn the most. I save most of mine, now our mum’s gone. I’ve been saving up so I can have my own shop some day and make dresses. But I don’t half mind working for you, miss. You’re a rare treat of a young lady, you are. Never an unkind word, and that’s worth mor’n wages, I can tell you. Here now, miss. Are you all right? I hope I haven’t put you out of countenance with what I said?”
“No. Not at all. You were right. Quite right.”
But she still needed the money. She had to have something with which to bargain when she dealt with Viscount Darling.
She thought about her drawings. Celia had nothing of the work she and Emily had completed before her death in Bath, but she had a full year’s worth of specimen drawings completed from her own work in Dartmouth. She had hoped to expand her study farther afield, throughout Devon, but she had not yet got very far. Publishing such a work, if it was even good enough for publication, would have to be undertaken in London. How was she to get there?
It was altogether impossible.
Unfortunately, the town, with its steep, narrow streets and busy shoppers, forced Celia’s attention to driving. She and Bains did have buying to do as well as selling. Her mama was expecting Celia in a new gown for the next summer ball.
Unlike most young ladies of her acquaintance, Celia wanted as little as possible to do with the process of selecting material and making up a new gown. Not that she didn’t appreciate the finished results, for it was always better to look fashionable rather than invite censure by appearing ill-dressed, but she had never felt less like spending money on something so frivolous as bobbin lace. Another beautiful ball gown was not going to improve her marriage prospects as much as the lack of blackmail money was going to ruin them.

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