Duchess of Sin (24 page)

The letters were faded to a reddish-brown, but the carefully detailed illustrations were still bright, touched with bits of
gold leaf and precious lapis.

“Oh,” Caroline sighed. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Sir Grant.”

He laughed. “Lady Caroline, I have never seen a woman so happy, even when she has just been given diamonds.”

“This is far better than any diamond.”

“I agree. Most people wouldn’t think so, though. They would say it is only an old book, an Irish one at that.”

“Then they are great fools.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps
we
are the fools, giving so much for a bit of leather and paper.” He drew out the chair behind the desk. “Here, sit. Take a
closer look at it.”

Caroline was most happy to oblige. She laid the book
reverently on the smooth wood, reading more of the dragon battle as Grant sat down beside her. “But it is so much more than
bits of paper, isn’t it? It’s history and life. When I think of the man who wrote these words, hundreds of years ago, I feel
connected to him and to what happened here so long ago. Connected to anyone who ever read this story and was moved by it.
It shows we are part of something bigger than ourselves and this present moment.”

“Yes, I know. Perhaps that is why I wanted this book so much. To show myself I am part of this land, just as King Connor and
Brother Michael were. That perhaps I have something to contribute to it.”

Startled, Caroline looked up at him over the pages. “Who are you and what have you done with Grant Dunmore?”

He laughed and shook his head. When he turned back to her, that shy pride she found so very appealing was gone. The Sir Grant
everyone knew—cynical, sophisticated, careless—was back. And she felt the sharp sting of disappointment. Their moment of connection,
so brief yet so real, had vanished.

“Perhaps I am just greedy, like everyone else in Dublin,” he said. “Perhaps I just like to possess things.”

“I wouldn’t mind possessing
this,
” Caroline murmured. She gently touched the gilt edge of the pages before carefully closing the
Chronicle
and handing it back to him.

His hand closed around hers, his touch cool and strong. Caroline found she wanted to twine her fingers with his, to feel his
touch grow tighter and warmer. Despite his changeable nature, all his secrets—or perhaps because of them—she was so intrigued
by him.

“Maybe soon we will be family, and then you can read
the
Chronicle,
or any of my books, whenever you like,” he said.

At the reminder that he was practically her sister’s fiancé, icy water was doused on Caroline’s intrigue. She dropped his
hand. “That is very kind of you. Thank you for letting me see the
Chronicle.
It’s beautiful.”

Grant took the volume and placed it back in its case. As Caroline watched in sadness, he locked it up and pocketed the key.
“I would show it to your sister if I thought it would impress her.”

Caroline laughed. “Anna reads poetry and novels, but she is not much interested in history or mythology. She makes fun of
my studies.”

“Oh?” He leaned back on the edge of the case, all lazy grace again. “What do you think
would
impress her?”

“Sir Grant, you are one of the most sought-after gentlemen in Dublin,” she said bluntly, suddenly impatient with his game
playing. She was also angry at herself for being drawn to his scholarly pride, for what she had imagined this collection said
about him. “All the ladies are in love with you. Surely she is impressed already.”

He arched his brow, which made him look like a quizzical young Celtic warrior from the
Chronicle
itself. “All the ladies?”

“Well, at least half of them.”

“But not the so-very-hard-to-impress Blacknall sisters?”

Obviously one of the Blacknall sisters was not so hard to impress. Caroline was drawn in by the mere sight of a rare book.
“If she did not like you, she would say so. Anna is very honest.” Usually. Though Anna, too, had seemed quiet and secretive
lately. Everyone was infected by the uncertainty of the times.

“Then I am glad to hear I may have a chance after all.”

“I could put in a good word for you,” Caroline teased. “I can easily be bribed with old manuscripts.”

“I will remember that for the future,” he said with a laugh.

She longed to ask him what his true feelings were for her sister. Did he care for Anna, not just for her dowry and connections
and beauty? Did he even know her at all? Would he be a good husband to her, or would they lead their own separate lives, as
so many fashionable couples did?

Her sister deserved a good match, a man who knew and appreciated her. And Caroline was sure any man with a library like this
deserved the same.

“You should go back to your guests,” she said. “You are the host, and I have monopolized your time long enough.”

“Of course I should return, Lady Caroline, though I can’t remember when I have so enjoyed being—monopolized. Shall I escort
you back to the drawing room?”

“No, thank you. Luckily for me, I have no pressing social duties at the moment. I’ll just sit here with the books a bit longer.”

“Lucky indeed. Please stay as long as you like.” He left the room, shutting the door behind him, and Caroline lowered her
head to the desk.

She wished she could just stay with books all the time. With careful study, any conundrum could be solved within their pages.
People she could never decipher, no matter how long she puzzled over them.

Once she could dismiss Grant Dunmore as a very handsome, very sophisticated, idle man of Society. Now she had no idea what
he was. But idle he was not.

After several long, quiet moments she finally felt calm
again. Grant Dunmore was Anna’s problem, but the Blacknalls were a close family. They shared each other’s problems, which
meant Caroline would keep a close watch on Grant in the future.

She straightened her skirts, which always seemed to be rumpled, and her hair, which always seemed to escape its pins. She
would never be the elegant beauties her mother and sisters were. Then she left the library, closing the door on all its wondrous
treasures.

As she made her way down the corridor toward the drawing room, she thought she heard voices. Low, urgent murmurs from the
shadows. She certainly did not want to interrupt some tryst by bumping into the secretive couple. She would just slip quietly
into the drawing room.

But she was brought up short by a quick glimpse of the people who hid behind one of the marble pillars. Grant Dunmore’s beautiful
bronze-brown hair glowed, quite unmistakable. His head was bent toward a woman as he whispered intimately in her ear, and
his hand splayed across her back to draw her closer.

The woman was not Anna, but Lady Cannondale in her distinctive green gown. She tilted her head back as she listened to him,
a knowing smile on her lips. As Caroline watched, flabbergasted, Lady Cannondale touched his cheek. Her gloved hand slid slowly
down his throat to toy with his cravat. It was a familiar, casual caress.

Caroline bit her lip hard to keep from shouting in protest. She might be buried in her books most of the time, but she was
not a complete fool about how the world worked. This was certainly no chance meeting between these two, Anna’s almost-fiancé
and her friend. The way they touched showed they were very intimate indeed.

The bastard,
Caroline thought bitterly as she tiptoed away. They were so occupied with each other that they did not even notice anyone
else was there. And with Anna in the very next room!

She wanted to scream at them and to beat Grant Dunmore over the head with one of his own books. Such a villain did not deserve
a treasure like the
Chronicle of Kildare,
and he certainly did not deserve her sister. Yet such impulsive action would only draw attention and cause embarrassment
to her sister. Anna had suffered enough pain in her life already.

The best thing, the only thing, Caroline could do was make sure her sister never married Grant Dunmore. Which meant the
Chronicle of Kildare
, glimpsed for one sweet moment, was lost to her.

She didn’t even want to think of the sharp twinge of disappointment that she felt over the man himself. For a few moments
there in the library, she thought she glimpsed his true self, a sensitive scholar and collector, he never showed to anyone.
But it had all been playacting.

Everything in their lives was always playacting. Only the world found in books was real. She couldn’t forget that again.

She stepped into the drawing room and forced a smile onto her lips. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see something was amiss.
Anna, who played a game of piquet with Lord Melton, called out, “Caro, there you are! Hiding in the library again?”

“Yes,” Caroline answered. “It was rather dull though, no interesting volumes at all.”

“I’m not surprised, considering the library belongs to Sir Grant,” said Melton, Anna’s partner. He sounded a bit
unsteady, as if he had consumed too much wine. “I doubt he reads anything but the racing papers.”

“Well, I am having a very good evening,” Anna said happily. “Luck is with me tonight, so I can buy you your own new book to
soothe your disappointment.”

“Just be careful, Anna,” Caroline warned. “Luck has a way of turning, I fear.”

“Not tonight!” said Anna.

Caroline smiled at her and went to sit with their mother, who talked to Lord Hartley by the fire. How she did like Hartley!
He was good, kind, and a bit dull but full of the love of scholarship, with no hidden angles so sharp they could cut. They
could build a content life together, she was sure of it.

And if he never made her heart pound like Grant Dunmore—well, that was all for the best. She didn’t need such distractions
in her life at all.

A
nna pulled the hood of her cloak closer around her face as she hurried down the street. There was no fog that night, but the
wind was biting, sweeping off the river and up the lanes like a furious ghost. She also didn’t want anyone to recognize her,
though there were few people out and about at that hour. She had the hackney leave her at the corner so she could walk to
the Olympian Club, and thus give herself a few moments to think.

When they returned from Grant Dunmore’s house, she had retired to bed as a sensible person should, yet she couldn’t sleep.
She lay there in the dark, her mind racing with all she
should
do, all she probably
would
do in the end—and all she really wanted deep in her heart.

She knew what her mother wanted from her. She wanted her to marry Grant Dunmore, to be mistress of his fine townhouse and
his country estate, and take her place as a leader of Society. With Eliza’s exile and Caroline set on marrying fusty old Lord
Hartley and being a bluestocking, Katherine deserved one daughter conventionally settled. Anna had spent two years getting
into trouble
and causing gossip. Perhaps it was time that she thought of what she owed her family.

Tonight’s party had shown her a glimpse of what her future life would be as Lady Dunmore: parties, chatter, an elegant home,
a handsome, charming husband. A husband who had a streak of ruthlessness behind his so-handsome face. A man had to be ruthless
to try and use the unjust Penal Laws to snatch the estate from his own kinsman.

But was Adair any better, any less ruthless, in going after what he wanted? He certainly had his share of secrets.

She had terrible judgment in men, it was true. Both were less than sensible choices, Adair least of all. Yet something kept
pulling her back to him.

And that was why she crept out of her house in the middle of the night again. She wanted to see him once more in the wild
hope that she could see clearly at last. She would know what to do, as if by magic.

Highly unlikely, of course, but here she was making her way, half-bold and half-fearful, to the Olympian Club. But the club
seemed to be closed.

Anna stood by the low wrought-iron fence around the elegant gray-stone building and stared up at its darkened windows. It
was silent tonight, no one coming or going at all, and the knocker was muffled.

“Blast it all,” she muttered. She didn’t know where Conlan might actually live and wasn’t sure where to look for him now.
She went up the steps and pounded on the door with her fist, to no avail.

She didn’t want to just slink back home. Not yet. She drew her cloak closer around her and slipped back down the steps and
to the back of the building. There was a small
garden and a terrace, perfect for clandestine meetings, yet they were also deserted. Even the servant’s entrance was locked.

“So much for my spy work,” Anna muttered. And so much for that overwhelming desire to see Conlan tonight. Feeling quite foolish,
she made her way back to the street to find another hackney and go home.

Just as she turned the corner, the door opened, and Conlan stepped out into the night. He wore a caped greatcoat and wide-brimmed
hat, a scarf muffling his lower face, but she knew it was him. No one else was so tall with such broad shoulders; no one else
walked with such confidence. He glanced down the street, and then set off at a brisk pace.