Powder of Sin (2 page)

A simple, formal greeting, lasting no more than
three seconds.

But now she relived it, wondered how it would have
felt if he’d let go of her hand and touched her face, brushed his
fingers over her mouth, as she did now, allowing her fingertips to
feel the shape of her cheeks. And if he’d inserted the end of his
finger into her mouth so she might taste—

“Miss Ambermere. Are you all right?”

She smiled brightly and tried to recall what Mr.
Dorsey and she were discussing. Of course. He’d told her why the
two gentlemen had visited her.

The strange box, not her after all. She licked her
lips. “When you say Mr. Clermont and Mr. Reed are making offers,
plural, you mean they aren’t working together?”

He nodded. “I hadn’t known they were acquainted
until you told me. They approached me separately. Reed came to see
me yesterday. With two separate buyers, perhaps some sort of
auction might be best?”

“Very odd.” Perhaps that explained their unlikely
companionship. Neither wanted to allow the other more access to
her, or rather her cousin’s possessions. “I wonder why they did not
mention what they wanted from me…”

She suddenly remembered that during their visit, Mr.
Clermont had retired to use the facilities and had been absent a
very long time. In fact, after several minutes of sitting in
silence with Rosalie and her companion, Miss Renshaw, Mr. Reed had
jumped up and gone after him, mumbling something about making
certain Clermont was all right.

“
They seem very amiable gentlemen, but odd
,”
Miss Renshaw had remarked faintly. Her instincts had been on the
mark, as usual.

“Oh no. When Mr. Clermont left the room and was gone
so long…he must have been hunting for the box,” Rosalie said now,
but Mr. D. wasn’t listening.

He twisted his mustache end. The right side was
definitely tighter than the left, giving his face a lopsided,
startled look. “Miss Ambermere, perhaps an auction would be too
drawn out and you ought to dispose of the thing as soon as
possible.”

She frowned down at the rich, smooth wood. “I’m not
sure. If it is such a strange weapon, I shouldn’t sell it to
anyone, except perhaps to a physician.” But she wasn’t thinking of
the box, only of one of its potential buyers.

So strange that disappointment was her first
response to finding out the real reason for Mr. Reed’s visit had
nothing to do with her after all.

She saw his large hands holding the dainty
white-and-blue china cup and saucer. His hand clasping hers, palm
to palm, no gloves. Oh heavens. His fingers, knuckles. His
powerful-looking wrists and the glimpse of hair. Could that hair
cover much of his body? His throat and face had been bare, with
only a shadow of a dark beard.

Impatience irritated her and didn’t just affect her
mind. She could have sworn her bustle chafed the skin of her lower
back—unlikely through the layers of corset and chemise. If only she
could rip off some of the clothes. Run upstairs and put on her
favorite nightdress. Feel nothing but silk against her flesh—

“Miss Ambermere, are you unwell? Dear me. Did you
put your hands to your face after touching the box?”

She tried to draw a deep breath and didn’t succeed.
“Is the substance that potent?”

“I wish I knew, but I haven’t attempted to locate a
doctor. Perhaps you should consult an expert. If you can locate
one.” He twiddled his mustache a few more moments, then pushed
himself up from the chair.

For a moment he stood, rocking; then Mr. D. gave her
a nervous glance and made a show of taking a watch from his
waistcoat. “Gracious, look at the time. Miss Ambermere, I must be
on my way. No, no time for tea. I thank you.”

He rocked harder, then said, “Please lock the jewels
and the box up, my dear. Keep them safe and away from…people. And
sell that box and its powder as soon as possible. I’m having your
cousin’s other valuable items delivered this afternoon. Several
crates. But I wanted to give you these personally.”

He looked down at the box and put his hands behind
his back, as if resisting touching it one last time. With a bow, he
declared he’d see himself out, but she walked with him to the door.
After bidding him good-bye, she washed her hands.

Mr. Reed and Mr. Clermont.

She shouldn’t have let them into her parlor, and now
she couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Reed’s hands, for heaven’s
sake. Or his shoulders. She’d noticed them as well during their
visit. His form was muscular, which wasn’t the style at the
moment.

Rosalie went to her room, determined to shake her
strange distraction and change into an afternoon gown.

She’d wear something less restricting, she thought.
She didn’t bother to summon her maid. After struggling to undo the
tiny buttons, she threw off her gown and collapsed on the bed for a
moment. She ran her hands down her corset.

Such a glum man, Mr. Reed. Why didn’t she have that
interesting twist in her belly as she thought of Mr. Clermont, with
his easy, sparkling smile and thick, blond hair—he’d obviously
appreciated her.

He and Mr. Reed had known each other at school, Mr.
Clermont had told her, though they hadn’t been friends. They didn’t
appear especially friendly with each other now.

Mr. Reed, despite the interesting handshake, had not
been particularly amiable during the visit. He’d been more like a
man sitting in a doctor’s waiting room than a visitor to a lady’s
parlor. While Mr. Clermont occasionally broke the silence between
her bouts of polite chatter to ask about her adopted city of New
York, Mr. Reed had stared around the room, gazed at the paintings,
and didn’t speak, his dark eyes shadowed. His mouth had been drawn
in a straight line, yet his lips were still full. Odd how she could
vividly recall the details of a man’s lips days after meeting
him.

She fought the languid desire to take off her corset
and chemise, and she pushed herself off the bed. Best to go with
the uncomplicated brown and cream gown. Something easy to don so
she could throw it over her head and yank it on quickly before she
gave in to the temptation of getting into bed.

But the thought of Mr. Reed still tugged at her. He
had no right to haunt her like this when he’d barely tried to be
agreeable during that visit.

Maybe he’d heard that nearly silent, scowling men
with unruly black hair were all the rage with hostesses. Or perhaps
he hated her sitting room and her refreshments.

Never mind. They were gone, and she had been the one
to push them out of her house. Not literally, of course, but she
knew how to get rid of undesirable men.

It had been difficult. First she’d allowed her
conversation to lapse into yawn-inducing dullness. She spoke of
lace and bobbles and the price of shoes and watched Clermont’s eyes
glaze over. Interestingly enough, Mr. Reed’s expression didn’t
change, although she wondered if perhaps she’d caught a small smile
at one point.

And Mr. Reed’s other smile. She’d forgotten it.
Recalling it made her grin like a lunatic.

He hadn’t been stern the whole time. Late in the
visit, Rosalie had been sitting on the bog oak sofa, and Mr.
Clermont had joined her there, gradually shifted closer to her.
He’d actually brushed his fingertips across her nape, making some
remark about the way she bundled her hair loosely.

Rosalie had twisted away from him. She’d widened her
eyes and contorted her mouth—a comic contortion—aiming the look of
mock alarm at Miss Renshaw.

The older lady hadn’t noticed. Rosalie’s companion
was present in body and her brown eyes were open, but her mind, as
usual, had wandered to more interesting places.

But Mr. Reed had met her eyes and must have seen
Rosalie’s silly grimace. That had to explain his sudden grin—a real
one that lit his eyes and showed white, nearly even teeth. His
expression was unexpectedly sweet, entirely transforming his
forbidding features. Of course she had to grin back, and their
exchanged smiles had felt like a shared amusement, a joke they both
appreciated.

The smile had vanished almost at once when Clermont
touched Rosalie’s arm and murmured some more compliments at her—the
man was a confirmed murmurer.

She’d managed to drive the two men out of her parlor
soon after that by using her proven tactic of more boring
conversation followed by some plain speaking. Nothing so unladylike
as telling them to go away, of course.

But would she have pushed so hard to make them leave
if Mr. Reed had sat that close to her? Absurd notion, but the
thought of him so near her that she might feel his breath on her
neck, taste it with her mouth, made her own breath come fast and
shallow, causing something inside her to stir and grow heavy.

Mr. Reed might have been standing right in front of
her, smiling, his strong fingers reaching to touch her. Perhaps if
his
hand trailed across her nape…

“No more of this,” she said aloud.

Determined to shake her strange mood, she rang for
Murphy to help with the buttons in the back of the gown and to fix
her chignon. The chatty maid was a marvel at driving unwelcome
thoughts from one’s head.

The rest of the afternoon had no more strange
sensations or visitors, unless one counted the cursing Italian
carriers who came to the back entrance with several wooden
crates.

Rosalie ordered the crates to be placed in the
library and then forgot about them. She had no idea what else
Johnny had left her—and after the peculiar restlessness she’d felt
after touching the box, she wasn’t eager to find out.

After dinner, Rosalie sat in the drawing room,
sorting letters, when Miss Renshaw knocked firmly on the door and
strode in without waiting for a response.

“Is something the matter?” Rosalie asked. Miss
Renshaw usually scratched at a door and entered a room as if unsure
of her welcome.

“Ah, Rosalie! Isn’t it all marvelous?”

Rosalie had been requesting Miss Renshaw use her
Christian name for a year, without success. She put down the
letters and examined her companion. As always, Miss Renshaw wore a
cheerful expression, but not her usual unfocused smile. Her eyes
were hungry and alert. With her rather beaky nose, she resembled a
fierce hunting bird.

Miss Renshaw closed her eyes and shivered as if she
had twisted her whole body into some kind of new, tight-fitting
gown. Her cheeks, normally rather pale, were almost as rosy as her
pink brocade gown.

“Miss Renshaw? Are you well?” A sudden unpleasant
suspicion seized Rosalie. “What have you been doing since
dinner?”

“I was straightening your desk. And looking through
two crates of his lordship’s…er… There is a sculpture that quite
made me blush.”

Beels came in with the fresh bottle of ink Rosalie
had asked him to fetch. Miss Renshaw, already glowing like a lamp,
brightened. “Beels.” She gave him a wide, toothy smile. He put down
the bottle and took a step back. Miss Renshaw laughed, a loud peal
unlike her usual polite ripple of laughter. “No really, I shan’t
harm you. I declare, you are skittish. Mr. Beels.”

“Miss Renshaw. Emily.” Rosalie spoke sharply to get
her attention. “This is important. Did you look in the box? I mean,
a red, well-polished little box on my desk?”

“The wooden one. Yes. My dear Rosalie. What is your
Christian name, Beels? Yes, yes, I recall. Horace. The so-wise
poet. A lovely name.”

Beels started to edge toward the door. Miss Renshaw
went after him and clasped his sleeve with her pale fingers.
“Please. Do stay. I would so like something cool and refreshing.”
Her gaze fixed on his mouth, she inched closer to him.

“Ma’am. Miss,” he pleaded, looking over Miss
Renshaw’s head at Rosalie.

Rosalie nodded to him. “You may go. Please bring us
some lemonade.” Panic and laughter clawed at her throat—she wasn’t
sure which was going to win the battle inside her.

Miss Renshaw’s overbright eyes gleamed. Rosalie
called after Beels. “And if Cook can spare some ice, please put a
few shards in the lemonade. I believe it should be made as cold as
possible.”

He left. Miss Renshaw stood swaying for a moment
before she drifted to the sofa.

“Miss Renshaw, this is important. Did you open the
box?” Rosalie asked as soon as the door closed.

“Yes. And the other box inside was difficult to open
too. I couldn’t even open the little container. When I shook it, I
heard a tiny rattle. Perhaps they were beans? I do wonder what was
in that, my dear. I feel so very odd.” Miss Renshaw ran her
fingertips over her mouth, as if feeling the shape and texture of
her thin lips. “Some dust was on the outside of the container. It
was so…” Her voice trailed off, and she heaved another deep sigh.
“It’s lovely. Gold and purple dust. Heavy substance, light dust.
Whatever is inside created that dust, I believe, but I don’t think
it’s an opiate, for I’m not at all sleepy. I do think it contains
something powerful, however.”

“I think so as well.” Rosalie remembered Mr. Dorsey
and his dire warnings. Perhaps he hadn’t exaggerated after all.

Her companion was back on her feet. She spread her
thin arms wide and threw back her head, tottering a little like a
child who’d turned in circles until she was too dizzy to stand
upright. As a rule, Miss Renshaw had very little conversation. She
was even quieter than Mr. Reed. Now she chattered and looked about,
alert and without a trace of her sleepy manner.

“I don’t believe I’ve felt this alive in years. I’m
so very hungry.”

“Please, sit down. I’ll order some food as well as
lemonade. Cook just made a poppy seed cake.”

“I couldn’t sit still, and I’m not hungry for
something so silly as cake. No, no, I don’t want that. Oh.
Something more. Something new.” She shivered again. And her hands
strayed to her throat to stroke the skin there, then slowly, slowly
traveled over her breasts.