Lord of Sin

But when they’d met again in Hyde Park, something had come over him. Something that flew in the face of every feeling he had nurtured since he’d seen her at the Academy.

He closed his eyes and imagined Adele waiting for him, sprawled across her bed in the little house on Circus Road, her breasts creamy mounds, her nipples stiffening at his touch. He might forget his evening obligations and spend the night with her. Her skill would silence even the memory of Nuala and this new identity she had claimed for herself.

But not for long. Lady Charles would still be there when he rolled out of bed.

Sinjin stubbed out his cigar and got to his feet. The time for putting off their meeting was over. He went into his study, opened the drawer of his desk and glanced through the invitations he had received in the past several weeks.

The dowager Duchess of Vardon’s garden party. He had intended to tender last-minute regrets, but no longer. Lady Charles was one of the eccentric dowager’s cronies. She would certainly be there. And in such a crush, no one would notice if he drew the lady aside for a friendly conversation.

CHAPTER THREE

“ARE YOU CERTAIN you wish to do this, Deborah?” Nuala asked.

The girl nodded, a brief jerk of her head that seemed more an act of defiance than agreement. “I wish to help,” she said, “not spend all my time attending frivolous entertainments.”

Frances looked at her curiously. “Did you not enjoy such pleasures in Paris?”

“We preferred museums and the opera to balls and grand dinner parties,” Deborah said.

Nuala wondered if the girl were speaking the entire truth. She had probably never thought to consider her own preferences at all; she had been a great deal younger than her expatriate husband, carried almost directly out of a sheltered childhood into the world of marriage. She’d had little opportunity for companionship from young people her own age, in her own country.

If she were not yet prepared to admit that she might enjoy such companionship, she was beginning to change in spite of herself. Her undoubted interest in young Mr. Melbyrne was proof enough of that.

He is not overly bold, Nuala thought, and seems quite amiable of nature. Deborah would do very well to call him her friend. Or perhaps, in time…

“I’m ready,” Deborah said, interrupting Nuala’s thoughts. “Shall we go?”

Realizing how close she’d come to slipping back into her matchmaking ways again, Nuala focused all her attention on Deborah. “You do understand that we will be entering the rookeries where the murders took place?” she asked.

“I am not afraid of the madman who killed those poor girls.”

In truth, she had little reason to be. The man who had committed the horrible crimes had never been caught, but he had thus far attacked only prostitutes. Yet it took a great deal of courage to venture into a part of the city with which very few aristocrats were acquainted, and which even fewer would ever visit for any reason.

“Stay close to me and Frances,” Nuala said. “Do exactly as we tell you.”

The sun was only a little above the horizon as they climbed into Nuala’s carriage and left the clean, quiet streets of Belgravia. Nuala’s coachman knew the way; she and Frances had begun the work in Whitechapel two months ago, as part of the Widows’ ongoing scheme to carry out charitable activities that most ladies in Society would never think of attempting.

As the coupé rattled along toward the East End, Frances picked through her surgical needles, bandages and bottles of carbolic acid while Deborah clutched the sack of patchwork cloth dolls she had made during the past two weeks. Nuala knew they had not brought nearly enough food; there was never enough, and never would be. But it would stave off the hunger of a few desperate children for one more week, and soon the new school would be ready. The children could be fed more regularly there, even if their hard lives would make learning a challenge.

The coupé brougham continued through Cheap-side and finally drew up at Whitechapel High Street. It would go no farther. Nuala always left Bremner at the border of Whitechapel, where he would less likely be disturbed by those desperate enough to risk approaching the horses. She didn’t want to see anyone hurt, including the poor folk who would feel the bite of Bremner’s whip if they came too close.

She, Deborah and Frances left the carriage, and the footmen, Harold and Jacques, removed the hampers of food from the boot. They were heavy, but Nuala didn’t mind the weight, and slender Frances hefted the baskets like a circus strongman lifting a barbell. Jacques and Harold managed four each, though Harold’s grim expression announced his opinion of the work for which he had been conscripted.

Deborah took the remaining hamper and followed as they ventured onto Whitechapel High Street. The squalor was already evident. Deborah sniffed—struck, as any newcomer must be, by the stench of unwashed bodies, offal, human and animal waste, and rotten food. Featureless faces peered out from grimy windows, and children dressed in little better than rags ran alongside the three strangers, their small, gaunt faces as intent as tigers on the prowl.

But the worst was yet to come. Frances led them onto a narrow side street, and they entered a world that might have belonged in some tale of medieval horror. The dwellings could not properly be called houses; they leaned against each other like the inebriates who staggered in and out of the alehouses, any color they might once have possessed long since erased by rot and filth. Nearly all the windows were broken, and the bare patches of ground left where buildings had once stood were littered with dead animals, shattered glass and refuse.

The people themselves might have emerged whole from the infertile, rotten ground. Desperate, garish prostitutes waited on every corner, their faces withered under the paint. Unemployed men, young and old, looked up from under battered caps and stared at the intruders. Urchins, many parentless, crept from shadow to shadow, prepared at any moment to accost the toffs with cries and open hands.

Deborah must have felt many terrible emotions in the face of what she saw, but she gave no sign other than a slight quiver of her chin. A tiny girl in a badly torn dress crept up to her and grasped her skirts. Deborah almost stopped, reaching for her purse before she remembered the rules.

No money; that had been part of the agreement. Once coin was produced and given, the lost souls of Whitechapel would see not benefactors but fleeting salvation that must be obtained at any price. They were not evil, these people; Nuala had known hundreds, even thousands like them. They no longer had the luxury of gentleness.

She took Deborah’s arm, and the three of them picked up their pace. They made a final turn into a noisome alley. A crowd of men, women and children waited at the empty doorway of an abandoned building; more followed Frances, Nuala and Deborah until the alley was nearly full.

Without a word, Frances pushed past the men blocking the doorway. They stood aside for Nuala, Deborah, Jacques and Harold to enter, as well. The room was barren and far from pristine, in spite of Frances’s diligent scrubbing, but there were a few cots along the wall, left intact against all expectations, as well as several chairs and a rickety table.

Nuala set her hampers down, and Deborah dropped her bag on the nearest cot. Harold and Jacques faced the door, their arms folded across their chests.

Frances laid a clean cloth over the table and began setting out the bandages and medical supplies.

“Now,” she said briskly, “we will begin with the food. There will always be men who attempt to force their way to the front, but they must be ignored despite any threats they may make. What we have is for the most needy, the women and children.”

Deborah swallowed. “Have you ever been attacked?”

“Even the men have respect for courage and determination,” Frances said. “And Harold is quite strong…is he not, Nuala?”

Harold quickly hid a grimace. Nuala prayed that he and Jacques would be willing to continue the work…and that meant there must be no trouble.

She rearranged the food in her hamper and took it to the door. There was a rush as the hungry and destitute fought to be first.

Nuala raised her hand. “If there are any orphaned children, let them come in.”

Grumbling followed her announcement, as well as several curses. But after a moment a half dozen children appeared and crept inside like the most timid of mice, their eyes far too large for their grimy faces.

Nuala removed wrapped slices of bread, cheese and spring fruit from the hamper and gave packets to each of the children in turn. Deborah urged the children toward the cots, where they tore at the food with their teeth. Deborah laid a doll on each girl’s cot.

The routine was always the same. Harold, Jacques and Nuala stood guard at the doorway as the women came forward with their children, hollow eyes brimming with hope. They received their packets according to the sizes of their families and scurried away before they could be robbed of their precious burdens. Even so, there was barely enough food for those who had come.

“Word is spreading,” Frances said in a low voice. “We must soon find men willing to deliver wagons of provisions.”

“We shall,” Nuala said. “There is much that men will risk for money.”

Frances cast her a grim sort of smile. “That is one thing we have in plenty.” She glanced at Deborah. “How much have you left?”

“Only a few slices of bread and a wedge of cheese,” the girl whispered. “It isn’t enough for all of them.”

Frances moved toward the door. “Gentlemen, we ask that you send forward any women and children who have not yet received their ration.”

Stony faces stared back at her. A man shoved his way to the fore, a thin fellow in a patched velvet coat. His surprisingly broad shoulders filled the door frame, and a permanent leer seemed etched into his cold, scarred features.

“Wot’s aw this?” he growled. “Haven’t enough fer aw o’ us, then?”

“You know we do not,” Frances answered, giving not an inch of ground. “We do what we can.”

“She does wot she can!” the man mocked, turning to face the remaining crowd. “If she wos doin’wot she can, she’d gi’us the clothes off ’er back, wou’n’t she?”

“That’s enough,” Harold said. “You’ve no right…”

“An’ who’re yer, then? One o’ them’s fancy boys?”

“It’s all right, Harold,” Nuala said. She joined Frances and looked from one hostile face to another. “We will be back again with more as soon as possible. Are there any among you who require medical treatment?”

“It’s our bellies needs fillin’!” the troublemaker shouted. But he was not supported by all the onlookers. Two men and a boy squeezed through to the door and hovered there, uncertain. Nuala put her hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“What hurts?” she asked simply.

The boy raised his arm, where a torn sleeve revealed an infected dog’s bite. Nuala cursed her lack of power to soothe his distress, but she comforted him as best she could. His fear somewhat relieved, the boy continued on to receive Frances’s ministrations.

The next was an elderly man complaining of pain in his joints. Nuala knew that there was little to be done for him, though once she might have eased his pain. Now all she could do was send him to stand and wait behind the boy.

The third was a lad in his early twenties, only a little older than Deborah…not tall, but wiry with muscle, his hair very black under his cap. As soon as he spoke, Nuala recognized him as a Welshman, an outsider among outsiders.

Tipping his cap, the young man held up his hand. Two fingers had been badly broken at some time in the recent past and had not been set.

“Can ye help, madam?” he asked in a soft-spoken voice.

Deborah came up behind Nuala and sucked in her breath. “It must hurt terribly,” she said.

The Welshman looked into her eyes. “Not so bad as all that, madam.”

“I’m certain that Lady Selfridge can assist you,” Nuala said, gesturing to Frances. “Please join the others.”

The young man did so, moving with a loose, upright stride in spite of his pain and poverty. Deborah stared after him.

“It doesn’t seem as if he belongs here,” Deborah said.

“He probably came to London from Wales, seeking a way out of the mines,” Nuala said quietly. “The city doesn’t always welcome those who are different.”

“If only there were more we could do,” Deborah murmured.

“Yes. Once we have the drivers and more volunteers, we—”

“Oy! Wot’s a wee gal loik yer doin’ ’ere, missy?”

The troublemaker had been ignored too long, and now he’d found fresh prey. Before Nuala could tell Deborah to ignore him, the young woman turned to face the man.

“If you are only here to cause trouble,” she said, “you should leave.”

The man burst out laughing, his spittle flying in Deborah’s face. “Quite th’ bold un, ain’cher?” He bent to peer more closely into Deborah’s eyes. “Yer looks roight familiar, a’ that. Sure yer ain’t never been spreadin’ yer legs fer them wot can pay?” He rubbed greasy fingers together. “I got a pence er two ter spare….”

“Enough.” The Welshman, his hazel eyes flashing, pushed his way between Deborah and the lout before Nuala could do so. “It’s all jaws ye are, Bray, and we’ve no desire to hear more of your foul talk.”

“An’wot’ll yer do abou’i’, wif yer crippled hand?”

“I’ve another,” the Welshman said, raising his left fist.

It almost seemed as if Bray would back down, but instead he reached into his frayed coat and withdrew a knife. He sliced the air in front of the Welshman’s face, then lunged toward the younger man’s injured hand. He withdrew the blade in a blur of motion, leaving a red line across the back of the Welshman’s knuckles.

Deborah gasped. Without thinking, Nuala concentrated on the knife and made a light gesture with her fingers. Snarling an oath, Bray dropped the knife and shook his hand as if it had been burned. He cast an evil, speculative glance in Deborah’s direction, turned and barreled through the diminishing group of waiting men.

Nuala stared at her own hand in astonishment. Surely it hadn’t really happened. Pure chance that Bray had dropped the knife just after she had chanted the spell. Mere coincidence…

Deborah rushed back to the table to fetch her reticule and returned with a handkerchief. “Oh,” she said to the Welshman. “Oh! Your poor hand.”

He glanced at the blood seeping from the wound. “It is nothing, madam.”

“Nothing! You saved my life.”

The boy’s jaw locked. “He would never have hurt you.”

But Deborah was in no mood for argument. She seized the Welshman’s hand and pressed her handkerchief to the laceration. He tried to withdraw, but she kept a firm hold.

“Do not struggle so,” she scolded. “You must let Lady Selfridge bind it, and splint your fingers.”

There was a look about him that suggested he wished only to flee the scene of what he very likely regarded as his humiliation, but when Frances came forward to chivvy him toward the table, he didn’t resist.

Reluctantly, Deborah returned to distributing the remainder of the food. Nuala watched over her while Frances finished cleaning and stitching the first boy’s infected wound, gave the old man a liniment for his joints and went to work setting the Welshman’s fingers. He didn’t flinch as she snapped them into place.

“You’re fortunate, young man,” Lady Selfridge said as she splinted and bound the fingers together. “A longer wait, and you might have lost the use of them.”

“It’s grateful I am, madam,” he said.

“You must change the bandages daily—here, take these—and keep the wound clean. It is not deep, and should heal quickly.”

“I shall do as you direct, madam.”

She muttered under her breath and began packing her supplies. The Welshman headed for the door.

“I beg your pardon,” Deborah called after him.

He turned, his eyes shaded by the brim of his cap. “Madam?”

“I only wished to thank you again.”

“It is not necessary, madam.”

“What is your name?”

“Ioan Davies.”

She offered her hand. “Deborah…Lady Orwell.”

After a moment’s hesitation he took her hand with his left and made a little bow. “Lady Orwell.” He released her hand quickly and was out the door before she could speak again.

Clearly distressed, Deborah turned to Nuala. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” she said.

“What happened was not your fault.”

“But that man…” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Did he actually call me a…” She trailed off, flushing. Nuala took her hand.

“They were only words, Deborah.” Only words. As Nuala’s little spell had been “only magic.”

It was not real. It couldn’t have been.

ALL THE WAY BACK to Belgravia, Deborah was very quiet and lost in thought. Nuala could well understand why. She had seen ugly things in Whitechapel: the worst sort of misery and poverty, pain, hatred. She would see it again. Her previously sheltered life was coming to an end.

“Do you suppose we’ll see Mr. Davies again?” she asked Nuala as Frances descended from the carriage.

“Only if he breaks another finger,” Nuala said. “That young man has pride.”

“Surely some measure of pride is something to be admired in a place like that. He has nothing, yet he behaved like a gentleman.”

“One is a lady or gentleman by nature, Deborah, not only by birth. There are true gentlemen in the rookeries and brutes in Mayfair.”

“But most people are something in between.”

Yes, Nuala thought. Very much like Sinjin Ware.

And herself.

We are none of us innocent.

If she had indeed used magic in Whitechapel—if it had not been a figment of her own imagination—it was no cause for celebration. She had come very close to the Gray. And that was not how she would wish her abilities to return. Better she remember that she had earned their disappearance, and wish them away again.

She let Deborah off at the girl’s house and continued to her own home on Grosvenor Street. Once in her boudoir, she sat at her desk and laid out a sheet of stationery. Pen poised above the paper, she wondered how to begin.

Dear Lord Donnington,

It has come to my attention that you and I must…

She scratched out the words and selected another sheet.

Dear Lord Donnington,

Much to my regret, it appears that there have been certain misunderstandings…

With a soft curse, long antiquated, but not inappropriate to the situation, Nuala crushed the paper and placed her chin on her palm. It simply would not do. They must speak privately, face-to-face.

She selected a third sheet and began another letter, folded it, sealed it and sent it with a footman to Tameri’s town house. It was very likely that a socially prominent—if controversial—gentleman such as Lord Donnington would be invited to her garden party. And there, at last, they might have a chance to talk in a relatively safe environment.

As if she could ever be safe again.

MAYE HOUSE was all that a duchess’s should be. It had been the Duke of Vardon’s second house in London; the first was now occupied by the current duchess, the wife of the dowager’s brother-in-law. But the former duke had seen his widow well lookedafter, and so the stately mansion—named, it was said, after a distant relation of a previous century—was a model of luxury.

Luxury in the ancient Egyptian style. Towering statues of the goddesses Bast, Hathor, Sekhmet and Isis greeted the visitor in the entrance hall; the walls were painted with murals of kings and queens giving audiences to their subjects and exotic foreign vassals. In concession to modern tastes, the chairs along the walls in the ballroom, as well as those at the table in the dining room, had been constructed in a more comfortable style than the hard chairs the dowager Duchess of Vardon favored in her more private quarters.

None of these sights were unfamiliar to Society. Eccentric the dowager might be, but she held considerable influence when she chose to use it, and had a great deal of money to spend on her entertainments.

The garden party was no exception. Maye House had an exceptional garden and a conservatory that was the envy of every botanical enthusiast in the capital. Exotic plants crowded against the glass, vast rubbery leaves nodding over each other, brilliant flowers popping up in unexpected places. In the center, a cleared space allowed room for chairs and conversation. If one could tolerate the heat, it was a very pleasant venue.

The party spilled out onto a neatly kept lawn, edged with shrubberies clipped into the reclining canine form of the god Anubis, where tents had been set up to provide additional shade for tables displaying a selection of delicacies. Every sort of drink was provided, leaving no guest an excuse to go thirsty. Heaps of flowers had been beautifully arranged in vases on the surrounding walls. Doors stood open to a palm-bedecked reception room, available for those who found the clement weather too taxing.

Deborah and Nuala walked together, arm in arm, while the younger woman chattered incessantly in a manner quite out of character. Nuala thought she knew the reason. According to Tameri, most of the Forties had been invited—they were popular guests, in spite of their contempt for the state of holy matrimony—and though she didn’t expect all of them to turn up, she had received notice that both Lord Donnington and Mr. Melbyrne planned to attend.

The way Deborah’s gaze darted from face to face, searching for one in particular, suggested that Nuala had not been mistaken in her guess at the park. There had definitely been a spark between Deborah and Melbyrne. A rightness in their coming together.

Nuala shook her head. It was none of her business. If it was meant to be, they would find each other without her help.

At least not of the magical sort.

“Ah,” she said, spotting the young man in question. “I believe I see Mr. Melbyrne.”

Deborah craned her neck and almost immediately resumed a more prudent demeanor. “Oh? I did not know he was to come.”

“Perhaps we ought to greet him,” Nuala suggested.

“Surely it would seem a bit forward, would it not?”

“At a party such as this? Not at all. We have already been introduced.”

“Well…if you really think it the polite thing to do…”

“You like him, don’t you?” Nuala asked, unable to help herself.

“He…he is most personable.”

“Let us go, then.” Nuala gently steered Deborah toward the open doors of the conservatory, where Mr. Melbyrne was engaged in light conversation with a man with whom Nuala was not yet acquainted. Melbyrne noticed Deborah’s approach and beamed.

“Lady Orwell,” he said, bowing. “Lady Charles.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Melbyrne,” Nuala said into Deborah’s tongue-tied silence. “How very pleasant to find you here after our meeting in the park.”

“Indeed. A great pleasure.” He glanced at Deborah. “Are you enjoying the party, Lady Orwell?” he asked, his voice pitched a little high.

“We are only just arrived,” Deborah said quietly. “And you?”

“Yes.” He remembered himself and gestured at his companion. “Lady Orwell, Lady Charles, may I present Mr. Leopold Erskine.”

Mr. Erskine, a tall and lanky man with a pleasant face, bowed with a charming touch of awkwardness. “Ladies. It is a privilege to make your acquaintance.”

Nuala offered her hand. “I have heard your name, Mr. Erskine. Are you not an archaeologist and scholar of ancient languages?”

“Some have said so, Lady Charles.”

“Mr. Erskine is entirely too modest,” Melbyrne said. “He knows more than the rest of us put together.”

“Are you a member of the Forties, Mr. Erskine?” Deborah asked innocently.