Lord of Sin. Susan KrinardЧитать онлайн книгу.
Mr. Melbyrne said something about having visited some other exotic clime, but Nuala wasn’t listening. She watched Sinjin without quite looking at him, taking him in with her senses as well as her eyes.
He had changed. Oh, not so much in appearance, though there were a few more lines in his face and a deep tan gained from several years in India. He had lost none of his handsomeness. No, the greatest change was within him. He had always been somewhat cynical, a man who had a reputation as a lover and a gambler. But he had shown compassion toward his former sister-in-law, Mariah, when she had been in trouble. He was capable of great feeling and unflinching loyalty.
That Sinjin seemed to have vanished. His face revealed no expression, even as he conversed easily with Lady Oxenham. His dark eyes were shadowed, as if he seldom slept, and his mouth was tight.
There was no mistaking his coldness toward her. They had parted so abruptly at Donbridge, and that was her doing. Her cowardice. Had his brother’s death and Lady Westlake’s subsequent madness turned him into the man she saw before her?
You knew it might be like this. Yet his unspoken hostility was much worse than she might have imagined. A part of her had hoped for something different, a neutral meeting, some way she might explain without having to face his mistrust and obvious resentment.
He finds you in London, a lady at least in name, a stranger he never had any real reason to trust. I told him so little. Is it any wonder…
She had thought of laying ghosts to rest. But now, suddenly, she was afraid.
“We must go,” Sinjin said, touching the brim of his hat. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, Lady Oxenham, Lady Orwell.” He paused. “Lady Charles.”
He wheeled his horse about and started away, dodging a town coach and four. Melbyrne lingered, his horse shuffling nervously beneath him, opened his mouth and bowed from the saddle before riding after his friend.
“How very interesting,” Lady Oxenham murmured. But she didn’t elaborate, and soon the landau was moving again. Nuala found it impossible to keep up her part in the conversation.
He is suffering, she thought. Because of me.
And he had judged her, just as the witch-finders had judged her family.
“It was he,” Deborah whispered, leaning close to Nuala’s ear.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The young man I saw at the Academy!”
Nuala took herself in hand. “Mr. Melbyrne?”
“Yes. He is handsome, is he not?”
“Yes. Very handsome.”
“And that man with him…Lord Donnington—” She shuddered. “He was quite intimidating. Very courteous in his manner, but so distant.”
“Perhaps he had important things on his mind.”
“Oh, most important,” Lady Oxenham put in. “What suit he ought to wear tomorrow, where he might spend a stimulating evening playing at cards, what new bit of horseflesh he might choose to buy. All very pressing matters.”
“But I thought you liked him!” Deborah protested.
“I do. He has certainly kept up the family’s interests in the East and has done well by his tenants at Donbridge. But he has only been in England three months, and already he is influencing the most fashionable young men…not necessarily for the better.”
“The Forties?” Deborah asked.
“Quite so. Sinjin seems to take a rather dim view of women, as well as marriage—it is obvious that he was once hurt badly by one of our sex.”
Nuala knew just how badly Sinjin had been hurt, but she said nothing.
“Unfortunately,” Lady Oxenham continued, “Mr. Melbyrne is obviously in Lord Donnington’s thrall. A pity. Such a promising fellow. Possessed of rather a good income, I believe.”
Deborah fell silent, biting her lip. Nuala sighed. Not even a blind man could have failed to notice how intently the two young people had studied each other.
Sinjin must have noticed, too. He had obviously not approved….
Stop, stop, stop!
Desperately Nuala tried to distract her mind. But all she could think of was Sinjin’s face. The way it had looked the last time they’d been together at Don-bridge four years ago.
“I don’t need the help of a witch,” he had said. Such anger. Such contempt…
“My dear Nuala,” Lady Oxenham said.
“Forgive me,” Nuala said, snapping back to the present. “I wasn’t listening.”
“The marchioness is to give a ball,” Deborah said. “We are both invited.”
“A ball?” Nuala repeated stupidly.
“A fancy-dress ball,” the marchioness said. “It is rather short notice…only four weeks from Tuesday…but my youngest son is returning from his service in Africa, and I wished to celebrate properly. He is very fond of fancy-dress balls.” She gave Nuala a direct stare. “You shall attend, of course.”
“I ought not—” Deborah began.
“You shall wear something bright,” Lady Oxenham said. “There is no time for one of the Paris modistes, of course, but I have a dressmaker who is just as skilled and almost as inventive. I shall send her to you.”
“Thank you, Lady Oxenham,” Deborah murmured, overcome by the old woman’s determination.
“Of course, your friends shall all be invited, as well,” Lady Oxenham said. “I am quite certain that the dowager duchess will have chosen her costume even before she receives the invitation.”
Deborah laughed behind her fan. Nuala was in no mood for humor.
Will he be there? It would be rude to ask Lady Oxenham such a question, but the very thought made her hands begin to tremble. After all these years, a man had such power over her emotions.
But she would not let emotion rule her. Before Donnington, she had been successful in her work by keeping her head and maintaining some distance from those she helped. Celebration came only after the work was completed to her satisfaction.
Every time but the last.
As the afternoon advanced, the strollers, horsemen and coaches began to disperse for home. Nuala caught no further glimpse of Sinjin or his protégé. Nuala’s own modest carriage was waiting at the marchionness’s residence, as was Deborah’s. Nuala thought of the handsome town house her husband had bequeathed to her, of its emptiness and the loneliness that stalked every room.
“Have you given the matter we discussed any further thought?” she asked Deborah as they stood on the pavement. “There is no need to maintain two separate households when we might so easily share one without the least inconvenience.”
“I have thought about it,” Deborah said. “I think I should like it very much.”
Nuala restrained herself from embracing the girl. “Which house shall we take?”
“Why not yours? Mine is much too large, and I can easily find a tenant for the Season.”
“If you are quite comfortable with the choice…”
“I am. I am certain that we shall enjoy it immeasurably,” Deborah assured her.
They exchanged light kisses on the cheek in the Parisian style. Deborah took her footman’s hand and climbed into her carriage. Nuala watched the vehicle clatter down the road and turned for her own carriage.
“You are good for the child,” Lady Oxenham commented,