Susan Krinard - Lord of Sin

Nuala brought herself back to the present and looked at each of her fellow widows in turn. Frances, Lady Selfridge, sat in her chair with the straight back of a lady born, but her “mannish” clothing—tailored jacket and nearly bustle-less skirt—conveyed a decided air of austerity. Lillian, Lady Meadows, was her precise opposite: dressed in flowing pastels with a modest bustle, her pretty peaches-and-cream coloring was a direct contrast to the vivid tones of the orchids she adored.

Mrs. Julia Summerhayes, who tended to dress in drab browns and grays, was a spiritualist, a follower of Madame Blavatsky. She regularly held séances in her own town house, though Nuala herself had never participated. Nuala had withheld judgment as to whether or not the young woman really possessed the powers others claimed she did.

At the moment, the young woman was looking intently from one face to another as if she were attempting to read her companions’ minds.

Garbed in loose, Aesthetic dress, Margaret, Lady Riordan, was as ginger-haired as Nuala herself, with aqua eyes that might have been painted on one of her colorful canvases. A brilliant artist, she had just begun to have her works shown in some of the smaller London galleries. Her gaze was far away, focused on some interior landscape; she would doubtless hear only a small part of what was said.

Clara, Lady John Pickering, was, at the settled age of thirty-three, the eldest of the group save Nuala herself—a devotée of the sciences of chemistry and astronomy. In spite of her unusual interests, hardly considered suitable for a woman of any age, she wore a very traditional dress complete with corset and heavily draped skirts. As she met Nuala’s gaze she pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose and smiled encouragingly.

Last, but hardly least, was the dowager duchess herself. Her given name was Anna, but she called herself Tameri and would answer to nothing else when among friends. In keeping with the fantastical nature of her surroundings, she wore a dress modified to suggest both a woman of fashion and the reincarnated Egyptian princess she purported to be. Pleated linen draped her arms and fell in cascades from the front of her bodice, and a heavy, bejeweled collar decorated her long and graceful neck. She possessed such a regal air and such a large fortune that few in Society dared to mock her, even in their own most private circles.

Compared to Tameri, Nuala was only a dull country mouse. For years she had taken on so many forms, so many personae, that it had been strange to fall back to what she had been when she was born: a not-unattractive woman who appeared to be no more than twenty-five years of age, with untidy ginger hair and very ordinary gray eyes. Charles, who had died in the countryside he so loved, had left her a courtesy title, a house in the city and all the money she might need to make her way in London; his mother, Victoria, the dowager Marchioness of Oxenham, had done the rest. All the appropriate introductions had been made, cards and calls exchanged, and Nuala was free to move in a society that had never been a real part of her world.

Now she was bound to pass judgment on a young woman who, in some ways, was not much different from herself…a girl who had been married a mere three years and had little experience of London. Deborah was quite alone, her husband, the late Viscount Orwell, having broken off with most of his relations long ago, and though she had a modest town house and income, she had few real friends in the city.

Tameri almost inaudibly cleared her throat. She caught up the circle of widows with her green-eyed, majestic stare and brushed the spotted cat from her lap.

“We shall take the usual vote,” she said in her quiet, commanding voice. “Frances?”

Frances rose, tugging at the hem of her jacket. “Ladies,” she said with a tinge of reluctance, “I vote no. It is my opinion that Lady Orwell has insufficient experience to commit herself to our way of life. I find it very likely that she will wish to marry again.”

“I agree,” said Lillian very softly. “She is so lovely and amiable…she is sure to find just the right husband before another year is out.”

“Perhaps,” said Clara. “But some of us were just as young when we made the decision to remain free.”

“Indeed,” Tameri said. “It is quite impossible to know the girl’s mind, but she has a sincerity about her that I find admirable.”

“She must be here,” Julia Summerhayes murmured. “There is a purpose in this, though I cannot yet see it.”

Tameri arched a black brow. “Indeed?”

But Julia had nothing else to say. Tameri turned to Lady Riordan. “Margaret?”

Maggie lifted her head, blinking as if she had just been woken from a deep sleep. “I beg your pardon?” she murmured.

“You must listen, my dear. What is your opinion about Lady Orwell? Shall she be permitted to join our little club?”

Aqua eyes blinked again. “I should like to paint her.”

Frances rolled her own intense blue eyes. “That is all she ever thinks of,” she said tartly. “Perhaps she ought to abstain.”

“I agree,” Tameri said. “The count is two nays and three ayes.” She fixed her gaze on Nuala. “And you, Lady Charles? What is your opinion?”

Nuala knew that the matter of Lady Orwell’s acceptance lay in her hands. She could not fault Frances and Lillian on their logic. But Lady Orwell’s grief was deep, and she would not surrender it easily.

The companionship of a group of women both older and more experienced than she would surely have a beneficial effect upon her, as their company had done for Nuala. Tameri had been the one to approach the more experienced widows when she had formed the club; they had been meeting in one another’s houses for discussion of the arts, politics and social justice for several years. But they did not forgo Society’s pleasures. If Lady Orwell lacked the proper introductions to Society, the Widows, odd as they might seem to their peers, could certainly obtain them for her.

Yet Nuala couldn’t help but return to the central point. Deborah was sweet, but spirited. She was undoubtedly lovely. Should the right man come along…

Nuala’s thoughts began to take a dangerous turn. She imagined Frances matched with a man who shared her passion for justice and women’s suffrage. Such unusual men, as unlikely as it seemed, did exist. Lillian could do wonderfully with a husband who indulged her love for her flowers and appreciated her warm and giving nature. Males of an Aesthetic persuasion were not difficult to find in London these days; one of them would surely suit Maggie to perfection.

Clara might be harder to match, but a forward-thinking man with a similar interest in the sciences might possibly be found. Julia was hardly alone in her belief in the unseen. And Tameri—

Stop . It was wrong, worse than useless to think this way. Her days of matchmaking were over. Her last attempt had hardly been an unmitigated success. Far from it. Nearly three centuries of atonement had not taught her humility. She had only grown more arrogant.

She had at last accepted that such arrogance was why her powers had deserted her. She had begun to lose them before she had left the estate of Donbridge, two years before she had gone to Lord Charles to be his nurse and caretaker. It had been like losing a limb. Like losing her family again. Like losing her heart, the very essence of what she was.

Now she couldn’t so much as bring a flower into bloom, let alone two deserving people together.

Once she had possessed magic such as had not been seen in generations. And she had done with that magic what no witch was permitted. She had crossed the line from white magic to black, with no stop at gray in between.