Susan Krinard - Lord of Sin

“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, coming up behind her.

“I hope I am,” Nuala said. “I hope that we can learn from each other.”

“What has she to teach you, my dear?”

Humility. Innocence. All the things Nuala had lost without realizing it.

“Thank you, Lady Oxenham, for the pleasant ride,” she said, avoiding the question.

“You are welcome at any time,” the marchioness said.

Nuala smiled and stepped up into her carriage. Her coachman snapped the reins, and the victoria jerked into motion. Instead of going directly home, she instructed Bremner to drive toward Kensington and Melbury Road for her appointment with Maggie. When she arrived, Maggie herself came to the door. She was dressed in an oversize man’s shirt and trousers rolled up to her ankles, both garments liberally splattered with paint.

“Nuala!” Lady Riordan said, waving Nuala into the vestibule. “I didn’t expect you until later this evening.”

“I’m sorry, Maggie. I hope this is not too great an inconvenience.”

“Not at all. Come in.”

Nuala gave her cape to the rather odd-looking footman, whose melancholy face somewhat resembled that of a mule. His livery was less than spotless, but Maggie seemed not to notice. She never noticed such trifling things, and Nuala suspected that her servants took terrible advantage of her negligence.

I was a servant many times. I have no right to judge .

Without observing any of the usual niceties and small talk, Maggie led Nuala upstairs to the first floor, where she kept her studio. What might have been a large drawing room had been given over to everything a painter might require: easels, canvases, brushes, paint and many varied and curious objects Lady Riordan had found of interest.

Maggie rushed to a large, blank canvas and stood before it, staring with a sort of ferocity as if a picture might magically appear by the sheer force of her will. “It will be marvelous,” she said, brushing an untidy curl away from her forehead. “Please sit over there, Nuala.”

Lifting her skirts to avoid the suspiciously wet-looking smears of paint on the once-handsome floor, Nuala took the chair Maggie had indicated. The young woman hurried over, posed Nuala as if she were a doll, stood back, then readjusted Nuala’s position.

“There,” she said, and without another word began to paint, her tongue pushing out from between her teeth. For the next two hours Nuala sat quietly. Her unoccupied mind continued to drift toward thoughts of Sinjin: the handsome but weary lines of his face, his superb seat on his black stallion, the way he had looked at her as if she were an enemy.

I must explain. But how?

“That’s enough for today,” Maggie said, standing back from her canvas with an air of satisfaction. She glanced past the painting and frowned. “You’re very tired, Nuala. Shall I get you some tea? Biscuits?”

“I’ve merely been lost in thought,” Nuala said, rising. “I believe I shall spend a quiet evening at home.”

“Hmm,” Maggie murmured, her attention focused one again on her painting.

Nuala smiled, retrieved her things and walked toward the door, making no attempt to see Maggie’s work.

“Nuala?”

She half turned. Maggie was wiping her hands on a rag, her air still distracted.

“Tameri told me to remind you about the garden party next week,” she said. “I almost forgot, myself.”

The garden party. Nuala had almost forgotten about it, though Tameri had issued the invitations over a month ago.

“Of course,” she said. “Thank you, Maggie. I’ll be there.”

The young woman gave a most unfeminine grunt and began to clean her brushes. Nuala was escorted to the door by the doleful footman. She waited for her carriage to be brought round from the mews and closed her eyes.