Lord of Sin. Susan Krinard
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.
It must be soon. The next time she met him, she would make everything clear. Then, if he chose to continue to hate her, she would understand.
LADY CHARLES.
Sinjin bit down with such force that his cigar nearly snapped in two. Lady Charles Parkhill.
“Good God, Donnington,” Lord Peter Breakspear said, blowing out a long stream of smoke from his own cigar. “One would think you had just learned that Poole had gone out of business.”
Sinjin turned to look at his friend, letting his mouth ease into a cynical smile. “I’ve no fear of that,” he said. “My patronage alone would keep them solvent for another century.”
“Ah,” Lord Peter said, nodding sagely. “Then it must be a woman.”
A sharp and entirely unjustified retort came to Sinjin’s lips. He bit it back. “I never have trouble with women.”
“Did I say anything about trouble?”
Breakspear arched his brows. Sinjin ignored him, walked to the sideboard and stubbed out his cigar, glancing around the drawing room. Six of the Forties were present at this meeting in Sinjin’s town house: Breakspear, a gentleman in his midthirties who held a strong attraction for the ladies; Melbyrne; Harrison, Lord Waybury, a staunch Tory of traditional convictions; Mr.Achilles Nash, the most cynical of the group, ever ready with a quip; Sir Harry Ferrer, portly and often ill-tempered; and Ivar, Lord Reddick, as much a devoted Liberal as Waybury was a Conservative.
Nash was regarding his glass of brandy with his usual bored expression; Ferrer was already drunk. Reddick was intently conversing with Waybury on the subject of politics and Melbyrne was in a corner, his face suspiciously blank. Watching everything with a curious eye, Erskine, who had refused full membership in the club but was welcome nonetheless, remained in the background as he always did.
“I say,” Waybury said, stabbing the air with his cigar, “you’re wrong, Reddick. Salibury is doing an excellent job with his Irish programme.”
“It isn’t the same as Home Rule,” Reddick insisted. “When Gladstone returns—”
“He’ll never be reappointed,” Waybury said with some heat.
“What is your opinion, Donnington?” Reddick asked, strolling across the room to join him and Breakspear.
“I doubt he’s ever bothered to consider the issue,” Waybury said. “He may occasionally join us in the Lords, but his interest in politics is minimal at best.”
Sinjin turned his smile on Waybury. “I happen to support Gladstone’s policies,” he said. “I believe he will eventually be vindicated.”
Waybury waved his hand in disgust. “The Liberal Party will do this country in.”
“I doubt it matters who holds the reins,” Nash said from across the room. “What do you think, Erskine?”
Leo folded his arms across his chest. “I prefer to remain neutral.”
“As neutral as you are on the subject of marriage?” Breakspear asked.
“I am not eager to tie myself down, as Donning-ton will attest,” Erskine said mildly. “I simply have no objection to a man marrying before he reaches middle age.”
“Perhaps Erskine is less stuffy than he appears,” Nash said with a cynical smile. “After all, it is not as if marriage need hamper one’s appreciation of other women.”
“Some of us prefer fidelity after marriage,” Way-bury said.
Breakspear laughed. “And before. You’ve been pretty faithful to your current doxy. Do you think you’ll avoid temptation once you’ve found yourself a worthy wife?”
“I should think it depends on the wife,” Erskine said before Waybury could reply. He poured himself a glass of water from a crystal decanter on the sideboard. “With the right woman—”
“There is no female in the world who can tie me to her apron strings,”