The Sinner (8 page)

“The saintliness, for example. The whole world believed it.”

“The evidence of her virtue speaks for itself.”

“We both know that recent evidence speaks otherwise. Her alliance with you, for example. Hardly the choice of a saint.” He cocked his head in mock consideration. “Unless the rumors are correct, and she is too addled to know her own mind. But surely not. That would make you an insufferable scoundrel.”

“Which would make me excellent company for you. However, I assure you that her mind is clearer in its judgments than yours has been for years.”

“Then we are left with a misunderstanding of her character. The woman we all thought her to be would hardly agree to marry you if she was in her right mind. Did your brother discover the truth about her? Is that why he threw her over? Since we all know that he was never the paragon he pretended to be, I daresay it was more likely that he initiated her before he dropped—”

“One more word and I will kill you.” It was out before he realized it, a reflexive response to the insults being flung at Fleur. The brittle coldness of his voice revealed the icy fury that had gripped him. He meant what he had just said. If Siddel uttered one more word about Fleur, he would kill him.

McLean spoke in a lazy drawl. “Siddel, when you are only half-drunk you are sometimes half-amusing, but you are neither tonight. Show a penny’s worth of sense and leave before I hand Duclairc the pistol that I have under my coat and let him make good his promise.”

Siddel stood his ground. A snarling smile distorted his face. “Did I hear a challenge?”

“You heard a warning,” Dante said.

“Ah. Of course. Not a challenge. You don’t issue them, do you? You let your brother fight your duels for you.”

Something snapped. Resentments and agonies roared out of time past. White heat flared, burning away the ice and obliterating thought. Dante rose and grabbed Siddel’s collar. In the next instant, he slammed his fist into that smirking face.

Siddel flew. His whole body catapulted backward onto a hazard table. Dice jumped, glasses overturned, and players cursed with astonishment as he landed like a dead weight, sprawled unconscious amidst the game.

A curious hush spread from the corner to the whole hall. It held for a few moments while heads angled for better views, then everyone calmly returned to their games. The men whose play had been interrupted merely moved to another table.

McLean went over to examine the damage. He ambled back, sat, and lit a cigar. “Out cold. I haven’t seen you do that since we were at Oxford. Here I thought that your marriage might make you dull company.”

Dante scowled down at his knuckles. “He was almost out cold when he walked over here.”

“The hell he was. That was quite a blow. He certainly deserved it, though,” Colin said. He looked over at the body. “I think that I’ll get some of Gordon’s boys to put him in his carriage.” Colin went looking for help.

McLean checked his pocket watch. “I must be gone soon too. I have an appointment with Liza, and her performance is almost finished.” He smiled slyly. “Just how generous is your wife? Liza has a new red-haired friend who is breathtaking.”

Dante pictured McLean’s comfortable chambers with their soft, welcoming furniture. He imagined a few hours taking his pleasure with the breathtaking friend. He thought about the warmth and relief promised if he accompanied McLean, and remembered the bed of nails and the damn white door waiting at home if he did not.

“Not that generous. We
are
newly married.”

“Of course,” McLean said gravely. A twinkle in his eyes indicated that he had not missed the possibilities left open by the second statement.

Colin returned with three husky men. They proceeded to carry Siddel away.

McLean watched with amusement. “None of my business, but it was just Siddel being Siddel.”

“I lost my temper. It happens to all of us.”

“Rarely to you.” He casually tapped out his cigar. “What did he mean? Right before you hit him? That remark about your brother fighting your duels.”

“I have no idea.”

McLean rose. “I must be gone. I almost hate to keep my appointment. You will probably start a street brawl and I will miss it. You are sure that you will not come along?”

“I’ll join some of the others here.”

McLean left, and Dante carried his wine over to the dice. As he passed the spot where Siddel had recently lain, he felt again the man’s bones beneath his knuckles.

He would like to say that it was the insinuations about Fleur that had provoked it, but they had only primed him. It was the remark about his brother fighting his duels that made his mind go white and had caused his fist to fly.

He had reacted so strongly because Siddel was right. Years ago his brother Vergil had in fact fought a duel that he should have stood to. Only a few people knew about it, and none of them had ever revealed the details of that cold day on the French coast.

Or so he had always thought.

Fleur gazed at the letter she was writing. The words turned into blotches as her sight blurred. She rubbed her eyes and scratched another sentence. She should be in bed, but she had already tried to sleep, with no success.

She paused and looked around her new, crowded sitting room. A yellow damask settee almost blocked her writing desk, and the apple-green chair near the hearth barely fit. She would have to store some of the furniture. This chamber was only half the size of the one she had given to Dante.

She returned to her letter. It dismayed her that she had not been able to concentrate on this missive regarding her Grand Project. These plans had excited her for two years. She had returned from France to complete them, and had escaped from Gregory to pursue them. Tonight, however, she actually resented the role they played in her life.

She found herself thinking what a sad substitute they were for really living. The Grand Project struck her as just another good deed by the uninteresting, virtuous Fleur Monley.

Worse, they had done nothing to distract her from the speculations about Dante that had interfered with her sleep.

He had not returned yet. She had spent the last few hours trying not to wonder where he was. No, that wasn’t honest. She really had been trying not to think about whom he was with.

A woman, probably. Maybe not. Most likely. Almost definitely.

Of course he was.

The only surprising part was that he had waited this long. She had expected him to disappear the first night back in London. It had startled her to find him staying in their home for a week. He had done that for her sake, so that people would not talk.

It had been awkward for them both. The new intimacy of sharing this house had only reminded her, and probably him too, of the other intimacy that she had cut short. The last week had taught her that living with him was going to be very difficult.

Especially on nights like this.

Hopefully, with time she wouldn’t even care. Eventually she would barely take note of his leaving. Soon, surely, she would not fill with awe when he came down from his chamber, crisply dressed, as dangerously beautiful as a dark angel, that shimmering quality surrounding him like an invisible halo.

Perhaps next time her heart would not fall like a lead weight when she realized that he was finally going out to find his pleasure elsewhere.

She had not been able to move after he had gone. She had just sat there, fighting the sickly hurt, trying to rationalize the disappointment away, knowing that she was reacting stupidly. It was the bargain. What did she expect? Nothing, really. Nothing at all. Only, that did not stop the horrible sensation.

She could probably sleep now. The hours of battling jealousy had exhausted her. Unwarranted, ridiculous jealousy. She scolded herself again. This was the life that her nature had given her. She had better get hold of herself, or it would be one long hell.

As she closed her
secrétaire
, an unwelcome image flashed through her mind. Dante’s face, above her, looking down while he caressed her body in the sunlight behind the hedge, lowering to kiss her in that exploring way.

She began to rise but a sound stopped her. Steps were mounting the stairs. It must be Dante, because the rest of the household was asleep.

Through her closed door she listened to his boots as he approached his chamber. Suddenly they stopped. She held her breath and hoped that he would not notice the light leaking from this room.

The boots sounded again, coming toward her.

She wished that she could fly through the wall to her bed, but the door that she planned to have cut between the two rooms had not been constructed yet.

She hurriedly sat down and opened the
secrétaire
again. She hoped he would not conclude that she had been waiting up to see if and when he returned. That would be too humiliating.

The door opened and he looked in. Seeing her, he entered with the confident ease that always marked his movements.

“I thought someone had left a lamp burning, but you are still awake. It is very late, Fleur. Well past two.”

His glance raked her from head to toe. She became acutely conscious of what he saw. The saintly spinster, writing letters in the shadows, wearing an old bed cap and a plain, serviceable, pink cotton robe over her full, high-necked bed gown. A comical, pitiable image. He had probably just left perfume and lace.

“Is it that late? Goodness, I lost sense of the time.” She made a display of closing the desk.

She expected him to leave. He didn’t. He paced around, taking in the chamber. “It doesn’t all fit in here.”

“I will be moving some things and rearranging the others.”

“I have disrupted your household and habits.”

“Change is not the same as disruption.”

He examined the porcelain figures set on the mantel. The polite thing would be to ask how he had enjoyed his evening. She could not bring herself to do so. It might sound like the probing query of a jealous woman.

He turned with a thoughtful expression. “I am glad that you do not mind change, because I have decided that you need to change a few other things.”

Her heart kept fluttering, as it always did when he was near her. It was one of the discomforting things that she was trying to learn to live with. Tonight, with the silence of the house looming, it was worse than normal. Or maybe it wasn’t the silence, but the lights in his eyes and the way the candles emphasized the perfect planes of his face.

“What sort of changes?”

“Farthingstone has been talking. All of it is around town, including his accusations about your judgment. We both knew he might do it, but I hoped he would show some discretion.”

“We angered him, I suppose.”

“I want you to go out and be seen. Make a presence in society again. Purchase some fashionable clothes and attend some parties. The best argument against him will be you yourself, mingling with the people who matter.”

Not “I think that you should” or “it may be best if you did,” but “I want you to.” Not a suggestion but an instruction. He had left this house a guest, but, by some inexplicable turn, had come back a husband. Even his entrance into this room,
her room
, had happened as if he assumed it was his right to demand her company when he chose.

“I was long ago struck from most social lists.”

“Only because you regularly declined engagements. Call on my sister Charlotte and let her know your plan. She will see that the first invitations come. After that it will take care of itself.”

“If you think it would help, I suppose I could try.” Actually, it might be nice to move in society again. She had only withdrawn in order to avoid the attentions of suitors. Now that she was married, that reason was gone. “If I am going to reestablish myself, I suppose we will need a carriage. A coach for evenings, at least. Maybe a landau—so we would be able to have it open for rides in the park—will be necessary too. Would you see to that part of it?”

“If you like.”

“If that is all, Dante, I think that I will retire.”

“Not quite all. I saw you returning to the house this morning. Do you often walk out alone?”

“I have become accustomed to it.”

“That should end now too. It will appear that you are careless with both your safety and your reputation otherwise and give Farthingstone more fuel for his fire.”

She had no intention of obeying this command. Being free of trailing footmen or maids was one of the only benefits of spinsterhood. No one noticed when she walked out, and no one would care.

Dante lifted one of the figures from the mantel. The movement caught her attention.

“Did something happen to your hand? It looks red and sore.”

He returned the porcelain to its place and stretched out his fingers. “A small altercation.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Not nearly so much as Siddel.”

“Siddel?” The news shocked her. She could do without Dante starting brawls with Mr. Siddel, of all men.

He turned his attention fully on her. “Did you know about his affection for you? During your first seasons?”

“He paid addresses to me, like some others.”

“Like many others. So you explained in the cottage when I inquired about his interest. But did you know that it was more than that? That the man was in love with you?”

She could not shake the impression that she was being interrogated. Nor could she ignore the signs that the dark ridge had risen to the surface. If they shared a normal marriage she would think him jealous, but that was an absurd notion. Still, there was a definite husband-to-wife quality to this entire conversation.

“If what you say is true, I was not aware of it. I did not welcome the attentions of suitors. If a man was in love with me, I would not have paid enough mind to notice or care.”

Something changed in his expression. A sharpening. A darkening. It flickered in his eyes and straightened his mouth.

“I expect that is true. You would not notice or care.”

His flat statement made her uncomfortable. “That sounds like blame.”

“Not your fault, but it would be hard for a man to take when he realized it. An open dislike is one thing. Indifference is more insulting. I do not think he forgave you that.”