Kitabı oxu: «Lord of Sin»
Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author Susan Krinard
“A master of atmosphere and description.”
—Library Journal
“Susan Krinard was born to write romance.”
—New York Times bestselling author Amanda Quick
Magical, mystical, and moving…fans will be delighted.”
—Booklist on The Forest Lord
“A darkly magical story of love, betrayal, and redemption…
Krinard is a bestselling, highly regarded writer who is deservedly carving out a niche in the romance arena.”
—Library Journal on The Forest Lord
“A poignant tale of redemption.”
—Booklist on To Tame a Wolf
“With riveting dialogue and passionate characters,
Ms. Krinard exemplifies her exceptional knack for creating an extraordinary story of love, strength, courage and compassion.”
—RT Book Reviews on Secret of the Wolf
Cast of Characters
The Widows’Club
Nuala, Lady Charles- wife of the late Lord CharlesParkhill. Formerly known as the maid “Nola.”
Deborah- Lady Orwell, wife of the late Lawrence, Viscount Orwell
Tameri- Dowager Duchess of Vardon
Frances- Lady Selfridge
Lillian- Lady Meadows
Margaret “Maggie,”- Lady Riordan
Julia Summerhayes
Clara- Lady John Pickering
Related Characters
Victoria- Dowager Marchioness of Oxenham, Nuala’s mother-in-law
Christian Starling- Nuala’s first husband
Ioan Davies- a Welshman, Deborah’s friend from Whitechapel
Bray- a Whitechapel troublemaker
Mrs. Simkin- a wisewoman of Suffolk
The Forties
St. John (Sinjin Ware)- Earl of Donnington
Felix Melbyrne- Sinjin’s protégé
Lord Peter Breakspear
Harrison- Lord Waybury
Achilles Nash
Sir Harry Ferrer
Ivar- Lord Reddick
Related Characters
Leo Erskine- second son of the Earl of Elston, Sinjin’s best friend
Adele Chaplin- Sinjin’s mistress
Jennie Tissier- Felix’s potential mistress
Various Ladies Sinjin Considers “available”
Mrs. Laidlaw
Lady Winthrop
Lady Andrew
Various Gentlemen at Lady Oxenham’s Ball
Lord Manwaring
Mr. Hepburn
Mr. Keaton
Mr. Roaman
Lieutenant Richard Osbourne
Other Ladies
Lady Rush
Lady Bensham
Mrs. Eccleston- matchmaking mama
Miss Laetitia Eccleston- unfortunate daughter of Mrs. Eccleston
Servants
Bremner- Nuala’s coachman
Stella- Deborah’s maid
Booth- Nuala’s maid
Harold- Nuala’s footman
Jacques- Deborah’s footman
Hedley- Sinjin’s butler
Babu- Tameri’s footman
Shenti- Tameri’s footman
Ginny- a scullery maid
Characters from the Past
Pamela- Lady Westlake, Sinjin’s late lover
Lady Shaw & Sir Percival Shaw- Deborah’s late parents
Aunt and Uncle Turner- Nuala’s late aunt and uncle Sally, Nuala’s late cousin
Comfort Makepeace- a witch-finder
Martin Makepeace- his son
Mariah Marron- former Countess of Donnington (Lord of Legends)
Ashton Cornell- also known as Arion, King of the Unicorns (Lord of Legends)
Giles- late Earl of Donnington, Sinjin’s elder brother (Lord of Legends)
Cairbre- a lord of the Fane (Lord of Legends)
Also available from Susan Krinard
LORD OF LEGENDS
COME THE NIGHT
DARK OF THE MOON
CHASING MIDNIGHT
LORD OF THE BEASTS
TO TAME A WOLF
LORD OF SIN
Lord of Sin
Susan Krinard
Bigotry and intolerance, silenced by argument,endeavors to silence by persecution, in old days by fire and sword, in modern days by the tongue.
—Charles Simmons
PROLOGUE
London, 1889
“I SHALL NEVER MARRY AGAIN!”
Deborah, Lady Orwell, faced her interlocutors bravely, chin up, dark hair perfectly coiffed in spite of her prolonged state of grief. She still wore black even after eighteen months of widowhood.
Nuala sighed. A quick glance about at her fellow widows convinced her that Lady Orwell’s bid for membership would face less than unqualified support. Most had been out of mourning for at least two full years, and none found their grief so intolerable as this young girl who could not possibly have much experience of the world.
I shall never marry again. That was the credo of the Widows’ Club, the common ground that brought them together. For her part, Nuala had few doubts about her fellow members’ sincerity. But this girl—this naive girl who had married so young—would have ample opportunities to love again.
Not that her suffering should be taken lightly. Nuala still grieved for her husband of six months, Lord Charles Parkhill, though she had known from the beginning that their union would be of short duration. Had he lived longer, she might have come to love him, might have become more than a companion and nurse to comfort him in his declining days.
But never could she feel the sort of love Lady Orwell professed. That was almost two and a half centuries behind her.
“My dear Lady Orwell,” Tameri, the dowager Duchess of Vardon, said gently, “we must consult on your case. Will you make yourself comfortable until we return? Shenti will provide you with anything you require.”
Lady Orwell sniffed very quietly. “Of course,” she said. “I quite understand.”
The ladies rose. They followed Tameri out of the Gold drawing room and into the larger Silver, where they settled themselves in the somewhat uncomfortable wooden chairs the former duchess had commissioned when she had furnished the town house in the Egyptian style. Reproductions of ancient gods gazed down upon them with various degrees of severity and benevolence: gods with the heads of cats, of crocodiles, of jackals. Not for the first time, Nuala found herself distracted by their glittering stares.
Once such gods had presided over a potent mystic tradition, perhaps the precursor to the magic Nuala’s own people had practiced for millennia. That which she had once practiced, before…
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.
Once you have walked into the Gray, the elders had said, the Black Gate is only a step beyond. But she had stepped through without thinking, without considering the price. Not only exile, but an endless span of days and years and, finally, centuries.
And guilt. The sickness of knowing that she had used her abilities for evil. The gradual acceptance of her new work for the good. The hope that one day she would have done enough.
But good works alone were not sufficient. Ultimately she had failed, and the magic was gone. As it should have been taken from her on the day of her sin.
She shook off her wretched self-pity. She had learned to live without magic. If she was no longer a witch, she could be something else.
I can be Lady Orwell’s friend. Surely there was nothing wrong with that. She had not dared to have real friends in her old life. But now that she had settled in London, she must find a new purpose, new challenges to fill her empty days. She must learn to adapt to this world, as Charles would have wanted.
Perhaps she and Lady Orwell might do it together.
“Have you reached a decision, Nuala?” Tameri asked.
Nuala snapped out of her reverie and faced the dowager. “Yes,” she said. “The girl is very much in need of peers who will not judge her decisions. It would be a kindness to let her join us.”
“Even if she fails to keep the vow?” Frances demanded.
“Let us accept her as a provisional member, then. If within a year she is still resolved to remain as she is, she may be fully inducted.”
The group was silent. Frances frowned and then shrugged. Lillian nodded, content to go along with the majority. Maggie popped up in her chair, her short ginger hair falling into her eyes. “I quite agree,” she said.
“Then let it be done.” Tameri rose, her golden earrings swaying. The widows followed her out of the drawing room. Lillian dropped back to walk with Nuala.
“You know she cannot keep the vow,” Lillian said softly, placing a plump hand on Nuala’s arm.
“Perhaps not. But sometimes we must think of the welfare of others above our own preferences.”
“Oh, yes.” Lillian smiled. “She is such a dear child. I should hate to see her unhappy.”
Nuala squeezed her arm. “Perhaps she will take an interest in orchids.”
“Oh, that would be lovely.”
They walked into the corridor and continued on to the Gold drawing room, where the others were already seated. Lady Orwell glanced from face to face, her anxiety manifest in the way she clenched her hands in the folds of her black skirts.
“Please be seated, Deborah,” Tameri said.
The girl sat, nervously adjusting her clothing with pale, slender hands.
“You have been accepted,” Tameri said, “on a provisional basis. You will not be required to take our oath as yet, but will become fully one of us if you find you have no interest in remarriage after one year has passed.”
Lady Orwell leaned forward in her chair. “I assure you, Duchess—”
Tameri raised her hand in an attitude reminiscent of the kings and queens depicted on the drawing room walls. “We do not stand upon formality here, Deborah. But in order to become a provisional member, you must put off your blacks. Half-mourning is permissible for the time being. You must not judge the interests of any of your fellow members, nor may you speak of anything you see or hear during our meetings. Is this acceptable to you?”
“Oh, yes, Duch—Tameri.”
“Excellent. We shall rely upon your honor.” Tameri smiled her exotic, secretive smile. “Now that our formal business is concluded, I suggest that we enjoy our tea. Babu!”
She clapped her hands, and one of her footmen, dressed in spotless white linen shirt and trousers, entered the room and bowed. He took his mistress’s instructions and retreated, while Deborah stared after him.
Nuala wished she could take the girl aside and assure her that everything would be well. She would have much to learn, but among so many unusual women she was certain to find the courage to be herself, not a ghostly figure doomed to a life of widow’s weeds.
And would you not give anything to be with Christian again?
Nuala let her mind go blank as the tea was served. But it was all a sham. She could not forget a single day of her long life. That was a witch’s curse. Her curse.
For her, just as there would be no more magic, there would be no other man. And that was as it should be.
I shall never marry again.
CHAPTER ONE
THE ROYAL ACADEMY was hot and crowded, even though the Season had scarcely begun. It was supposed to be a private viewing, open only to the best and brightest of Society, but that seemed to include half of London.
St. John, the Earl of Donnington, yawned behind his hand and glanced at the paintings with only the mildest interest. He was far more intrigued by Lady Mandeville’s backside. Unfortunately, she was very happily married, unlike a great many of the peerage, and her husband was a rather large man.
Sinjin strolled the Exhibition Room, seeking more amenable prey. There was Mrs. Laidlaw, whose husband was known to be involved with Lady Winthrop. She was quite acceptable in every way but her hair. It was blond, and that was anathema to him.
Lady Andrew, on the other hand, was dark-haired, and her gown was very tight in the bodice, the impressive curve of her bosom all the more accentuated by the severity of her garments. Her husband was a known philanderer, making her ripe for the plucking.
As if she felt his stare, Lady Andrew turned. Her eyes widened as she saw him, and he wondered what was going through her pretty head.
The Earl of Donnington. Wealthy, handsome, possessed of every grace a peer ought to display. Impeccable clothing. The bearing of an Indian prince.
Sinjin laughed to himself. Ah, yes. The very pinnacle of perfection.
And London’s most notorious bachelor rake.
He smiled at Lady Andrew. Her lips curved tentatively, and then she turned back to the painting. It was enough. She was interested, and when it wasn’t so damned hot, he might choose to pursue the opportunity that had so readily presented itself.
Out of habit, he continued his hunting. Far too many blondes. But here, a little beauty with soft brown hair, a figure too abundant to be fashionable, and a much older husband by her side. There, an Amazon with shining black tresses and the confident manner of a woman who has been desired.
And across the room, standing before one of the new Alma-Tademas…
A mass of curling ginger hair that couldn’t quite be contained in the tightly wrapped styles of the day, a height neither petite nor tall, a figure neat and fine, a dress so unobtrusive that it made her fiery head all the more striking.
Ginger hair was not fashionable. But it drew Sinjin like a roaring hearth in winter. It collected all the heat in the room and crackled with light.
“Ah. You noticed her, too.”
Mr. Leopold Erskine joined Sinjin, his tie somewhat wilted, his auburn hair disheveled and his tall, rangy body bent as if the heat were a physical burden riding on his shoulders. The second son of the Earl of Elston, Leo had been one of Sinjin’s best friends since their first meeting ten years ago as hopelessly foolish and naive young men. They’d spent considerable time together since, and Sinjin valued Leo’s opinion—though in many ways Erskine had never quite grown up. He spent months at a time either traipsing around the deserts of North Africa and Arabia, or with his head buried in one of his incomprehensible scholarly books.
He had also declined to become a member of the confirmed bachelor set of which Sinjin was undisputed leader. Erskine was constitutionally incapable of being a rake; he actually regarded women as friends and equals.
“Quite a beauty, isn’t she?” Leo commented, squinting his curious gray eyes.
Sinjin chuckled. “How can you tell? All I see is the back of her. And you’ve left off your spectacles.”
“It was you who advised me not to wear them. ‘Too bookish,’ you said.”
“So I did.” He slapped Leo’s back. “Someone must look after you, Erskine. You’re a little lost lamb. You ought to join one of our gatherings…you might even enjoy it.”
“Not I. I should rather read in my library.”
“Of course. How foolish of me to suggest it.”
Leo began to speak again, but Sinjin’s attention had already wandered back to the fire maiden. She had turned slightly, but her face was still not visible. Yet there was a lightness and grace about her movements as she bent her head to listen to one of the ladies standing beside her…a tall, dark-haired woman Sinjin recognized.
“I see that the lady in question keeps company with the widows,” Sinjin remarked.
“Widows?”
“You haven’t been living in a cave, Erskine. Those widows. The untouchables.”
“Ah, yes. I believe they call themselves the ‘Widows’ Club.’”
“The Witches’ Club,” or so some liked to call them: a half-dozen wealthy, well-bred and eccentric ladies who had vowed never to marry again. Sinjin felt a flicker of disappointment.
“Are you acquainted with them?” Erskine asked.
“One would be hard-pressed not to be aware of the dowager Duchess of Vardon,” Sinjin said. “She believes she is some sort of ancient princess.”
Erskine pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were pushing up his missing spectacles. “Eccentric she may be, but she is a renowned hostess. For the past two years she has wielded considerable power in Society.”
“Ha! As usual, you know far more than you let on.”
“As you said, I have not been living in a cave.” Leo smiled knowingly. “Even you cannot scorn such a formidable lady, Donnington.”
“I won’t kowtow to any woman, not even a former duchess.”
“It would nevertheless be unwise to let her know that you despise her, or her chosen companions, because of their sex.”
Sinjin ignored Erskine’s comment. With increased interest, he let his gaze wander over the other women standing near the fire maiden. There was another ginger-haired girl pressed so close to the painting that her nose almost touched it; she wore one of those odd Aesthetic dresses without bustle or stays. It would, he reflected, be a good deal easier to get a woman out of such a garment, especially if one were in a hurry.
But his gaze passed over her, pausing only briefly on the stiffly upright young woman in the severe gray suit, the plump blonde, the brown-haired girl in an unbecoming and out-of-fashion dress and the older woman with a good figure and what might accurately be called a “handsome” face. He lingered a moment on the very young girl with black hair and dull gray dress: she must be still in mourning. Too young, in any case.
And that brought him back to the fire maiden. If she didn’t have a horse’s face or spots, she would be nearly perfect.
You may have vowed not to marry again, my dear, he thought. But that does not preclude a little entertainment on the side.
“What do you know of her, Leo?”
Erskine didn’t ask which “she” he meant. “Lady Charles, wife of the late Lord Charles Parkhill.”
“Parkhill? Charles is dead?”
“Two years ago, of a longstanding illness.”
Sinjin shook his head. “I’m very sorry to hear it. I knew him at Eton…even then he was often in ill health.”
“Yes. Poor fellow—after so many years of isolation at his estate, he had few people but his family to mourn him when he passed on.”
“I didn’t know he had married.”
“Only six months before his passing. Lady Charles cared for him until the end. She was completely devoted to him and never left his side. Even after she was widowed, she remained in the country until this Season.”
“She is newly come to London?” Sinjin asked, surprised.
“Yes. The dowager Duchess of Vardon and the dowager Marchioness of Oxenham have been introducing her around town, but I understand that she has remained somewhat reclusive.”
“Who are her family?” he asked.
“That, I have not heard.” Erskine frowned. “Are you thinking of pursuing her?”
“I might have done, if not for Charles. I owe him a certain respect in light of our time together at Eton.”
“You owe him respect, but not his widow.”
“She does not seem particularly stricken.”
“You know nothing about her except what little I have told you.”
“Have you an interest, Erskine?”
“I need not be a member of your set to decline the pleasure of marriage,” Erskine said.
“And you would consider nothing less.”
“I am hopelessly old-fashioned, as you have so often reminded me.”
Sinjin snorted. “Someday your virtue will take a tumble, my friend.”
“And one of these days, old chap, you may find a woman who is your equal.”
“If such a creature existed, I would marry her on the spot.”
“May I take you at your word, Sin? Shall we make a friendly wager of it?” Leo suggested.
“You aren’t a gambling man.”
“The study of human nature is one of my favorite occupations.”
“I don’t know that I wish to be an object of study.”
Leo produced his wallet and counted out twenty pounds. “Surely you can afford this much. But if you are afraid…”
“Afraid of a woman?” Sinjin thrust out his hand. “Done.”
“Then I shall leave you to it,” Erskine said, smiling with an artless warmth that made Sinjin remember why they were friends. The tall man stalked away like an amiable giraffe and was lost in the crowd.
Throwing off a peculiar chill of unease, Sinjin returned his attention to the fire maiden. She was gone. He moved closer to the line of people observing the paintings and followed the flow.
There. She had stopped again and was examining a Frith with her head slightly cocked and her profile clearly visible.
No horse’s face, and no spots. Sinjin didn’t need to see the rest of her features to know she was lovely. He realized that her profile was familiar; he must have met her before he went to India, but he couldn’t remember the place or time. How could he not have noticed her then?
He began to move in her direction, walking parallel to the queue of observers. The second ginger-haired girl was expounding on some aspect of the painting, her hands animated. The plump blonde nodded. The fire maiden suddenly turned around to face in Sinjin’s direction, exactly as if she had felt his stare.
Summer lightning broke through the ceiling and pierced the center of Sinjin’s chest. He ducked behind a pair of amply bustled women and waited until she had turned back to her friends.
Nola.
That had been the name she’d called herself four years ago at Donbridge, the Donnington estate in Cambridgeshire. He had never learned her surname, or if she had been acquainted with polite society. He had never ascertained how she had been able to pose as an ordinary chambermaid, barely out of childhood, only to transform into the mysterious beauty she had become just before she had fled Donbridge…this same beauty who stood before him now.
But she had introduced him to a world most men didn’t know existed: Tir-na-Nog, a mystical plane ruled by the Fane, a race of magical beings who were prone to interfering in mortal affairs.
Just as she had interfered.
Sinjin locked his hands behind his back, calming himself with a few long breaths. Why was she here? How had she managed to snag the son of a marquess?
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
