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Lord of Sin
Susan Krinard
One act of passion An eternity to pay… Nuala is descended from ancient witches, eternally bound to help others find love. But after her husband’s death, she has no such dreams for herself. Until she meets Sinjin, the Earl of Donnington… Handsome and scandalously tempting, Sinjin has never met a woman he couldn’t seduce.Yet from the moment he sees the stunning young widow, he knows he wants more than just one night of sin! But first he must free her from her immortal bondage, which means robbing her of her magic for all time…




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


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
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?
He laughed under his breath. She could do anything she chose, couldn’t she? If she could change her very face, paralyze a man with a flick of her fingers and deceive those she claimed she wanted to “help,” she could certainly trick a dying man into marrying her. Her professions of “fading powers” had not rung true; she had certainly lied to Sinjin about her weakness, even as she revealed her true nature.
A witch. Not a crooked-nosed, hump-backed crone, but this. This female any man might desire. A creature neither Fane nor completely human. A woman whose motives were not to be trusted for a moment.
If he had been possessed of less discipline, Sinjin might have confronted her then and there. But he would have been walking into a situation he knew nothing about. She might very well have heard he was in Town; she obviously didn’t fear the prospect of meeting him again.
And why should she? She had used him just as she had the others. Yes, Mariah and Ash had found their happiness, but Giles was dead. And Pamela…
“Have you seen that girl?”
Wiping the scowl from his face, Sinjin turned. Felix Melbyrne, his latest protégé, was grinning like the fool cub he was, his gaze fixed on the very point where Nuala had been standing. Sinjin’s hackles began to rise.
“Which girl?” he asked.
“Which girl? Are you as blind as Erskine?”
Sinjin began to wonder how many of his friends were going to turn up to disturb his thoughts. “Enlighten me,” he said.
“That girl, right there, beside the ginger-haired one.”
His aching lungs reminded Sinjin to breathe again. “The dark one?”
“Who else?” Melbyrne’s blue eyes glittered. “I’ve already asked around. She’s a widow, Donnington, and well out of mourning.”
“She looks it.”
The boy frowned as if he’d noticed the girl’s drab gray dress for the first time. “Poor child. It isn’t right for such a lovely girl to suffer so.”
Sinjin passed over Melbyrne’s amusing reference to the young woman as a child, when the boy was scarcely out of leading strings himself. “What is her name?” he asked.
“Oh. I suppose you wouldn’t know…she’s been in seclusion for the past year, and before that she—”
“Her name?”
“Lady Orwell.”
“As in the Viscounts Orwell?”
“Precisely. Hardly anyone knew anything about the late viscount’s bride, since he had been living in Paris for a number of years and seldom crossed the Channel.”
“I never met the man.”
“Most knew him only by reputation. How that old curmudgeon could catch a beauty like this one…”
“Orwell was deuced rich, wasn’t he? Who are her parents?”
But Melbyrne wasn’t listening. “Isn’t she glorious? All that black hair. A man could drown in it.”
It was ginger hair, not black, that Sinjin was envisioning.
“I should say,” Sinjin said, “that she would not be the easiest lady to conquer.”
“Why not? She isn’t in seclusion now. She—”
“She is with that flock of widows who have vowed never to marry again.”
Felix blinked. “That girl? Preposterous. And who said anything about marriage?”
Sinjin smiled cynically. The boy was still green enough to think of binding himself to a female before he reached the age of forty. One misstep, and he might fall. And that Sinjin was determined to prevent.
“Perhaps you ought to set your sights a little lower,” Sinjin suggested. “The younger they are, the less likely that they will be able to conceal any…indiscretion. There are any number of experienced women who would be happy to accept your attentions.”
“But where is the challenge in that? You always say a good challenge makes it all the more satisfying when one is victorious.”
So he had. But Melbyrne might easily bite off more than he could chew…especially since it was clear from Lady Orwell’s attitude that she regarded Nuala as a friend. The girl was near the age Mariah had been four years ago, and, to judge by her eager reception of Nuala’s speech, just as trusting.
Don’t get tangled up with her, boy. No pretty young widow is worth the trouble.
But how could he tender such an opinion without explaining what Nuala was? The real events at Donbridge remained a secret, and would never come to light.
Best if he simply distracted the boy, pointing him toward a less perilous partner who would teach him what he needed to learn.
“Come, Melbyrne,” he said, gripping the young man’s arm. “Don’t make any sudden judgments. There are many other pretty pictures to see.”
Felix sighed. “If you insist, Donnington.”
Sinjin didn’t look behind him as he led his pro-tégé away from immediate danger. He suggested several suitable partners, at least one of whom returned Melbyrne’s polite smile with a coquettish one of her own.
“Mrs. Tissier is an excellent prospect,” Sinjin said. “She is still young, a courtesan of the first water.”
“A courtesan? What is she doing here?”
“The prince has been known to favor ladies whom Society would ordinarily ignore. Mrs. Tissier is one such lady. As such, she enjoys a certain caché.”
“Have you had her, Donnington? Is that why you consider her such a prize?” Felix snorted. “Of course you have.You’ve had all of them at one time or another.”
The implied insult missed its mark. “You aren’t likely to find a married woman in our set who hasn’t taken at least one lover,” Sinjin said. “If a matron has borne the necessary offspring, she can always pass an additional child off as her husband’s. His own infidelity makes it unlikely that he would raise an objection even if he suspected the truth.”
“I know all that, Sinjin, but—”
“Of course your prospect need not be married at all. Mature widows are generally intelligent enough to recognize the danger of having their amours confirmed by an unexpected birth.”
“I know how to take precautions,” Felix said with a flash of uncharacteristic irritation.
“Precautions or no, there is always a risk. You must convince the lady that you have such matters under control, and then keep your word.”
“Which you always manage to do.”
“I have produced no children, to my knowledge,” Sinjin said mildly. “I avoid naive young widows just as I do girls who have yet to take their marriage vows. I urge you to follow my example.”
“I’m not so certain I belong in your dashed club.”
Sinjin yawned. “That is entirely up to you. But if you make a mistake and find yourself forced to marry the chit, don’t come running to me.”
Frowning, Melbyrne gave Mrs. Tissier a second look. “If you wouldn’t mind, Donnington, I’d like to do my hunting in peace.”
“As you wish.” Certain that he’d made his point, Sinjin walked out of the Academy and breathed in London’s not-so-fresh air. At least here, away from the crowd, he was able to think.
He’d told Melbyrne that a challenge was always most satisfying, and he’d faced more than a few himself. But there was one woman in the world he wouldn’t pursue for all the tea in China. Except to make her explain…confess…
He didn’t know what he wanted of her. He only knew that he couldn’t let her go until he finally understood who and what she was. Until she knew what it was like to be the one truly without power.
DEBORAH CLUTCHED at Nuala’s hand.
“Did you see him?”
Nuala looked away from the Frith. The prickle of awareness she’d felt earlier returned with a vengeance.
“See whom?” she asked a little too sharply.
“That young man who was staring at us.”
Nuala turned fully in the direction Lady Orwell was looking, her heart beating much too fast. “I don’t see any young man,” she said. “Can you point him out?”
Deborah stood up on her toes. “He isn’t there now.” She met Nuala’s gaze, her own filled with surprising disappointment. “He was…quite handsome, with fair hair and blue eyes.”
The sharp ache in Nuala’s chest eased. Not him. She had heard that he was recently returned to London from India. She knew their meeting was inevitable, but she was not ready to face the Earl of Donnington.
She forced her thoughts back to Deborah’s young man. Lady Orwell’s description might indicate any number of gentlemen in Society, and both she and Nuala were as yet unfamiliar with many of them. But Deborah’s tone was most interesting, most interesting indeed. It was almost as if she were amazed by the fact that she might be the object of a handsome young man’s attention.
“He must have noticed you,” Nuala said, relieved that her own feelings of being watched had proven unfounded. “Who would not?”
“Oh, no. It must have been you he was looking at.”
“You are by far the greater beauty, and I am past my prime.”
“But surely he noticed that I am in mourning.”
“Half-mourning. And even that will not prevent a man’s admiration.”
Deborah flushed. “Perhaps I ought not come out so often.”
“It is good for you, Deborah. Grief does not make the world go away, as much as you might wish it.”
“I wish that I might crawl into a black pit and never come out again.”
“No, you don’t.” Nuala took Deborah’s arm and linked it through hers. “You are not alone now. You will always be with one of us, wherever you go.”
“I feel safest with you.”
After much soul-searching, Nuala had taken on the role of a kind of mentor to Deborah. There was, of course, some risk; though Nuala’s magic was gone, she might conceivably live for many more years before she was granted the release of death.
It is only for Deborah’s sake, she reminded herself. Soon enough she’ll have no further need of me.
“I suggest that we continue to enjoy the paintings,” she said. “The others are well ahead of us.”
“Oh, yes. We should catch them up.”
Deborah hurried toward the beacon of Tameri’s gold collar. The Widows were laughing about something or other, drawing a few mildly disapproving stares. After all, truly well-bred women merely tittered, if they laughed at all. But in spite of her severe suit and upright bearing, Frances cared nothing for the opinion of Society. Nor did Clara, who had joined in her hilarity. Maggie was simply oblivious to the judgment of others. Their enjoyment of their joke even affected Deborah, who all but grinned in delight.
Yes, there was hope for the girl yet.
Clara smiled at Nuala. “Well,” she said, “we wondered where you had gone.”
“Deborah and I were merely watching the crowd.”
“Fascinating, isn’t it? The study of human nature is a most vital subject that has long been neglected.”
“Perhaps you ought to take up the study yourself, Clara.”
“Not I. I’m content with my microscope and telescope.”
Tools she would not have been permitted to use when Nuala had been a girl. In those days, mortal men had done far worse than scoff at women who held such lofty interests. Any female who stepped out of her proper place of humility and obedience, let alone show skill in pursuits that might conceivably cross the boundaries set by the Almighty…
“Are you ill, Nuala?”
“I’m quite well,” Nuala said. “Have you seen the new florals in the next room?”
Lillian’s round blue eyes lit up. “No, I have not. Shall we visit them?”
Allowing herself to be guided into the adjoining room, Nuala quieted her memories. Memories she had once been able to set aside so easily. Why were they returning now with such potency, when she least desired them? Was this to be yet another punishment?
She glanced at Lillian’s laughing eyes and reminded herself again that she had not been completely abandoned. There might yet be answers. And perhaps, when she finally met Sinjin again, she could lay at least one of her ghosts to rest once and for all.

CHAPTER TWO
THE HYDE PARK PARADE was in full swing. Nuala, Deborah and Victoria, the Marchioness of Oxenham, sat comfortably in Lady Oxenham’s sparkling landau, which—in spite of its team of handsome grays—moved no faster than a walking pace and frequently came to a complete stop amid the crush of carriages and horsemen and women.
On any given afternoon—or mornings on Sundays—Rotten Row was the place to see and be seen. Countesses, baronesses and ladies of every description mingled with gentlemen and peers in their riding clothes and top hats, smiling as the constant swirl of dust settled on their parasols and compelled them to cough most discreetly behind their lace handkerchiefs.
Nuala didn’t mind the dust. She watched the comings and goings of the lords and their ladies, superb horsewomen in snug riding habits, young bucks driving their own phaetons, the more staid matrons showing off their equipages and dipping their heads to those who were privileged to know them. Each of them had a story. Sometimes Nuala imagined that she felt the spark that had always guided her in choosing who most needed her help: here a lonely young man whose shyness made it impossible for him to approach the woman he loved from afar; there a young spinster whose plain face concealed a keen intellect and loving heart.
She stopped such speculation before it could proceed any further and returned the greeting of a horsewoman to whom she had recently been introduced. The marchioness’s progress had been interrupted many times by such admirers; she had many friends. Her musicales and parties were much admired by both members of the fast Marlborough House Set and the more conservative followers of the Queen. She had a pleasant word for everyone, and frequently pointed out the leading lights of Society to her two guests.
“Look! Isn’t Lady Rush’s hat extraordinary?” Lady Oxenham asked, peering through her lorgnette. “I shouldn’t have the nerve to wear it. But of course she never gave two straws for the dictates of fashion.”
“I rather like it,” Deborah said in a tentative voice.
The marchioness chuckled. “It is just the sort of thing any young woman of imagination might fancy, I suppose,” she said. She smiled at Nuala. “And are you enjoying our outing, my dear?”
Nuala laid her hand over Lady Oxenham’s. “If it hadn’t been for you and your patronage, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
“Oh, pish. You are the wife of my son. You made his last days the happiest of his life. It is we who owe you our deepest thanks.”
An unaccustomed flush warmed Nuala’s cheeks. “If only I had been able to do more for him….”
“Never reproach yourself, dear Nuala. Charles loved you.”
“A poor vicar’s daughter.”
“A woman of great compassion and sensibility is not to be dismissed merely because of rank. And now you are Lady Charles Parkhill, and shall be until you marr—” She paused and waved her fan vigorously before her impressive bosom. “I did not mean to offend, my dear.”
Nuala squeezed her hand. “Of course not, Lady Oxenham.”
The older woman beamed at Deborah. “And you, Lady Orwell? What think you of our grand city?”
“Sometimes I think it can’t quite be real,” Deborah said, giving her own fan a quick shake.
“Indeed, at times I wonder the same thing myself.” The marchioness settled in her seat with a sigh of satisfaction. “Of course, Paris is nothing to sneeze at. You must have seen such sights there. Ah, Lady Bensham is riding alone. No doubt she’s quarreled with her husband. Those two quite unfashionably adore each other, but one must expect…” She pursed her lips. “Ah! Here are a pair of gentlemen you might like to meet. You share much in common.”
Nuala followed her look toward the approaching riders. “What would that be, Lady Oxenham?” she asked, her breath catching in her throat.
The marchioness glanced at her slyly. “They have sworn not to marry, just like you.”
Deborah sat up and shaded her eyes with one gloved hand. “Truly?”
“Indeed. They call themselves the ‘Forties,’ because they have vowed to remain bachelors until they have passed the age of forty.”
“Is that so very unusual?” Deborah asked. “My own dear husband…”
“Not terribly unusual in younger sons, at least,” Lady Oxenham said. “But eldest sons must look to producing heirs of their own. And these young gentlemen have…something of a reputation.”
“What sort of reputation?”
The marchioness had no opportunity to answer. The gentlemen were drawing their horses alongside the landau, the elder on a black stallion he held under remarkable control, the younger on a bay mare. Deborah’s eyes grew very wide. The younger man tipped his hat and returned her regard, his fair hair falling across his brow.
But Nuala gave him no more than a passing glance. She stared up at the taller man, who had also raised his hat to Lady Oxenham. He seemed to be completely unaware of Nuala’s presence.
“My dear Lord Donnington,” the marchioness said, extending her hand. “How pleasant to see you again.”
The earl took her hand and kissed the air over her fingers. “Lady Oxenham,” he said. “I trust you are enjoying the afternoon.”
She allowed him to hold her hand a little longer than was strictly necessary. “Indeed I am,” she said, and turned to her guests. “Lady Orwell, Lady Charles, may I present the Earl of Donnington.”
Deborah continued to gaze at the younger man as if she hadn’t heard the introduction. Lord Donning-ton bowed stiffly over his saddle.
“Lady Orwell,” he said, “Lady Charles.”
Nuala met Sinjin’s hard brown eyes. She had never forgotten for an instant how handsome he was, how lean and graceful, how utterly masculine in his coat, breeches and riding boots. Nor had she forgotten the scorn in his eyes four years ago, when she’d admitted to being a witch. A witch who had posed as a maid at his brother’s estate, Donbridge, and who had made herself an essential part of the events that had resulted in Giles’s death, and the disruption of everything Sinjin had known and believed.
She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling. “Good afternoon, Lord Donnington.”
He ignored her greeting and gestured to his friend. “May I be permitted to present Mr. Felix Melbyrne.”
Lady Oxenham inclined her head. “Mr. Melbyrne. I understand that you are but recently come to London.”
“It is true, Lady Oxenham,” Melbyrne said, nervously shifting his reins in his hands. “I am most honored to make your acquaintance.” His gaze wandered back to Deborah. “And yours, Lady Orwell, Lady Charles.”
Deborah blushed, bobbed her head and smiled. “I…I am happy to meet you, Mr. Melbyrne.”
“And I,” Nuala said. She searched the young man’s eyes. “Lady Orwell and I are also recent arrivals.”
“I…I see.” Mr. Melbyrne continued to fidget in a very telling manner. “There is so much to see and do.”
“Yes,” Deborah said, “I agree.”
“And you, Lady Charles?”
Sinjin’s voice was as harsh as his gaze, drawing a start of surprise from the marchioness. Nuala didn’t smile. She was compelled to concentrate entirely on making certain that her distress was not visible to him or her companions. That Deborah should not guess that she and the Earl of Donning-ton had met before under the most painful of circumstances.
“It is very different from the countryside Lord Charles preferred,” she said.
A flash of what might have been chagrin passed over Sinjin’s face. “Permit me to offer my sincere condolences on the loss of your husband.”
“You are very kind, Lord Donnington.”
“The earl was also kind enough to offer me his condolences,” the marchioness said, more brusquely than was her habit. “Having been out of the country so long, he did not learn of Charles’s passing until very recently. But then again, my brother-in-law was very reclusive. Many forgot his existence entirely.”
“Not I, I assure you,” Sinjin said. “We were together at Eton. I was deeply grieved.”
The marchioness inclined her head. “You have been much occupied since your return from India.”
“Oh,” said Lady Orwell quickly, as if she were eager to change the subject. “You have been in India? How fascinating.”
Mr. Melbyrne said something about having visited some other exotic clime, but Nuala wasn’t listening. She watched Sinjin without quite looking at him, taking him in with her senses as well as her eyes.
He had changed. Oh, not so much in appearance, though there were a few more lines in his face and a deep tan gained from several years in India. He had lost none of his handsomeness. No, the greatest change was within him. He had always been somewhat cynical, a man who had a reputation as a lover and a gambler. But he had shown compassion toward his former sister-in-law, Mariah, when she had been in trouble. He was capable of great feeling and unflinching loyalty.
That Sinjin seemed to have vanished. His face revealed no expression, even as he conversed easily with Lady Oxenham. His dark eyes were shadowed, as if he seldom slept, and his mouth was tight.
There was no mistaking his coldness toward her. They had parted so abruptly at Donbridge, and that was her doing. Her cowardice. Had his brother’s death and Lady Westlake’s subsequent madness turned him into the man she saw before her?
You knew it might be like this. Yet his unspoken hostility was much worse than she might have imagined. A part of her had hoped for something different, a neutral meeting, some way she might explain without having to face his mistrust and obvious resentment.
He finds you in London, a lady at least in name, a stranger he never had any real reason to trust. I told him so little. Is it any wonder…
She had thought of laying ghosts to rest. But now, suddenly, she was afraid.
“We must go,” Sinjin said, touching the brim of his hat. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, Lady Oxenham, Lady Orwell.” He paused. “Lady Charles.”
He wheeled his horse about and started away, dodging a town coach and four. Melbyrne lingered, his horse shuffling nervously beneath him, opened his mouth and bowed from the saddle before riding after his friend.
“How very interesting,” Lady Oxenham murmured. But she didn’t elaborate, and soon the landau was moving again. Nuala found it impossible to keep up her part in the conversation.
He is suffering, she thought. Because of me.
And he had judged her, just as the witch-finders had judged her family.
“It was he,” Deborah whispered, leaning close to Nuala’s ear.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The young man I saw at the Academy!”
Nuala took herself in hand. “Mr. Melbyrne?”
“Yes. He is handsome, is he not?”
“Yes. Very handsome.”
“And that man with him…Lord Donnington—” She shuddered. “He was quite intimidating. Very courteous in his manner, but so distant.”
“Perhaps he had important things on his mind.”
“Oh, most important,” Lady Oxenham put in. “What suit he ought to wear tomorrow, where he might spend a stimulating evening playing at cards, what new bit of horseflesh he might choose to buy. All very pressing matters.”
“But I thought you liked him!” Deborah protested.
“I do. He has certainly kept up the family’s interests in the East and has done well by his tenants at Donbridge. But he has only been in England three months, and already he is influencing the most fashionable young men…not necessarily for the better.”
“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.
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,” Sinjin snapped, remembering Erskine’s mocking wager at the Academy.
The other men exchanged glances. “What is it, Sin?” Nash asked.
“I asked him the same thing,” Breakspear said. “Woman trouble.”
Ears pricked and nostrils flared as the pack closed in. Reddick chuckled. “Has Adele demanded a few too many fripperies this month?” he asked Sinjin. “Has she found a more generous patron? If not, I shall be more than happy to take her off your hands.”
“Adele,” Sinjin said between his teeth, “is free to make her own decisions. I suggest we change the subject.”
“But why are we here if not to talk of women?” Nash asked. “If it’s not Adele, who is it?”
Leo set down his empty glass. “Have any of you been introduced to Lady Charles Parkhill?”
“Erskine…” Sinjin growled.
“We saw her at the Academy,” Leo continued. “Sin quite admired her.”
“Ah, yes,” Breakspear said. “She has only just come to London this Season. Never been before, I hear. Parkhill hid her away on his estate.” He shook his head. “At least the unfortunate man had a fair companion to comfort him in his final hours.”
“Is it true that she is a country curate’s daughter?” Waybury asked. “Poor Lord Charles wouldn’t have had many opportunities to meet potential wives, especially the sort who’d be content to give him constant nursing. Do you suppose he hoped to obtain an heir before he—”
“Enough about Parkhill,” Sinjin said. “Let the man rest in peace.”
“I wonder if his little widow is resting peacefully,” Nash said. “If she had so little enjoyment of her marriage, she might be—”
“Enough.” Sinjin felt the irrational desire to plant his fist in Nash’s face. He must be going insane.
And all because of her.
“I see that we have struck a nerve,” Breakspear said in a loud whisper.
Sinjin poured himself a brandy, splashing the liquor over the sides of the glass. “Melbyrne!”
The boy looked up, his eyes dazed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you going to sit in that corner all evening?”
Felix got up hastily, smoothed his coat and joined the others. “I’m sorry. Were we discussing Salisbury? I think—”
Breakspear laughed. “The subject is the ladies,” he said, “and Sin’s nasty mood.” He peered into Melbyrne’s eyes. “I say, what’s going on in that head of yours, boy? Have you finally been stricken by some pretty face?”
“I was never convinced that the initiation took with our junior member,” Nash said. “Perhaps we ought to repeat the exercise.”
Felix drew himself up. “I may be young,” he said, “but I am not a fool.”
“Perhaps you’ve also admired Lady Charles?”
The boy flushed. Sinjin downed the brandy in one swallow. He knew exactly what Felix had been thinking while he’d been sitting alone, looking like nothing less than an habitué of an opium den.
Lady Orwell. When they’d met Lady Oxenham and her friends in Hyde Park, Melbyrne had sat on his horse with his mouth agape, as tongue-tied as a girl at her first dance. He hadn’t listened to the advice Sinjin had given him at the Academy; to the contrary, his introduction to the lady in question had obviously increased his admiration.
“It is not Lady Charles,” Melbyrne said with a false air of indifference.
“Out with it, boy,” Nash said. “We have sworn to be brothers and keep no secrets amongst us.”
Melbyrne looked at Sinjin and dropped his gaze. “Mrs. Tissier!” he blurted.
Everyone laughed. “Was that your idea, Sinjin?” Nash asked.
“Why should it be?” Sinjin said, his equanimity restored. “As Melbyrne said, he’s no fool.”
“She’s already agreed, then?” said Breakspear. “It’s all arranged?”
“She’ll take you on a long, sweet ride…won’t she, Sin?” Nash said.
“One might ask you the same question,” retorted Waybury.
They launched into a testy but civilized quarrel. Sinjin took Felix aside.
“Has it been arranged?” he asked.
“I haven’t asked her yet,” Melbyrne said, meeting Sinjin’s gaze stubbornly. “But from all you’ve said, it should not be difficult to win her.”
“There are ways to go about this sort of thing. I’ll speak to you about it tomorrow, before the parade.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Sinjin slapped the young man’s shoulder. “You’ve made an excellent choice, Melbyrne.”
Felix attempted a grin, turned to the sideboard and reached for a bottle. Sinjin left him to it. One by one the men departed, called to some dinner or other amusement. Melbyrne was last to leave, all studied nonchalance as if he were set on proving to the world that he was far older than his twenty-two years.
Sinjin lit another cigar and sat in his favorite chair, alone with the empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. In a moment the parlor maid would cautiously knock on the door and enter to clean up the mess. Sinjin was in no hurry to summon her.
Though there had obviously been some reluctance on Melbyrne’s part, he had finally chosen a wise course of action. Tissier would take him in hand, and when they parted, as they eventually must, he would no longer play the mooncalf with naive young widows who would only bring him grief.
Sinjin’s unwilling thoughts drifted to Lady Charles, and instantly his cock hardened. There was no reason for such a reaction, none whatsoever; he had certainly felt no attraction to her when she’d posed as a maid at Donbridge, and their dealings after she had shed her disguise had not been cordial.
But when they’d met again in Hyde Park, something had come over him. Something that flew in the face of every feeling he had nurtured since he’d seen her at the Academy.
He closed his eyes and imagined Adele waiting for him, sprawled across her bed in the little house on Circus Road, her breasts creamy mounds, her nipples stiffening at his touch. He might forget his evening obligations and spend the night with her. Her skill would silence even the memory of Nuala and this new identity she had claimed for herself.
But not for long. Lady Charles would still be there when he rolled out of bed.
Sinjin stubbed out his cigar and got to his feet. The time for putting off their meeting was over. He went into his study, opened the drawer of his desk and glanced through the invitations he had received in the past several weeks.
The dowager Duchess of Vardon’s garden party. He had intended to tender last-minute regrets, but no longer. Lady Charles was one of the eccentric dowager’s cronies. She would certainly be there. And in such a crush, no one would notice if he drew the lady aside for a friendly conversation.

CHAPTER THREE
“ARE YOU CERTAIN you wish to do this, Deborah?” Nuala asked.
The girl nodded, a brief jerk of her head that seemed more an act of defiance than agreement. “I wish to help,” she said, “not spend all my time attending frivolous entertainments.”
Frances looked at her curiously. “Did you not enjoy such pleasures in Paris?”
“We preferred museums and the opera to balls and grand dinner parties,” Deborah said.
Nuala wondered if the girl were speaking the entire truth. She had probably never thought to consider her own preferences at all; she had been a great deal younger than her expatriate husband, carried almost directly out of a sheltered childhood into the world of marriage. She’d had little opportunity for companionship from young people her own age, in her own country.
If she were not yet prepared to admit that she might enjoy such companionship, she was beginning to change in spite of herself. Her undoubted interest in young Mr. Melbyrne was proof enough of that.
He is not overly bold, Nuala thought, and seems quite amiable of nature. Deborah would do very well to call him her friend. Or perhaps, in time…
“I’m ready,” Deborah said, interrupting Nuala’s thoughts. “Shall we go?”
Realizing how close she’d come to slipping back into her matchmaking ways again, Nuala focused all her attention on Deborah. “You do understand that we will be entering the rookeries where the murders took place?” she asked.
“I am not afraid of the madman who killed those poor girls.”
In truth, she had little reason to be. The man who had committed the horrible crimes had never been caught, but he had thus far attacked only prostitutes. Yet it took a great deal of courage to venture into a part of the city with which very few aristocrats were acquainted, and which even fewer would ever visit for any reason.
“Stay close to me and Frances,” Nuala said. “Do exactly as we tell you.”
The sun was only a little above the horizon as they climbed into Nuala’s carriage and left the clean, quiet streets of Belgravia. Nuala’s coachman knew the way; she and Frances had begun the work in Whitechapel two months ago, as part of the Widows’ ongoing scheme to carry out charitable activities that most ladies in Society would never think of attempting.
As the coupé rattled along toward the East End, Frances picked through her surgical needles, bandages and bottles of carbolic acid while Deborah clutched the sack of patchwork cloth dolls she had made during the past two weeks. Nuala knew they had not brought nearly enough food; there was never enough, and never would be. But it would stave off the hunger of a few desperate children for one more week, and soon the new school would be ready. The children could be fed more regularly there, even if their hard lives would make learning a challenge.
The coupé brougham continued through Cheap-side and finally drew up at Whitechapel High Street. It would go no farther. Nuala always left Bremner at the border of Whitechapel, where he would less likely be disturbed by those desperate enough to risk approaching the horses. She didn’t want to see anyone hurt, including the poor folk who would feel the bite of Bremner’s whip if they came too close.
She, Deborah and Frances left the carriage, and the footmen, Harold and Jacques, removed the hampers of food from the boot. They were heavy, but Nuala didn’t mind the weight, and slender Frances hefted the baskets like a circus strongman lifting a barbell. Jacques and Harold managed four each, though Harold’s grim expression announced his opinion of the work for which he had been conscripted.
Deborah took the remaining hamper and followed as they ventured onto Whitechapel High Street. The squalor was already evident. Deborah sniffed—struck, as any newcomer must be, by the stench of unwashed bodies, offal, human and animal waste, and rotten food. Featureless faces peered out from grimy windows, and children dressed in little better than rags ran alongside the three strangers, their small, gaunt faces as intent as tigers on the prowl.
But the worst was yet to come. Frances led them onto a narrow side street, and they entered a world that might have belonged in some tale of medieval horror. The dwellings could not properly be called houses; they leaned against each other like the inebriates who staggered in and out of the alehouses, any color they might once have possessed long since erased by rot and filth. Nearly all the windows were broken, and the bare patches of ground left where buildings had once stood were littered with dead animals, shattered glass and refuse.
The people themselves might have emerged whole from the infertile, rotten ground. Desperate, garish prostitutes waited on every corner, their faces withered under the paint. Unemployed men, young and old, looked up from under battered caps and stared at the intruders. Urchins, many parentless, crept from shadow to shadow, prepared at any moment to accost the toffs with cries and open hands.
Deborah must have felt many terrible emotions in the face of what she saw, but she gave no sign other than a slight quiver of her chin. A tiny girl in a badly torn dress crept up to her and grasped her skirts. Deborah almost stopped, reaching for her purse before she remembered the rules.
No money; that had been part of the agreement. Once coin was produced and given, the lost souls of Whitechapel would see not benefactors but fleeting salvation that must be obtained at any price. They were not evil, these people; Nuala had known hundreds, even thousands like them. They no longer had the luxury of gentleness.
She took Deborah’s arm, and the three of them picked up their pace. They made a final turn into a noisome alley. A crowd of men, women and children waited at the empty doorway of an abandoned building; more followed Frances, Nuala and Deborah until the alley was nearly full.
Without a word, Frances pushed past the men blocking the doorway. They stood aside for Nuala, Deborah, Jacques and Harold to enter, as well. The room was barren and far from pristine, in spite of Frances’s diligent scrubbing, but there were a few cots along the wall, left intact against all expectations, as well as several chairs and a rickety table.
Nuala set her hampers down, and Deborah dropped her bag on the nearest cot. Harold and Jacques faced the door, their arms folded across their chests.
Frances laid a clean cloth over the table and began setting out the bandages and medical supplies.
“Now,” she said briskly, “we will begin with the food. There will always be men who attempt to force their way to the front, but they must be ignored despite any threats they may make. What we have is for the most needy, the women and children.”
Deborah swallowed. “Have you ever been attacked?”
“Even the men have respect for courage and determination,” Frances said. “And Harold is quite strong…is he not, Nuala?”
Harold quickly hid a grimace. Nuala prayed that he and Jacques would be willing to continue the work…and that meant there must be no trouble.
She rearranged the food in her hamper and took it to the door. There was a rush as the hungry and destitute fought to be first.
Nuala raised her hand. “If there are any orphaned children, let them come in.”
Grumbling followed her announcement, as well as several curses. But after a moment a half dozen children appeared and crept inside like the most timid of mice, their eyes far too large for their grimy faces.
Nuala removed wrapped slices of bread, cheese and spring fruit from the hamper and gave packets to each of the children in turn. Deborah urged the children toward the cots, where they tore at the food with their teeth. Deborah laid a doll on each girl’s cot.
The routine was always the same. Harold, Jacques and Nuala stood guard at the doorway as the women came forward with their children, hollow eyes brimming with hope. They received their packets according to the sizes of their families and scurried away before they could be robbed of their precious burdens. Even so, there was barely enough food for those who had come.
“Word is spreading,” Frances said in a low voice. “We must soon find men willing to deliver wagons of provisions.”
“We shall,” Nuala said. “There is much that men will risk for money.”
Frances cast her a grim sort of smile. “That is one thing we have in plenty.” She glanced at Deborah. “How much have you left?”
“Only a few slices of bread and a wedge of cheese,” the girl whispered. “It isn’t enough for all of them.”
Frances moved toward the door. “Gentlemen, we ask that you send forward any women and children who have not yet received their ration.”
Stony faces stared back at her. A man shoved his way to the fore, a thin fellow in a patched velvet coat. His surprisingly broad shoulders filled the door frame, and a permanent leer seemed etched into his cold, scarred features.
“Wot’s aw this?” he growled. “Haven’t enough fer aw o’ us, then?”
“You know we do not,” Frances answered, giving not an inch of ground. “We do what we can.”
“She does wot she can!” the man mocked, turning to face the remaining crowd. “If she wos doin’wot she can, she’d gi’us the clothes off ’er back, wou’n’t she?”
“That’s enough,” Harold said. “You’ve no right…”
“An’ who’re yer, then? One o’ them’s fancy boys?”
“It’s all right, Harold,” Nuala said. She joined Frances and looked from one hostile face to another. “We will be back again with more as soon as possible. Are there any among you who require medical treatment?”
“It’s our bellies needs fillin’!” the troublemaker shouted. But he was not supported by all the onlookers. Two men and a boy squeezed through to the door and hovered there, uncertain. Nuala put her hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What hurts?” she asked simply.
The boy raised his arm, where a torn sleeve revealed an infected dog’s bite. Nuala cursed her lack of power to soothe his distress, but she comforted him as best she could. His fear somewhat relieved, the boy continued on to receive Frances’s ministrations.
The next was an elderly man complaining of pain in his joints. Nuala knew that there was little to be done for him, though once she might have eased his pain. Now all she could do was send him to stand and wait behind the boy.
The third was a lad in his early twenties, only a little older than Deborah…not tall, but wiry with muscle, his hair very black under his cap. As soon as he spoke, Nuala recognized him as a Welshman, an outsider among outsiders.
Tipping his cap, the young man held up his hand. Two fingers had been badly broken at some time in the recent past and had not been set.
“Can ye help, madam?” he asked in a soft-spoken voice.
Deborah came up behind Nuala and sucked in her breath. “It must hurt terribly,” she said.
The Welshman looked into her eyes. “Not so bad as all that, madam.”
“I’m certain that Lady Selfridge can assist you,” Nuala said, gesturing to Frances. “Please join the others.”
The young man did so, moving with a loose, upright stride in spite of his pain and poverty. Deborah stared after him.
“It doesn’t seem as if he belongs here,” Deborah said.
“He probably came to London from Wales, seeking a way out of the mines,” Nuala said quietly. “The city doesn’t always welcome those who are different.”
“If only there were more we could do,” Deborah murmured.
“Yes. Once we have the drivers and more volunteers, we—”
“Oy! Wot’s a wee gal loik yer doin’ ’ere, missy?”
The troublemaker had been ignored too long, and now he’d found fresh prey. Before Nuala could tell Deborah to ignore him, the young woman turned to face the man.
“If you are only here to cause trouble,” she said, “you should leave.”
The man burst out laughing, his spittle flying in Deborah’s face. “Quite th’ bold un, ain’cher?” He bent to peer more closely into Deborah’s eyes. “Yer looks roight familiar, a’ that. Sure yer ain’t never been spreadin’ yer legs fer them wot can pay?” He rubbed greasy fingers together. “I got a pence er two ter spare….”
“Enough.” The Welshman, his hazel eyes flashing, pushed his way between Deborah and the lout before Nuala could do so. “It’s all jaws ye are, Bray, and we’ve no desire to hear more of your foul talk.”
“An’wot’ll yer do abou’i’, wif yer crippled hand?”
“I’ve another,” the Welshman said, raising his left fist.
It almost seemed as if Bray would back down, but instead he reached into his frayed coat and withdrew a knife. He sliced the air in front of the Welshman’s face, then lunged toward the younger man’s injured hand. He withdrew the blade in a blur of motion, leaving a red line across the back of the Welshman’s knuckles.
Deborah gasped. Without thinking, Nuala concentrated on the knife and made a light gesture with her fingers. Snarling an oath, Bray dropped the knife and shook his hand as if it had been burned. He cast an evil, speculative glance in Deborah’s direction, turned and barreled through the diminishing group of waiting men.
Nuala stared at her own hand in astonishment. Surely it hadn’t really happened. Pure chance that Bray had dropped the knife just after she had chanted the spell. Mere coincidence…
Deborah rushed back to the table to fetch her reticule and returned with a handkerchief. “Oh,” she said to the Welshman. “Oh! Your poor hand.”
He glanced at the blood seeping from the wound. “It is nothing, madam.”
“Nothing! You saved my life.”
The boy’s jaw locked. “He would never have hurt you.”
But Deborah was in no mood for argument. She seized the Welshman’s hand and pressed her handkerchief to the laceration. He tried to withdraw, but she kept a firm hold.
“Do not struggle so,” she scolded. “You must let Lady Selfridge bind it, and splint your fingers.”
There was a look about him that suggested he wished only to flee the scene of what he very likely regarded as his humiliation, but when Frances came forward to chivvy him toward the table, he didn’t resist.
Reluctantly, Deborah returned to distributing the remainder of the food. Nuala watched over her while Frances finished cleaning and stitching the first boy’s infected wound, gave the old man a liniment for his joints and went to work setting the Welshman’s fingers. He didn’t flinch as she snapped them into place.
“You’re fortunate, young man,” Lady Selfridge said as she splinted and bound the fingers together. “A longer wait, and you might have lost the use of them.”
“It’s grateful I am, madam,” he said.
“You must change the bandages daily—here, take these—and keep the wound clean. It is not deep, and should heal quickly.”
“I shall do as you direct, madam.”
She muttered under her breath and began packing her supplies. The Welshman headed for the door.
“I beg your pardon,” Deborah called after him.
He turned, his eyes shaded by the brim of his cap. “Madam?”
“I only wished to thank you again.”
“It is not necessary, madam.”
“What is your name?”
“Ioan Davies.”
She offered her hand. “Deborah…Lady Orwell.”
After a moment’s hesitation he took her hand with his left and made a little bow. “Lady Orwell.” He released her hand quickly and was out the door before she could speak again.
Clearly distressed, Deborah turned to Nuala. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” she said.
“What happened was not your fault.”
“But that man…” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Did he actually call me a…” She trailed off, flushing. Nuala took her hand.
“They were only words, Deborah.” Only words. As Nuala’s little spell had been “only magic.”
It was not real. It couldn’t have been.
ALL THE WAY BACK to Belgravia, Deborah was very quiet and lost in thought. Nuala could well understand why. She had seen ugly things in Whitechapel: the worst sort of misery and poverty, pain, hatred. She would see it again. Her previously sheltered life was coming to an end.
“Do you suppose we’ll see Mr. Davies again?” she asked Nuala as Frances descended from the carriage.
“Only if he breaks another finger,” Nuala said. “That young man has pride.”
“Surely some measure of pride is something to be admired in a place like that. He has nothing, yet he behaved like a gentleman.”
“One is a lady or gentleman by nature, Deborah, not only by birth. There are true gentlemen in the rookeries and brutes in Mayfair.”
“But most people are something in between.”
Yes, Nuala thought. Very much like Sinjin Ware.
And herself.
We are none of us innocent.
If she had indeed used magic in Whitechapel—if it had not been a figment of her own imagination—it was no cause for celebration. She had come very close to the Gray. And that was not how she would wish her abilities to return. Better she remember that she had earned their disappearance, and wish them away again.
She let Deborah off at the girl’s house and continued to her own home on Grosvenor Street. Once in her boudoir, she sat at her desk and laid out a sheet of stationery. Pen poised above the paper, she wondered how to begin.
Dear Lord Donnington,
It has come to my attention that you and I must…
She scratched out the words and selected another sheet.
Dear Lord Donnington,
Much to my regret, it appears that there have been certain misunderstandings…
With a soft curse, long antiquated, but not inappropriate to the situation, Nuala crushed the paper and placed her chin on her palm. It simply would not do. They must speak privately, face-to-face.
She selected a third sheet and began another letter, folded it, sealed it and sent it with a footman to Tameri’s town house. It was very likely that a socially prominent—if controversial—gentleman such as Lord Donnington would be invited to her garden party. And there, at last, they might have a chance to talk in a relatively safe environment.
As if she could ever be safe again.
MAYE HOUSE was all that a duchess’s should be. It had been the Duke of Vardon’s second house in London; the first was now occupied by the current duchess, the wife of the dowager’s brother-in-law. But the former duke had seen his widow well lookedafter, and so the stately mansion—named, it was said, after a distant relation of a previous century—was a model of luxury.
Luxury in the ancient Egyptian style. Towering statues of the goddesses Bast, Hathor, Sekhmet and Isis greeted the visitor in the entrance hall; the walls were painted with murals of kings and queens giving audiences to their subjects and exotic foreign vassals. In concession to modern tastes, the chairs along the walls in the ballroom, as well as those at the table in the dining room, had been constructed in a more comfortable style than the hard chairs the dowager Duchess of Vardon favored in her more private quarters.
None of these sights were unfamiliar to Society. Eccentric the dowager might be, but she held considerable influence when she chose to use it, and had a great deal of money to spend on her entertainments.
The garden party was no exception. Maye House had an exceptional garden and a conservatory that was the envy of every botanical enthusiast in the capital. Exotic plants crowded against the glass, vast rubbery leaves nodding over each other, brilliant flowers popping up in unexpected places. In the center, a cleared space allowed room for chairs and conversation. If one could tolerate the heat, it was a very pleasant venue.
The party spilled out onto a neatly kept lawn, edged with shrubberies clipped into the reclining canine form of the god Anubis, where tents had been set up to provide additional shade for tables displaying a selection of delicacies. Every sort of drink was provided, leaving no guest an excuse to go thirsty. Heaps of flowers had been beautifully arranged in vases on the surrounding walls. Doors stood open to a palm-bedecked reception room, available for those who found the clement weather too taxing.
Deborah and Nuala walked together, arm in arm, while the younger woman chattered incessantly in a manner quite out of character. Nuala thought she knew the reason. According to Tameri, most of the Forties had been invited—they were popular guests, in spite of their contempt for the state of holy matrimony—and though she didn’t expect all of them to turn up, she had received notice that both Lord Donnington and Mr. Melbyrne planned to attend.
The way Deborah’s gaze darted from face to face, searching for one in particular, suggested that Nuala had not been mistaken in her guess at the park. There had definitely been a spark between Deborah and Melbyrne. A rightness in their coming together.
Nuala shook her head. It was none of her business. If it was meant to be, they would find each other without her help.
At least not of the magical sort.
“Ah,” she said, spotting the young man in question. “I believe I see Mr. Melbyrne.”
Deborah craned her neck and almost immediately resumed a more prudent demeanor. “Oh? I did not know he was to come.”
“Perhaps we ought to greet him,” Nuala suggested.
“Surely it would seem a bit forward, would it not?”
“At a party such as this? Not at all. We have already been introduced.”
“Well…if you really think it the polite thing to do…”
“You like him, don’t you?” Nuala asked, unable to help herself.
“He…he is most personable.”
“Let us go, then.” Nuala gently steered Deborah toward the open doors of the conservatory, where Mr. Melbyrne was engaged in light conversation with a man with whom Nuala was not yet acquainted. Melbyrne noticed Deborah’s approach and beamed.
“Lady Orwell,” he said, bowing. “Lady Charles.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Melbyrne,” Nuala said into Deborah’s tongue-tied silence. “How very pleasant to find you here after our meeting in the park.”
“Indeed. A great pleasure.” He glanced at Deborah. “Are you enjoying the party, Lady Orwell?” he asked, his voice pitched a little high.
“We are only just arrived,” Deborah said quietly. “And you?”
“Yes.” He remembered himself and gestured at his companion. “Lady Orwell, Lady Charles, may I present Mr. Leopold Erskine.”
Mr. Erskine, a tall and lanky man with a pleasant face, bowed with a charming touch of awkwardness. “Ladies. It is a privilege to make your acquaintance.”
Nuala offered her hand. “I have heard your name, Mr. Erskine. Are you not an archaeologist and scholar of ancient languages?”
“Some have said so, Lady Charles.”
“Mr. Erskine is entirely too modest,” Melbyrne said. “He knows more than the rest of us put together.”
“Are you a member of the Forties, Mr. Erskine?” Deborah asked innocently.
Nuala kept her teeth locked together. If Deborah had any real interest in Melbyrne, it had been the height of foolishness to remind him of his club’s vows. But he seemed not to notice, and Erskine was already answering.
“I am not, Lady Orwell,” he said. “I have never been prone to joining such institutions, but I do count several of its members as friends.”
“And we are privileged by his condescension,” a deep voice said from behind him.
Nuala’s spine prickled. Sinjin had arrived.

CHAPTER FOUR
MELBYRNE SEEMED TO SHRINK a little, but Erskine raised a satirical brow. “Good afternoon, Lord Donnington.”
“Erskine. Melbyrne.” He turned immediately to the ladies. “Good afternoon, Lady Orwell, Lady Charles. It seems only yesterday that we met in the park.”
Nuala didn’t offer her hand. It was trembling far too much, and she feared that Sinjin might feel the beating of her heart through her fingers “Time moves very quickly during the Season, don’t you agree?” she said.
He studied her intently. “Perhaps too quickly. Matters of importance may be so conveniently forgotten.”
“Perhaps such matters ought to be dealt with as soon as possible.”
“Business of that nature might best be conducted in privacy,” Sinjin said.
“It is amazing how much privacy may be found in the midst of a crowd.”
Sinjin snorted and glanced toward Melbyrne, but the boy was already walking away…with Deborah on his arm.
“Such black looks, Lord Donnington,” Erskine said. “One might think you fear that your young protégé might actually be tempted to forswear his oath.”
“Melbyrne? Nothing of the kind. He must claim a fair companion while he can. I note that there are more gentlemen than ladies present today.”
As if to refute his claim, an expensively dressed, middle-aged woman approached at a fast pace, her unmarried daughter in tow. Nuala recognized her, though she didn’t know the woman well. She knew that the poor daughter was in her third Season and as yet unmarried, a disaster of unprecedented proportions for her family.
“Lord Donnington!” the woman cooed. “How very charming to find you here.”
Sinjin’s face instantly took on a pleasant but cynical cast. “Mrs. Eccleston,” he acknowledged.
The woman tugged the hand of the blushing girl behind her. “You have met my daughter, Miss Laetitia.”
The woman’s forwardness didn’t seem to trouble Sinjin, though her intentions were painfully obvious. He smiled and bowed to Mrs. Eccleston and the young lady, who was half-hidden behind her mother’s skirts.
“You are acquainted with Lady Charles, I believe,” he said pointedly, “and Mr. Erskine.”
“Yes, indeed. Charmed.” Mrs. Eccleston gave Nuala a narrow-eyed glance, doubtless considering the nature and qualities of a possible rival.
Nuala stifled a laugh at the improbable thought. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Eccleston, Miss Eccleston.”
Laetitia almost mustered a smile. “Good afternoon, Lady Charles,” she whispered.
“Are not the flowers lovely, Lord Donnington?” Mrs. Eccleston said. “Laetitia is most fond of flowers. She quite adores arranging them…don’t you, my dear?”
The poor girl went white at being put on the spot. “I…”
“Perhaps Miss Eccleston might enjoy touring the conservatory,” Sinjin interjected. “If you can spare her, Mrs. Eccleston.”
“Of course, of course! You are too kind, Lord Donnington.”
With a gesture Nuala might almost have called gracious, Sinjin offered his arm to Laetitia and smiled. The girl’s hand was trembling when she took his arm, but Nuala recognized the flash of gratitude on her small face. Not gratitude that Sinjin meant anything by his offer of escort, but that he had provided a means of escape from her overbearing mama.
Mrs. Eccleston could hardly conceal her triumph. “Do forgive me, Lady Charles, Mr. Erskine. I see a friend and must speak to her.”
She bustled off with no thought to her lack of courtesy. Erskine chuckled.
“Quite a dragon, isn’t she?” he remarked.
“She has a daughter to provide for,” Nuala said, watching Sinjin walk away with the most troubling of mixed emotions. “Laetitia is in an unenviable situation.”
“The remarkable thing is that Miss Eccleston seems to think her daughter has a chance with Lord Donnington.”
Nuala swallowed. “Are you quite sure she would not?”
“You are obviously a sensible woman, Lady Charles. What is your opinion?”
“He is highly eligible.”
“Quite. But there is more to matchmaking than mere eligibility.”
“Indeed. His reputation must be known by every woman in Society,” Nuala said. “Perhaps some don’t believe the strength of his commitment to his chosen way of life.” She noted Erskine’s discomfort and added, “I mean, of course, his refusal to marry before the age of forty.”
Erskine clasped his hands behind his back. “He once told me that if he ever found a woman his equal, he would marry her immediately. I doubt he will discover such a paragon, and will have to settle for less when he is finally compelled to do his duty.”
“Yet I have no doubt that he will do his duty in the end,” Nuala said, her throat tightening around the words.
Erskine gave her a penetrating look. “How long have you and Donnington known each other, Lady Charles?”
“We met in the park less than a fortnight ago.” She moved a little closer to Erskine, as if he might somehow quiet her distress. “He seemed quite put out when Mr. Melbyrne left with Lady Orwell.”
“He guards his friends’ virtue as savagely as Cerberus guards Hades.” Erskine’s cheeks took on a hint of color. “I beg your pardon.”
“Not at all. I believe you meant that the earl is determined to see that his friends avoid the snares of marriage as assiduously as he does.”
“Exactly,” Erskine said, looking relieved. “And Melbyrne is still vulnerable, young as he is. Perhaps not entirely convinced that he wishes to remain unattached for another two decades. Nevertheless, I hope that Lady Orwell…”
“Lady Orwell has a great deal of sense for her age,” Nuala said, hoping it was true. “She knows with whom Mr. Melbyrne associates and what that entails.”
“I am relieved.” Erskine glanced toward the tent that sheltered the refreshments. “May I fetch you a glass of lemonade?”
“I will come with you, Mr. Erskine.”
They proceeded to the tent, and Nuala contrived to speak as if not a thing in the world could discompose her. She genuinely liked Erskine and thought they might have become good friends under other circumstances, now that she was in a position to make friends of a more permanent sort. But she had the strong suspicion that Sinjin would object to her association with Erskine as much as he obviously did Melbyrne’s with Deborah.
He has no control over whom I wish to see, she thought. Nor has he any power over Deborah. I shall see to that.
She enjoyed a glass of lemonade with Erskine, excused herself to speak with Lillian and Tameri, and had fallen into conversation with Lady Oxenham when Sinjin reappeared, quite alone.
“We meet again,” he said very pleasantly.
“How did you find your tour of the conservatory, Lord Donnington?” Nuala asked, feeling her skin begin to warm with the beginnings of anxiety.
“Most illuminating. A very fine collection.”
He said nothing about Miss Eccleston, but it would not have been polite for him to do so, even had he anything good to say about her. He glanced at Mr. Erskine.
“Mr. Erskine, you will have no objection if I claim Lady Charles for a few minutes. That is, of course, if the lady is willing.”
It was much more a command than a request, and Nuala’s annoyance almost submerged her concern about what was to come. Still, she had wanted to speak to Sinjin, and here was her chance.
“Of course, Lord Donnington,” she said.
He touched her shoulder, steering her toward the house. The contact was electric, sending currents of awareness through that now-empty part of her that had always been the source of her magic. She stepped out of his reach and continued on through the French doors and into the reception room.
“I believe we will have more privacy here,” she said, gesturing toward a door leading off the reception room. The door led into a cloak room, hardly more than a closet. Nuala made certain that the door was left partly ajar after Sinjin entered. She moved to the small window looking out over the garden and faced him again.
For a moment they simply stared at each other. “I know you have many questions for me, Lord Donnington,” she began, unable to bear the silence.
“Do you?” he asked. His gaze swept from her shoes to her hat. “Strange to be calling you Lady Charles. I should never have thought to see you in London. How quickly you’ve risen…Nola.”
“That name was a temporary one,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by his deceptively casual manner. “My true name is Nuala.”
“I remember.” He looked over her shoulder at the window, as if the view beyond it held some great fascination for him. “You left Donbridge very suddenly.”
“Yes.”
“I wonder why? What were you afraid of, Nuala?”
“My work at Donbridge was finished.”
“Your work.” His lips curved in a chilling smile. “The work that led you to deceive all of us. The work that resulted in my brother’s death.”
There would be no beating around the bush, no benefit of the doubt. Nuala closed her eyes, remembering how it had all begun—when her powers had called upon her to aid a young bride, Mariah Marron, wife of Sinjin’s elder brother Giles, the Earl of Donnington. A wife who had been left a virgin on her wedding night, for Giles had plans for her that few mortals could comprehend: he intended to deliver her to Cairbre, a lord of the Fane, the unearthly denizens of the Faerie realm Tir-na-Nog. Cairbre had intended to use Mariah, unknowingly part Fane herself, as a means of taking power from the rightful king of Tir-na-Nog.
In return for Mariah, Cairbre had promised to give the avid hunter Lord Donnington the greatest prize of all: the unicorn king known as Arion. But Cairbre quickly learned that Mariah could not be forced through the gate to Tir-na-Nog by one she did not love.
Arion, exiled to earth in human form, had been deceived into believing that he would be permitted to return to Tir-na-Nog only if he could win Mariah’s love and lead her through the gate. Lord Donnington had left his estate, Donbridge, immediately after his unconsummated wedding, intending to throw Mariah into Arion’s path and simultaneously removing any obstacle to their love.
But his plans had not gone as expected. Mariah had not only fallen in love with Arion, he—called Ash in the human world—had fallen in love with her. Nuala, who had posed as the maid Nola in hopes of helping them defeat the evil plans of Giles and Cairbre, had not foreseen the complications that would ensue. Giles’s mother, the dowager countess, had wished to break up her son’s marriage to Mariah. She had conspired with beautiful, blond Pamela, Lady Westlake—Sinjin’s mistress—who loved Lord Donnington and thought only of destroying Mariah. Pamela had used Sinjin, while setting out to ruin Mariah’s reputation in Society.
But no one, least of all Nuala, had anticipated that Giles would unexpectedly return to England, confront Ash and break his deal with Cairbre by claiming Mariah for himself. Or that, in the chaos that followed, Arion would prepare to sacrifice his life, Mariah would give up her freedom, and both Giles and Pamela would meet tragic ends because of their own hatred, jealousy and betrayal.
The guilt that surged in Nuala’s chest nearly choked her.
“I did not kill your brother,” she whispered.
“No. But his death could have been prevented. You could have stopped it.”
“I…” She paused to whisper an instinctive and surely useless spell meant to quiet her racing heart. Naturally it had no effect, neither on her profound discomfort nor on her physical awareness of Sinjin’s masculine power. “I did not have the ability to control or anticipate everything that happened,” she said. “My purpose was to—”
“Save Ash and Mariah. ‘They are destined to be together,’ you told me. What happened to anyone else was of no concern to you.”
Her fingers trembled. She hid them in her skirts. “That is not true, Lord Donnington. I merely observed for nearly the entire time Ash and Mariah were together. My powers—”
“Your powers.” His eyes were dark with unspoken pain. “You claimed they were fading. Yet you maintained your illusion for months. You traveled to Tir-na-Nog twice on Ash’s behalf…oh, yes, Mariah told me. You helped heal Ash when he was dying.”
“Nevertheless, I—”
“You instructed me to ride after Giles, to stop him from hunting Ash. You knew that Pamela had helped my brother and was willing to do anything to protect him, yet it never occurred to you to consider that she was mad.”
“You knew her far better than I.”
He flinched. “I never claimed to hold superhuman abilities. You knew of Pamela’s earlier conspiracies, did you not?”
“I could not be everywhere at once.”
“Then you chose to begin something you could not hope to finish.”
Anger, however unreasonable, gave Nuala a sliver of courage. “Would you have let your brother betray Mariah and kill Ash?”
“Not if I understood what was going on. You could have approached me at any time, and I would have helped you before things got out of hand. You assumed that you could interfere in our lives without consequence.”
All he said was true. She had attempted too much. Even before Donbridge, she had known that her power had gradually been growing weaker, though she had not understood the reason. She should have taken heed of her limitations. Only she was to blame. Yet to do as she had intended, to admit her mistakes to this man who so despised her…
“I deeply regret what happened,” she said, meaning it with all her heart. “But Lord Donnington chose his own path.”
“Perhaps you wanted Giles dead.”
The accusation took her breath away. “You are wrong,” she said. “I would not wish to see anyone—”
Would you not, Nuala?
She turned her back to him, clasping her arms across her chest. “I wished no one such a fate,” she said. “Not even a man who would sell his wife for the chance to hunt and kill a unicorn.”
The silence fell like smothering snow. “My brother made many mistakes,” Sinjin said at last, his voice thick with emotion. “But he planned to defy the Fane and keep Mariah.”
“At the cost of Ash’s life.”
“You couldn’t even help Ash in the end. You left it all up to Mariah.”
“Because she had become strong enough. She didn’t need me anymore.”
“You were so certain of that, yet so ignorant of everything else?”
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t explain what she didn’t fully understand herself: how she had always depended upon her witch’s instincts to tell her when to take direct action in the lives of those she watched over, and when to leave them to determine their own ultimate fate. It had always been a fine balance, and she had utterly failed to find it at Donbridge.
Sinjin’s footsteps moved about the room, the tap of his heels beating out an agitated rhythm. He clearly wanted much more from her than an apology.
For his guilt was almost as great as hers. It simmered beneath his righteous anger and grief for his brother. He and Giles had never been close; to the contrary, both Giles and their mother, the dowager, had been cool and distant with Sinjin since his childhood.
And that made matters all the worse for him. He had to convince himself that he had not sacrificed a lifetime’s closeness to his only sibling because of his own choices. He wanted to prove to himself, and to her, that he had not betrayed his brother by loving Lady Westlake, for refusing to recognize the depth of Pamela’s obsession and determination to claim Giles for herself at any cost…even the former Lord Donnington’s life.
Yet Nuala had no power to ease his pain. She could not fight his battle for him; she could scarcely fight her own. She hugged herself more tightly.
“Why are we here, Lord Donnington?” she asked. “Is it your intention to punish me?”
“And how should I do that, Lady Charles? By exposing you for what you are? Informing Society that they have a witch and former chambermaid in their midst?” He barked a laugh. “Even if I were to attempt it, you might summon up a spell to turn me into a toad.”
“I have never possessed such an ability,” she said, staring at the window glass without seeing anything beyond it.
His footsteps came to an abrupt halt. “You admitted that you were a witch when you first revealed yourself to me,” he said, his words measured, as if he feared to expose his own suffering. “If I had not seen the impossible with my own eyes, I would not have believed such creatures existed. But you never explained what that means, where you came from, or how you knew that Mariah needed your ‘help.’”
No, she had not. There had been no time…and then she had chosen the coward’s way out rather than face just such questions as these.
But there were things she simply couldn’t tell Sinjin, part of her past that, if revealed, would only make him despise her more….
And she was not prepared for that. Not when she had yet to find her own redemption. Not when she couldn’t hate Sinjin, even when he made her face the weakest part of herself.
She turned back to him, assuming a calmness she was far from feeling. “If I answer these questions,” she said, “will there be peace between us?”
“Peace!” He laughed under his breath. “Is that what you want, Nuala?”
“We will doubtless meet many times during the Season,” she said. “You may believe what you wish of me, but I see no reason to trouble our friends and acquaintances.”
“Indeed not. It would be criminal to cause Society the least discomfiture.”
Nuala started for the door, intending to pass Sinjin as quickly as possible. He stopped her with a strong hand on her arm.
“I want to know,” he said, the words husky with something very like pleading. “What are you?”
She tried to relax in his grip, trusting that he would let go when he realized she would make no further attempt to escape. Once again his touch gave her a jolt, as if he were not her adversary, but something else entirely….
Someone passed by the half-open doorway. Sinjin released her. She retreated deeper into the room again, rubbing her arm where Sinjin had been holding it.
“It is no wonder you don’t understand,” she said. “Folklore claims that witches are evil hags who wish only ill to the world, that they cast spells meant to create pain and havoc.”
“And is folklore so wrong in its definition?”
She felt his challenging stare, but refused to meet it. “There might have been such people…surely there have been. But witches have been living in England for centuries, most in perfect harmony with…” She hesitated. “With nonmagical humans.”
“Humans? At Donbridge, you told me you weren’t Fane.”
“We—my people—are human in every respect but our magic. It is a gift passed down from one generation to the next, not gained through bargains with the devil or dark rituals.”
“There are more of you? God help us.”
His bitterness burned her like a white-hot brand. “Once there were many of us, yes. Enough to insure that our gifts were not completely lost.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and released it slowly. “We were bound by our magic and our traditions, many families scattered all over England, sometimes in small villagers where we were accepted and valued.” She dared to look at his face. “You wonder why they might value us. Many of us were healers, capable of doing what no ordinary physician could. Others were more proficient at casting spells over corn to make it grow thick and hearty.”
“You make these witches sound like paragons of virtue.”
“Oh, we were not. Nor did we claim to be.”
To her surprise, he said nothing to mock or berate her. “You are talking of things that happened in the past.”
“Yes.” It became very difficult to speak. “We are not as numerous as we once were. There are very few of us left in England, and most keep to themselves.”
“You didn’t.”
“Some of us…could not help but use our gifts when they were needed. I was able to…see when two people were meant to be together.”
“You’ve used this ‘gift’ before you came to Donbridge?”
“Many times.”
“And no one died?”
Nothing she’d said had made any sort of difference. There would be no way to satisfy him, no way to make him forgive her, even if she wanted his forgiveness after the accusations he had made.
She closed her eyes. “No. I cannot say that there were no problems….”
“You always posed as someone else to help these people?”
“Most never learned who or what I was.” She opened her eyes, though she could not seem to see anything but the past. “I used magic for small things—spells of concealment, or of distraction. Often these were all that were needed to see that the match was encouraged.”
“The matches you determined should be made.”
She said nothing. He began pacing again. “And now?” he said. “Will you continue to utilize this magic?”
“I cannot…” The image of the vicious knife-wielder in the rookeries stopped her answer. What she had done to him, however mild…
She took a deep breath. “I did not lie when I said that my powers were fading.”
“Did you arrange your own marriage?”
New accusations. She felt anger building again. “I did not.”
“You didn’t cast a spell on Parkhill to win his love?”
“I went to his estate to nurse him, with no intention of doing anything more.”
“Yet here you are, Lady Charles.”
Laughter sounded in the reception room. Nuala thought of Deborah and Melbyrne, of the wry and gentle Mr. Erskine, of the widows who were her unquestioning friends.
“Have you heard enough, Lord Donnington?” she asked.
The storm in his eyes belied the stillness of his face. “What haven’t you told me, Nuala?”
“I have told you everything.” She moved again for the door.
“Nuala.”
“Sinjin?”
“Promise me that you will no longer interfere in the affairs of other people.”
It was almost a request. She gripped the doorjamb. “Is that your condition for ending this…this conflict between us?”
“It is.” He caught her gaze, and she could not look away. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t quite believe that your magic is gone. If you swear not to use it as a tool for your matchmaking, I will be satisfied.”

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