Lord of Sin. Susan Krinard
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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.