Seduction & Scandal. Charlotte Featherstone
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the night at Highgate Cemetery, with anyone directly or indirectly related to the three sisters who were considered responsible for making England crazed with spiritualism.
“Father is at his Masonic lodge meeting tonight. So he won’t even know.”
“Lucy—” Isabella began as her headache began to thump in her head.
“There’s to be an initiation tonight, I heard father telling his valet this morning. You know he’s out at the lodge all night whenever there is an initiation. He won’t even know about me going out, and we’ll be home well before father returns in the morning.”
Dread suddenly consumed her, while her head pounded mercilessly. At first Lucy’s interest in spiritualism had been amusing, and nothing concerning. Mysticism was fashionable, and Isabella had assumed that Lucy was following suit. But lately, Isabella had noticed a change in her cousin. She wasn’t quite as jovial and laughing. Her conversation seemed focused solely on séances, and spirit meetings, and all other kinds of things that Isabella had no desire to dabble in. Who, or what, was Lucy searching for when she went to these things? It was a bad omen to court the dead—and Death, she added.
Isabella could no longer put aside her intuitive feelings. She could not help but notice that Lucy’s increasing hunger for séances had seemed to begin with the arrival of Sibylla a month ago, which also coincided with Mr. Knighton’s courtship.
“Lucy,” Isabella said softly, trying to find the right words. “Are … are you by any chance … lonely?”
“Of course not!” her cousin gasped, but Isabella saw the widening of her eyes. “I have far too much to do to allow loneliness to get in the way.”
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if … if …”
“Goodness, Isabella, I’m just fine. Now, allow me to dress and take tea with your Mr. Knighton. A rousing rendering of the contents in those dirty old crates from Jerusalem will be just what I need to liven up my morning.”
“Lucy, please do not make a jest of Mr. Knighton. It is only that he is very proud to be the one to have discovered the secret tomb beneath the temple. His treatise has been published in all the history papers, you know.”
“I know,” Lucy drawled, “and really, I am rather excited to discover what he’s brought back. Honestly,” she said with a laugh. But Isabella stuck her tongue out, and Lucy let out a very unladylike snort. “All right, I’m wondering how I’m going to stay awake and not snore or drool while he’s enlightening us yet again with stories of his Holy Land escapades. Really, Issy, how many times have you heard them?”
“A few,” she admitted, “but I take comfort in the fact that Mr. Knighton can undoubtedly carry on a conversation. I’m quite certain that we will not be sitting across the supper table staring at each other in stony silence.”
“Issy,” Lucy whispered. “I think I’d prefer Mr. Knighton’s silence to another story of the Holy Land.”
“Lucy!”
Her cousin stuck out her tongue and ducked before the pillow Isabella threw could hit her. Lucy, drat her, did have a point. It was rather difficult to keep smiling and laughing when she had heard the same story for well over a month now. Certainly something of import, or excitement, would soon come along to make Mr. Knighton’s conversation not quite so … singular.
ISABELLA SENSED something was wrong. Wendell was pacing the length of the parlor with long, agitated strides. He’d removed his hat, and carried it in his hands, which were clasped behind his back. His dark chestnut hair was rumpled, as well as his suit jacket and trousers.
The air in the parlor smelled strongly of fish, seaweed and the musty hull of a ship. Three things that were not conducive to the temperament of a hungry morning belly and aching head.
“Wendell,” Isabella murmured as she closed the door to the parlor. He stopped pacing and whirled around to look at her. With a laugh, he threw his hat onto the rose-colored settee and in three strides reached her, wrapped his arms around her waist and twirled her around in a rather uncharacteristic show of mirth and impetuousness.
“My goodness,” Isabella gasped, then laughed. “It must have been quite a haul in those crates.”
His brown eyes flashed as he set her back onto her feet. “You are looking at the newest recruit to the Masonic Grand Lodge, London.”
Isabella’s mouth dropped open. “Did my uncle—”
“Black,” Wendell announced as he sat on the settee and crossed one long leg over the other. “I encountered Lord Black on the docks this morning. We chatted for a bit and he invited me to the lodge. He’s sponsoring me, Isabella. I can hardly believe it. A Mason. A member of the Brethren.”
He clapped his hands and whooped in delight and Isabella couldn’t help but notice how young and handsome he appeared, with the sunlight filtering through the windows, casting him in a brilliant glow. “My first meeting will be tonight. I can hardly wait. You know of my interest in the Templars, and it’s no secret that the Freemasonry, or at the very least, Black’s lodge, practices the Templar ways. Rumor has it, that this particular lodge was opened by members who could actually lay claim to being descended directly from Templar knights!”
“Something must be very exciting,” Lucy announced as she breezed into the parlor, wearing a celadon-colored morning gown. “I could hear the enthusiasm from the hallway.”
Wendell stood and bowed. “Good morning, my lady. Forgive the early hour of my call, but I could not contain myself.”
“Well, I can understand why. Isabella does look astonishingly lovely in pale pink. Ethereal, wouldn’t you say?”
Wendell’s smile faded as he cast a glance in the direction of the chair where she was seated, pouring the tea. Her outfit was a lovely pink bodice made of pleated silk, adorned with an ecru high lace collar that was at once extravagant but beautiful. The bodice fit snuggly, emphasizing her full bust, and the overskirt of pink silk damask was edged in thick velvet. It was something a grand lady would wear, not a poor Yorkshire girl. She felt like a sham wearing such beautiful things, but Lucy had made it for her, another one of her particular designs. Her cousin certainly had an eye for fashion, and the sewing skills to match. Lucy was a forerunner of fashion, and every debutante and fashionable lady strove to uncover the modiste who outfitted Lucy in such wonderful clothes. Little did they know, the modiste was Lucy herself. A fact that would shock society. No society lady would ever deign to make their own clothes—that was for the middling classes. Herself, she didn’t see what all the fuss was about, especially since her cousin’s sense of fashion and ingenious designs outshone anything she had seen done up by the seamstresses that outfitted the cream of the ton. But then, she had never been able to afford to contemplate such things. She’d counted herself lucky if she possessed a cloak without holes in it. Which very rarely happened.
A masculine cough ended her rumination. “Oh, yes, yes,” Wendell said hurriedly. “In my excitement, I forgot myself. You look lovely today, Miss Fairmont. Pink is a very fetching color on you.”
She handed him a cup and saucer, made out of Wedgwood china, which was so fine and delicate she could see through it as the sun’s rays sparkled through the salon windows. “Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Knighton. Really, my vanity can survive a morning without it being complimented.”
She sent Lucy a warning glance, which her cousin, of course, ignored. Sinking onto the chair beside hers, Lucy reached for a cup of tea and brought it to her mouth for a delicate sip before replacing the cup in the saucer with a slight chink. “You must tell us what is so exciting, Mr. Knighton.”
“I am to be initiated into the Brotherhood, my lady. The Masons,” Wendell said with a mix of pride and awe.
“Are you?” Lucy asked. “Did my father offer to sponsor you?”
“In fact, no. Lord Black did.”
“Black?”