Page 1 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

I f Sybil Taunton had her way, she would have brought the entire building down until it was rubble.

Twice.

Three times, even.

Gentlemen’s clubs, as untouchable and ubiquitous as they were, deserved much worse than that. They sheltered men who dallied with other people’s lives with impunity. Viscounts, earls, marquesses. The dreaded dukes. Fortune hunters, rakehells.

Murderers.

She would have lit a match to every club on St. James Street, if she could.

That said, it was rather convenient to have most of her targets gathered in one place. As a member of the Spinster Society, Sybil often had occasion to take down the kind of unrepentant man who languished inside drinking port wine and gambling away their sister’s or daughter’s dowry. It certainly made it easier when she knew where to find them.

The club currently in question contained a betting book which Sybil wanted.

Needed.

Was absolutely going to claim for her own.

Naturally, women were not permitted inside the club.

Naturally, Sybil was not going to let that stop her.

The very idea.

She had not let storms or broken carriage wheels or being tossed into the Serpentine stop her. Nor being locked in the Marquess of Eastbourne’s cellar with several other women and chained to the wall. She was the only one with the dubious distinction of being chained to the wall— after she had tried to strangle one of the guards.

That she had been caught at all still rankled.

The fact that the marquess was found guilty, imprisoned, and stripped of his title was a balm. And no less than he deserved.

But that was ages ago.

Tonight, she was back in Mayfair, with the wealthiest and most powerful men in her sights and quite ready to topple them like toy soldiers. It was long past midnight, edging closer toward dawn. They were thoroughly in their cups, which was helpful. She might have waited for morning, when fewer members congregated, but it would be easier for someone to notice her then.

And it was so much more fun this way.

A challenge.

Not to mention that she had decided on her current course of action approximately twelve seconds ago.

She was not technically on assignment. Lady Priya Langdon, founder of the Spinster Society and general Keeper of Secrets, had suggested she take some time to rest after her ordeal at the Eastbourne estate.

Rest was boring .

And therefore detrimental to the soul, surely.

By the second day sleeping in late and drinking tea and wandering around Hyde Park, she was ready to chew the pretty silk paper right off the walls. Footraces against Peony helped. Practicing with the swords and the daggers kept in Spinster House’s converted ballroom was always invigorating.

But as much as she tried to exhaust herself, she fell into bed unable to sleep—or worse, unable to stop waking up in a sweat, the weight of the iron chain pressing into her ankle. The raw marks had mostly healed, though they left some scarring. Her ankle was perfectly functional. It was rather dramatic of her mind not to leave well enough alone.

And now here she was, a lady on St. James Street in the middle of the night. St. James was Not For Women. It was an unspoken decree handed down throughout Mayfair. It was a gentleman’s arena.

All of London was a gentleman’s arena.

England.

The bloody world.

She would have this betting book. She would steal the secrets of the most powerful men in Mayfair. Tonight.

Right now.

In her fashionable dress and pelisse, with no regard for propriety. Nor the weather, which had decided on a cold drizzle but threatened to turn to ice with a moment’s notice. Extremely rude for early spring.

But a perfectly good reason to let a lady inside where it was warm and dry.

She was not exactly prepared. She could have dressed as a maid and slipped through the side entrance. Or as a man. She was improving in her application of false beards. She had picked up the trick of using spirit glue from an acrobat at Astley’s Amphitheatre.

None of which was helpful at the moment.

Sybil had a mad plan that was no plan at all, and the ability to cause unholy havoc.

Perfect.

Play to your strengths, as her mother was fond of saying. Of course, she generally applied it to social or political maneuvers, but never mind.

Sybil slipped inside the hallowed halls, which appeared to be like any other room in Mayfair: crowded, stuffy with smells of perfumes and cheroot smoke, wine spilled, candles guttering out. The mahogany wood panels were polished to a gleam, as were every pair of shoes in attendance. It was shiny, loud, extravagant.

There was a great deal of yelling coming from the room with the card tables—which she could not investigate beyond a glance, as the butler had planted himself in front of her with a sniff. “Courtesans must enter through the side door and be vetted.”

As an earl’s daughter—adopted daughter, technically—Sybil could have taken offense. Great offense. Or else she was supposed to pretend not to know what a courtesan was—even at the age of twenty-nine, having been born somewhere in the Seven Dials but brought up in Berkeley Square. She was supposed to pretend a lot of things.

“It’s raining,” she told the butler. “Drizzling, even. It’s very uncomfortable.”

He blinked at her.

She tilted her head. “I am sure you meant to offer a lady shelter in such inclement weather.” She loved the weather, actually. She liked the cold bite of the wind, the threat of a storm. Another thing she was supposed to pretend not to like.

“This is not appropriate,” the butler insisted, his voice squeaking slightly. He was very high in the instep—she could see that by the perfect press of his cravat, the furrow in his brow when he found a woman daring to infiltrate his domain. But he was also at a loss as to how to deal with a lady.

Also, he was very tall. She might not be able to take him in a fight.

On second thought, she could take most men of his kind in a fight. The element of surprise was always on her side.

New plan.

Did it count as a new plan if there was not one that preceded it?

A plan, then.

Because behind the butler with the flaring nostrils was the betting book. Leather-bound, opened on a table next to a cut crystal glass holding quills. The inkpot was gold and shaped like a lion.

And behind them both: Keir Montgomery, the Marquess Blackburn.

A man she could not take in a fight.

Well, a fair fight, anyway.

Sybil had no intention of playing fair. The odds were never even, the battlefield never forgiving. The enemy always had a pistol to her parasol. Parliament. The law. Social convention. She had learned that here in the glittering heart of posh London just as easily as she had in the Seven Dials rookery where she spent the first six years of her life.

Keir leaned against the wall near the staircase. His hair was too long as always, thick waves that touched his collar. He was too tall, too muscular, too imposing. Handsome was too plain a word for him. He was arresting. Interesting. Impossible to ignore.

More’s the pity.

She had been trying for years. They had been the best of friends as children and then strangers, and now… something else. Indefinable. Uncomfortable. Unwise to the extreme.

He was immovable, even as footmen scurried past him to serve drinks, members shouted insults, stumbled drunkenly past him. He stood, still as an anchor unbothered by the crashing waves. Only a twitch to avoid the spill of port wine a duke’s grandson sloshed dangerously near Keir’s boot.

He looked up and noticed a younger man playing cards, red-faced and sweating. One of the other players sneered. “Collingwood,” Keir called out, easily heard through the din. “I wouldn’t.”

Collingwood swallowed, hand dropping away from his pocket. Sybil imagined to be caught cheating was bad enough for the reputation, never mind by a man impersonating a mountain.

Keir was formidable.

She knew it for a fact, seeing as he was her neighbor and had been for as many years as she could remember. She also knew the frown he was shooting at her, as if he wondered where she’d come from and how soon it would be before she could be dispatched back there. She had grown rather fond of needling him.

It was so much more comfortable than having her feelings hurt.

It hardly mattered that he did not care for her enough to acknowledge her in Society. It made no difference to her. He was not the first to disdain her and would hardly be the last. She was not a fool. She knew she was not easy to be around, especially for a person who wanted calm and control as much as he did. He was a marquess, after all. Even if his mother did come from the Highlands and had generally refused to set a single toe south of Hadrian’s Wall. Keir often wore the plaid kilt of her family, which had always enraged his father. But his father was a lout. A dead lout.

And still nothing had changed between them.

Keir was wearing his plaid right now, which was clearly the only reason she was briefly fixated on his knees, the flex of his calves. Even as he continued to scowl at her as though it were his duty. King and country, and all that.

She beamed her brightest and most obnoxious smile in his direction.

He paused.

Just for a brief moment. Those green eyes focused so intently on her that she felt an inexplicable tingle in her limbs. A shiver sneaking through her. Must be the cold, damp wind sneaking in the open door behind her.

Or the relief of finally doing something addling her wits.

Doing something utterly mad, to be clear.

But what better distraction than Lady Sybil Taunton launching herself at Lord Blackburn, who did not care for her but secretly could not resist her? Just as she could not resist him, more’s the pity.

It would create just the right amount of fuss and bother were she to confront him. Also known as: massive. Nearly as massive as Keir’s chest, which she refused to be distracted by. A chest was a chest. An arm was an arm.

Theoretically.

She knew the gentle strength of those arms, the gleam of that chest in the firelight looming over her.

Sybil nearly apologized to the butler for the oncoming storm but then he sniffed down at her. Her spine turned sharp, her smile a sword. He swallowed, recognizing danger even if he did not know the form it was about to take.

Keir also recognized it, pushing away from the wall a moment before Sybil caught his eye and opened her mouth to screech: “Lord Blackburn!”

The king himself could have marched through the club with an accompaniment of armed guards and a parade of trumpets and no one would have glanced at him. Ladies of Mayfair did not breach these walls.

Ladies of Mayfair did not screech.

Ladies of Mayfair did not enjoy themselves.

Well, down with the apple cart to that, as they said in the rookeries.

While everyone around them paused, cards in hand, glasses frozen partway to lips, Keir only raised an eyebrow at her. Expectant, mildly exasperated. As if he knew her well enough not to trust her.

Well, she had released that ferret into his townhouse. Accidentally.

Mostly accidentally.

Never mind that now. Sybil considered squeezing out a tear, maybe a winsome tremble of her lower lip, but discarded the idea almost immediately. She was a fine enough actress, but the men in this particular establishment knew her a little too well, even if only through word of mouth, or a casual acquaintance with her father. They knew she was not winsome, that she did not tremble. Not even when chained to a wall in a damp cellar. That part was not public knowledge, at least. It would have made going undercover so much more difficult.

And so she settled for the snap of temper, the stubborn, defiant tilt of the chin. “How dare you, my lord? After proposing to me.”

Keir blinked at her once, nonplussed.

Their betrothal came as a surprise to him—and to everyone else. Especially as he had been courting Lady Violetta Pontefract. Sybil spared a twinge of regret, but as the two had not been seen together recently, not even promenading at Hyde Park (not that Sybil had been paying attention), it was likely all hearsay. Idle gossip.

She had never asked him.

And she never would.

Either way, the gossip she created tonight was not idle. It served the Spinster Society. The women of London. It had a purpose, vicious and just.

And it made Keir’s right eyebrow twitch, which honestly was reward enough.

And it created just enough confusion and shouting, both complimentary and uncouth (very well, mostly uncouth, it had to be said), to allow Sybil to dart past the butler. She glowered up at Keir, trying not to look as though she were enjoying herself immensely. “And you spent the night carousing instead of coming to tell me yourself that you had spoken to my father?”

Both of his eyebrows rose now. Before he could comment and take her little melodrama apart at the seams, she added. “And with courtesans ?” She did not know why she had decided to add that little tidbit.

Those brows snapped together.

She might have winced, if wincing would have helped. And if she was the sort to wince.

She was not.

And yet…

She had to act swiftly before her very impulsive quest unraveled entirely. She had only made it this far because Keir was waiting to see what she would do next, not because he was hesitant to act. Even she knew that.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

She wavered on her feet, somewhat theatrically. Pointedly. She thought it only fair to offer him a warning of her intent if she expected him to catch her.

He would catch her.

He didn’t care for her and he was angry with her, but Keir would never let a woman crumple to the floor.

She held his gaze, green and piercing, and let herself wilt. Slowly.

Just in case.

Keir caught her up in his arms, and if it secretly thrilled her—if her stomach fluttered and her thighs went hot—no one had to know about it. Surely it had more to do with the fact that she was doing something again instead of lying about resting .

Only that.

It was Keir. The strength of him, the warmth he exuded like a fire on a winter’s night. The smell of smoke and amber that clung to him.

It was always Keir.

Alas.

Not the point.

Do not nuzzle him , she ordered herself.

“Sybil Taunton, what are you up to?” She remained limp, eyes slitted open only enough to keep track of her surroundings. When she did not reply, he added, “Are you quite done?”

“Not just yet,” she breathed, barely making a sound. “I’m sure I need fresh air.”

A sigh rumbled through him. It tickled her nose, tucked up against his chest.

“Felicitations!” someone shouted at him. “I thought you were courting the Pontefract chit?”

“So did I,” Keir grumbled at Sybil.

She reminded herself once more that she did not flinch. Certainly not now, when she was supposed to be swooning. She had always considered swooning to be dull business. Lounging about with all the structural integrity of cooked celery.

She could see the appeal now.

Just a little.

Keir was just so large and solid. He carried her as if she weighed nothing. She was not particularly short nor particularly slim. No one had ever picked her up like this.

It was inconvenient to discover she rather liked it.

“I don’t think swooning ladies smirk,” Keir pointed out, stalking down the hall.

“Wait,” she murmured against his cravat. She wanted to burrow her nose right into his throat.

Clearly, clearly too much resting was bad for the disposition.

She knew the rules. They never discussed them, but, regardless, they both knew the rules.

“Now what?” he demanded.

“Just move to the left a little.”

He shifted slightly. She snaked out to grab the betting book, tucking it in the folds of her dress. Then she closed her eyes properly for the few moments it took for him to carry her outside and resolved to enjoy it.

New experiences were important, after all.