Page 13 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

M rs. Copperwhite’s musicale was worse than Sybil could have predicted.

So much worse.

Mrs. Farraway was a cantankerous old woman who enjoyed having people do her bidding. She was snobbish and often cruel.

But also useful.

Because she was Mrs. Copperwhite’s godmother and therefore invited to every musicale. And as Miss Copperwhite was in possession of a number of love letters written to her brother from a Lady Venetia, Sybil also needed to be in attendance. Lady Venetia, who did not wish to be ruined or married to a man who sought to blackmail her into a wedding. And yet she was the one Society would brand unreasonable and solely culpable. As if she was the only one writing racy, scandalous letters. As if Mr. Copperwhite had not replied in kind.

She had dismal taste, clearly, but that hardly demanded a lifetime of penance to a man such as him. He had ignored her for two years, and now that she had come into an inheritance, he’d popped back up, all oily flattery and not-so-subtle threats.

He was clever enough not to keep the letters at his home, which Emmeline had already searched.

He was not, however, clever enough not to brag about it.

And so, Sybil’s current mission was to bow her head meekly as the companion Miss Grey while following dozens of unnecessary orders given solely to remind her of her place. That was the real reason Mrs. Farraway hired a companion.

Sybil fetched her shawl from the front hall, then her smelling salts from her reticule, then returned the shawl because it was far too warm by the fire and she ought to have known better. She fetched a glass of wine, a plate of cheese with dates and figs. She moved Mrs. Farraway’s chair away from the fire to the window and then back again, being scolded for scratching the floor. “Miss Grey, do stop woolgathering. I asked you to set up my chair in the conservatory for the performance.”

She hadn’t asked for any such thing.

But as the conservatory was in another part of the house and that served Sybil’s true purpose, she nodded meekly. “Yes, Mrs. Farraway.”

Another lady smirked, enjoying the show. There was nothing a gathering such as this loved as much as someone being taken down a peg. Several pegs. Surely there were no pegs left.

And then the whispering abruptly changed tone and cadence. It lightened, like a dozen songbirds had suddenly congregated in the parlor. Sybil turned, frowning, toward the new guest.

Keir Montgomery, Marquess Blackburn.

He bowed to the room at large, finding her immediately. His green eyes were steady and clear. Sybil did not alter her frown, even though people did not frown at a marquess, especially not companions like Miss Grey. He had threatened to follow her here, but she had not believed him. No one came to this musicale without very good reason. She had a very good reason. Keir did not.

He would remember that when his ears began to bleed.

“My chair, Miss Grey,” Mrs. Farraway snapped. “At once.”

Keir was the one frowning now. She shot him a quelling glance. If he ruined her cover, she would murder him, plain and simple. No one knew Lady Sybil in this part of London.

“Of course, Mrs. Farraway.”

Sybil expected Keir’s frown to drop away entirely at her docility. He would be beside himself with the evidence that she could , in fact, be demure. That she could curtsy with her head bent modestly. That she could be no trouble at all.

Instead, his eyes narrowed.

Rather alarmingly.

Sybil turned on her heel and darted away.

Miss Copperwhite was more clever than expected.

And it was annoying.

Sybil made sure Mrs. Farraway’s chair had two cushions, a shawl against the chill from the windows, was near the candles but not too near the candles, and next to a table set with a goblet of sherry and a silver bowl of hard candies. Then she hurried up the stairs, keeping clear of the household staff. A pause behind a potted tree, a moment to flatten herself behind a cabinet carved with lilies, and then she was inside Miss Copperwhite’s bedchamber.

Everything was frothed with lace, from the curtains to the coverlet. The ceiling was painted like the sky over a Roman villa, feathery olive branches, doves, Corinthian marble columns. There was a writing desk under a window, a chamber pot behind a screen. A hundred usual hiding spots for heirlooms or private journals or coins.

None of those places hid a packet of explicit love letters.

“Blast,” Sybil muttered, crawling half under the bed in case they had been stuffed under the mattress. They had not.

And she could not be away from the guests any longer. It might rouse suspicion. She would have to try another room, perhaps while Miss Copperwhite was singing.

“There you are,” Mrs. Farraway snapped as soon as Sybil returned. The guests were rising to move to the conservatory. Slowly and somewhat reluctantly, it had to be said. “What use are you to me if you go galivanting off?”

“My apologies.”

“Well, don’t stand about. Help me up.”

Sybil helped her to her feet and handed Mrs. Farraway her cane. The long strand of jet beads Mrs. Farraway wore around her neck swung as she walked, catching the light.

“Don’t dawdle.”

“Yes, Mrs. Farraway.”

In the hall, Keir stepped up beside her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked out of the side of her mouth.

“ You are here,” he replied as though that was reason enough. “ Miss Grey. ”

“That does not answer my question,” she pointed out, because it could not be reason enough.

“Need I remind you that you were abducted today?” he said, exasperated. “Apparently, I do.”

“That was hours ago.”

“I do not like the way that woman speaks to you. Let me take you home.”

Warmth suffused her, spilling behind her ribcage, filling her up. It was a lovely thing for him to say, for some reason made lovelier by his disgruntled, grumbling tone. “I can’t go until I find what I came for.”

“Which is?”

“None of your business.” Sybil grinned at him. “My lord.”

“How did I know you were going to say that?”

“Damn, I do hate to be predictable.”

“No need to concern yourself with that, I assure you.”

“Miss Grey, do not make eyes at Lord Blackburn,” Mrs. Farraway scolded, purely with the intent to embarrass her. One of the other ladies snickered. “It is not seemly in one of your standing.”

“We do not kick old ladies,” Sybil muttered under her breath. “We do not kick old ladies.”

“ I’ll kick her if you like,” Keir muttered back drily.

She wanted to grin at him again.

She wanted to do a lot of things.

Instead, she lowered her chin and tried not to look like she wanted to punch half a dozen of the guests as well as kick an old lady. “You can do something for me,” she whispered.

“Anything.”

Oh. Well, that was lovely too.

“Keep their attention.”

He sighed. “You owe me, Miss Grey.”

“You came here unbidden. I did try to warn you.”

“So you did.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “But dear God, woman. This is worse than Almack’s Assembly.”

“Poor Keir,” she cooed. “Single marquesses with all their teeth do not grow on trees, you know.”

He shot her a look that inexplicably made her tingle down to her toes. It made her cheeks flush, and she did not know why, as it was stern, exasperated, begrudgingly fond. It was hardly scandalous.

And yet.

It did things to her insides. To her blood and her thighs. To her nipples, suddenly tightening under her stays.

She swallowed, hoping he did not notice her reaction. She wove around the outskirts of the gathered guests finding their seats as he strode forward, tall and handsome and entirely too big for the overly fussy chairs.

“Ladies, allow me to assist you.” His rough-soft voice galvanized everyone near him. Several toes were trod upon, then deliberately crushed under heels as the battle to sit next to him commenced. He shot Sybil one more look, commiserating but also promising punishment.

Distracting.

Very distracting.

“Cover your hair, girl. It’s far too bright. Did you use lemons? Vain thing,” Mrs. Farraway muttered, fussing with her shawl. It was fringed with glass beads. She did hate to look frail enough to need a blanket, even in winter.

Sybil was only glad that the dye she had used in her hair was finally washing away.

“So brassy,” someone sniffed.

“Well, blood will tell.”

Keir turned his head very slowly at that last comment. His jaw tightened.

“Sit back there and don’t be a nuisance,” Mrs. Farraway ordered Sybil. “Better yet, go down to the kitchen and make sure they have the right spices for my mulled wine.”

“Of course, Mrs. Farraway.”

“Lord Blackburn,” a woman chirped. “Are you growling?”

“Certainly not. The chair creaked.” When Sybil widened her eyes at him, he sighed. “Miss Leonard, there is a spare seat here next to me.”

A marquess inviting a merchant’s daughter to join him at a public gathering was unheard of. It captured everyone’s attention. They would gossip about him until Christmas. Sybil was impressed. Keir had a future in subterfuge. Who would have guessed?

She hurried out, avoiding the singing if not the derision. She’d rather avoid the singing, to be quite honest. More than one guest had already surreptitiously slipped balls of soft beeswax into their ears to muffle the sound.

There was snow at the windows, hot tea and pastries with raspberry preserves. Comfortable cushions. Sybil still vastly preferred her exile to the stuffy kitchen, and then back upstairs to Miss Copperwhite’s morning room.

Perhaps it was not that she was so very clever, only that she was as unworried as her brother, with no thought that anyone might get the best of them.

The morning room was pretty and tidy, decorated in shades of cheerful yellow and a great many paintings of tulips. There were decorative boxes for ribbons, pens, a penknife inlaid with pearl. And a basket of needlepoint.

And at the bottom of the basket: a packet of letters tied with a blue ribbon.

Once Sybil had confirmed they were indeed the letters written by Miss Venetia, she slipped them inside one of the many pockets tied around her waist. She might not be wearing her cloak-of-many-pockets, but a Spinster was always prepared.

Which meant that she was also wearing a sturdy pair of boots, which helped enormously once the musicale was finished and Mrs. Farraway left in her carriage without a word to Sybil, leaving her to walk home in the snow. As expected. Mrs. Farraway was nothing if not predictable. She did not actually require a companion out of Sybil, only someone to torture every now and again to cement her place in the world.

Sybil was not the least bit surprised to find Keir’s carriage waiting at the road. He leaned against it, snow gathering in his dark hair, arms crossed as though he was perfectly comfortable to wait the rest of the night. “Get in, Miss Grey.”

“I’m not going home.”

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”