Page 2 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

I t was still raining.

Sybil didn’t mind. She felt squirmy and breathless and so overheated that she half expected steam to rise off her as Keir set her down on her feet. The cold wind snaking around lampposts and between buildings was soothing.

“Mind explaining what that was about?” Keir asked, gravelly voice deceptively mild. His eyes pinned her in place, demanding. A tiny bit menacing. Rain misted on his kilt, making him more suited to standing over a fire in craggy mountains purple with heather.

She liked it.

Oh no . That would not do. Not here. Not now.

“Terribly sorry!” She sent him a sunny, carefree smile. “No time to chat!”

And then she turned tail and ran.

She did not consider retreat cowardly. Not in this case. It was merely sensible. Tactical, even. She could be cautious when the occasion warranted it, despite what her fellow Spinsters said. Keir outweighed her by several stones. His arms were thick enough to toss trees about like kindling. Certainly strong enough to keep her still while he pilfered the betting book back from her.

It was hers now. She’d pilfered it first.

The rain, cursed by so many, was exceedingly helpful tonight. It silvered the air, blurred the edges as she darted out of reach and slipped between two carriages. A coachman yelled something unflattering at her when he was forced to pull on the reins. “Apologies!” she yelled back, mostly to the horse. Water splashed around her shoes.

She could feel Keir’s presence at her back, even as she knew she had lost him. There were too many wheels and hooves and buildings between them now. She knew the laneways better than anyone, even though she had not depended on them for her survival in a great many years. Her nan had walked her through the rookeries every day, her thick gray shawl full of holes young Sybil had loved digging her fingers through, like a fishing net. Fishing nets were her favorite—they made her think of her father, who was away sailing the seas.

It was not far to run to Spinster House on the edge of Hyde Park, and running was so much more enjoyable than strolling. The betting book was safely tucked into her cape, in one of the many large pockets she had sewn into all of her clothing. Some attached at the waist, under her dresses, some hung from her stays. Most of her capes were riddled with them. They were very useful for pilfered books, but also weapons of every kind, from hatpins to daggers to the pouches of mysterious herbs Priya handed out to the Spinsters. A spinster, a wallflower who could not find a husband, was the perfect person to offer you an innocuous, harmless cup of tea.

More fool you, if you accepted it.

Spinster House had been home for some months now. The society operated from a grand house Priya had bought, located right next to hers. She had been more interested in having a second greenhouse at the time, but it wasn’t long before she filled the place with women, from Emmeline and Matilda, who lived together in the master suite of rooms, and Peony, to ladies who found themselves hiding from fortune hunters and bored aristocrats looking for a plaything.

And Sybil, who was perfectly welcome at home, but was also twenty-nine years old and preferred not to have to come up with excuses every time she came home in the middle of the night.

Which was frequently.

Perfectly normal for a debutante or fashionable lady who spent her time dancing until dawn in silk slippers—less ordinary for a spinster who had not been asked to dance in some time.

Pity, as Sybil was quite good at waltzing.

But she had no dowry, even though her father was an earl. And as she was technically a foundling, she did not bring acceptable bloodlines to a prospective husband’s lineage. It had not bothered her in years. She was extraordinarily lucky. Her parents were better than anyone, and she would poison the tea of anyone who suggested otherwise. Her hazy origins did not bother her, and more importantly, nor did they bother her parents.

They did bother every earl, Marquess, or duke she had ever met. If not them, then it bothered their mothers. Grandmothers. Someone was always very bothered.

Keir, who had been her closest companion and accomplice until he turned sixteen, was bothered.

Spinster House glowed warmly with lamps lit at the windows, always ready to welcome a weary traveler. A spinster being chased by a street gang of ruffians. And a drunken duke. Together.

One time, that had happened.

But Priya had taken one look at the state of Sybil and had lamps lit every night hence.

Sybil ducked into the lilac trees, most of the leaves plucked by the cold wind. The garden was a brittle shadow, but still a useful one. Yew bushes and statues of Roman women wearing circlets of roses offered a certain shield from the casual glances of people passing by. Spinster House was starting to become known, whispered about behind fans and over teacups. They straddled that murky line between needing to be secret and needing to be available.

Best that the Spinsters came and went through side entrances and back doors, less able to be accounted for by unfriendly eyes.

Sybil let herself in through the kitchen, laying her cloak over a chair by the fire to drip into the flagstones. She snatched a pear from a bowl as she made her way upstairs. The house was like any other grand Mayfair townhouse: parlors, ballrooms, bedrooms, servant quarters.

But here the ballroom was reserved for throwing daggers and fencing and practicing other such useful skills as climbing and pugilism. There was also a large pool of heated water where Peony spent most of her nights. She popped out of the glass room that had been built around it now, dark hair still damp, wearing a thick dressing gown. “You’re drenched,” she said. “And smug. Where have you been?”

Sybil and Peony had become closer friends due to the fact that they both kept the oddest hours.

And got into the most trouble, truth be told.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” Peony added, falling into step with her.

“Blasphemer. I thought you were my friend.”

Peony snorted. “I was your friend until you made me lose a wager with Matilda. I said you would not last a single hour on your regiment of rest. And then you went and lasted several days.”

“Barely. And only under duress. And hey! You wagered against me?”

“I wagered with reason and logic.”

Sybil could not really argue with that.

“Since you clearly were not resting tonight , what have you been doing instead?” Peony asked as they ducked between giant potted ferns. Given Priya’s love of horticulture, there were plants everywhere. It was a veritable jungle. Even the ladies’ necessity dripped with roses and lilies.

“I went for a walk.” Sybil grinned.

“Mm-hmm. Where, exactly? The bottom of the Serpentine?”

“Not this time. I was on St. James.”

Peony grimaced. “Much worse.”

“Usually, yes.” They climbed the stairs, the polished wood creaking pleasantly under their feet. “But this time I breached Fortingham’s.”

“You went inside a club?”

Sybil tried not to look as smug as she felt and failed miserably. “I went inside, caused a fuss, pretended to swoon, and then stole the betting book on my way out.” She waved the book triumphantly. She had left the part about being carried around by Keir, about the heat radiating off him, the scent of wood smoke and soap. The way she knew exactly how his hands felt gripping her waist.

“You did not!” Peony exclaimed. “And without me!”

“They would have bolted the doors against us if they’d seen us together.”

“True.”

“And possibly constructed a makeshift drawbridge to raise.”

“And lit the torches, found some pitchforks. Cowards.”

They grinned at each other as Sybil plopped the book down on Priya’s desk and scrawled a note to accompany it. Unsurprisingly, Priya’s office was stuffed floor to rafters with plants. And also a large basket stocked with bandages, ointments, towels. Baskets were scattered throughout the house with all the necessary supplies. Sybil knew she would find a flask of whisky under the clean towels. She decided she was not that cold and settled for a towel to dry her hair. She had never minded the cold before her experience of being locked in the marquess’s cellar. She still refused to mind it, but lately there was definitely an invisible line drawn between the normal chatter of her teeth and something else.

She did not care for it.

Whisky helped, but she did not care for that either.

“Anything good in here?” Peony asked, riffling through the betting book.

Glad for the distraction, Sybil shrugged. “I didn’t really have time to have a proper look. But I am sure Priya can find something useful.” Stealing it was the fun part. She left the rest to Priya.

They skimmed pages of handwriting going back over a year. It would take some time to sort through. Peony shook her head. “These two idiots bet two thousand pounds on whether or not the robin sitting on the sill of the bay window of the club would fly away to the east or the west.”

“Those two are dukes.”

“Still idiots. And the Earl of Bellingham wagered he could sleep with a viscount’s daughter and not have to marry her.”

“Miss Middlemarch.” Sybil nodded. “She broke his nose. It’s still crooked.”

“Well done, Miss Middlemarch. Perhaps she would like to join the society.”

“She is not exactly a spinster. She is exceedingly popular and received seventeen marriage proposals this Season alone.”

“Ghastly.”

Sybil nudged her friend fondly. “Rather the point of a Season.”

Peony shuddered. “Dancing is enjoyable but completely ruined by men sweating on you and talking about the weather or explaining things to you which you already know.”

“They sweat on you because they can’t keep up with you. No one has your stamina.”

“They can’t keep up with you , either.”

“Yes,” Sybil admitted drily. “And it has not made me particularly popular, either.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

Her lack of dowry was the actual impediment. She could have galloped across a ballroom, swung from the chandelier, and trod on all of the ducal toes she wished, if only she had a large enough dowry. And it had driven her dancing instructor mad when she was a girl. The moment she picked up the steps, she was incapable of practicing them over and over again. What was the point when there were so many other things to do? He had prattled on about grace and elegance and perfection in one’s skill, but she had stopped listening before he had even begun.

That had not endeared her to future dance partners either, dowry or no dowry.

“Well, I am certain that Priya will enjoy combing through this,” Peony added.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, or the next day,” Sybil said.

“Are you not staying here? It’s late, even for us.”

She shook her head. She mostly lived at Spinster House, but it was her father’s birthday this week and the only gift he ever asked for was for her to spend it at home. She would sooner saw off her foot than disappoint him. Or her mother. They had taken her in, dirty and hungry, and then proceeded to immediately turn feral in her defense. She would not repay that kindness by adding even more chaos than she generally did just by existing. Best not to bring evidence into their house when she could avoid it. The book would stay here, and she would go home.

In the cold rain, still pelting down from the sky and still threatening to turn to ice.

Still, she was quite pleased with herself and the night’s work when she ducked down the laneway to the mews and the side door leading to the music room. Footmen lurked by the front door, waiting to open doors and take away wet clothes. The servant door led down to the kitchens and the storerooms, where there was always someone lingering, even at this hour. Sybil had long ago learned the trick of the music room door, as well as the lower left window, which she could unlock with a length of wire she kept in one of her many pockets. In a pinch, she could scale the trellis at the back of the house and pull herself over onto her bedroom balcony.

Which, apparently, was tonight’s route.

Someone had latched all of the doors and windows extra tight against the storm. Lightning flashed on wet window panes, the bent heads of shriveled roses in the gardens. It was unseasonably cold and damp for this kind of subterfuge, to be honest. She was already soaked through and shivering. Her nose was numb.

She loved it.

To a point.

A good thing, too, as she could see a footman passing through the house, candle glowing as he moved from room to room. A scullery maid would be up soon to light the fires. And although no one would be particularly shocked to see her climb through a window, the arrangement worked best when everyone could ignore her comings and goings. That way, no one had to talk to her parents about it (mortifying at her age) and her parents did not have to ask her any questions.

As another birthday present, she would not embarrass her gentle, kind father by making him ask her not to climb through windows in the middle of the night. He would worry. Her mother, just as kind but decidedly less gentle, would not ask. She would demand. Possibly with a sharp implement in hand.

The rookeries had taught her how to survive, and the Spinsters had armed her, but her mother was the one who taught her to stand her ground. And she would not let the Marquess of Eastbourne and the days she spent in his cellar take that from her. The fact that she hesitated briefly, wanting to simply sail through the side door and find her warm, dry bed, made it imperative that she scale the trellis instead.

It made perfect sense.

In her head.

She would not give in to fear. Or cold. Or memories of a cellar that in the light of day were not that terrible: she had not been alone, and they had all been fed and generally left on their own. She was the only one chained to the wall.

Sybil pulled a long leather lace from her pocket and tied it around her waist, tucking her skirts and cloak into it so it would not trip her up. Her fingers were already cramping with cold and her breath misted briefly in the air above her when she exhaled. A minor setback. She stepped up onto the decorative pedestal she had dragged into position months ago for this very purpose. She used it to reach the trellis and haul herself up, climbing swiftly. She had practiced in the Spinster ballroom for many hours. Peony had constructed a kind of obstacle course with a wall for scaling, which she delighted in pushing the members through until they cried. Or tried to strangle her.

Sybil had not cried, but she did try to strangle her.

Three times.

But it was worth it. She could climb like a cat, sure footed and nimble, even in the middle of a wet and unpleasant night. She was a little out of breath as she pulled herself over the balcony wall. She had not quite mastered the trick of doing it gracefully, it had to be said. There was a considerable amount of flailing and cursing. Her arms ached and her ankle was sore, but she felt better as she pushed into her bedchamber. More like herself.

Not at all like someone whose chattering teeth were causing distress. She was made of sterner stuff than that. She had once fallen through the ice on the edge of the Serpentine in January.

This was nothing.

Her chamber was familiar, the coals died down to red hearts in the grate, the smell of candles and flowers in the air. Her trunk at the foot of the bed. A bowl of yellow lilies, because they were her favorite when she was seven and her father insisted they should always be on her writing desk.

Everything as it should be.

Except for the large man lurking in the shadows.