Page 21 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

T he next day, Lord Singleton received a message.

Sybil had been paying a footman at the Clarendon Hotel for several months now to pretend that Lord Singleton rented rooms there when he was in London. Thus far, it had not proved fruitful.

But as of today, it was worth every shilling spent.

She was in the Fern Parlor battling a plant for a spot in the sunlight, that struggled to pierce the clouds and the coal fog and the thick window glass. Priya muttered over her notebook, a cup of tea spiced with cinnamon and cardamon steaming beside her. Parsnip the kitchen cat was entrenched with her own battle with the ferns.

“Did you know that Chiswick, Abbot, and Copperwhite were in debt?” Priya asked.

“Rather common in Mayfair,” Sybil replied.

“Yes, but we are talking thousands and thousands of pounds. Enough to make a man desperate.”

“And a man both dishonorable and desperate is never a good combination.”

“No, indeed.”

One of the new footmen stepped inside the parlor and paused. “Miss Taunton? Are you in here?”

“Take a sharp right at the potted lemon tree and then straight on into the ferns.”

He popped out between two fronds. “A message for you, miss.”

“Thank you. Do you need a map to get out again?”

“I can manage. I believe.” He did not sound certain as he turned on his heel and fought his way free of the jungle.

Sybil broke a simple wax seal with no recognizable crest. The paper inside held an even simpler message: Midnight. Come alone. Minos. And an address.

“I left Sophie and her friends in the ballroom with the knives,” Peony said, marching into the parlor in search of tea. “They are improving apace. But none of them can swim worth a damn.” Her hair was damp, wrapped in a turban, barely visible above the bank of plants near the sideboard. “Why is Sybil making that sound?”

“She just received a message,” Priya replied. “Everything all right?”

Sybil pushed through the leaves, ignoring the horrified clicking of Priya’s tongue. “A message from the Minos Society.”

Priya and Peony turned their attention on her at once, sharp and vengeful. “Oh?” Priya said.

“For Lord Singleton.”

“Oh!”

“There’s another word here, in the corner. Ariadne.”

Peony rolled her eyes. “Is that a password?”

“Must be.”

“Amateurs.”

Pierce poked his head into the room. “We found four chaps named Alfie,” he said without preamble. “One is an old man who likes to smash his cane into the culls who prey on the women working in Covent Garden. I gave him a blackthorn cane like they use back home. Does much more damage.”

“And the others?” Priya asked.

“The others are exactly the types to be hired in a pub by a man they don’t know for nefarious deeds.”

“That’s… too many.”

“Agreed. We have questioned them all, and your Alfie, I believe, is all of seventeen years old and is in way over his head.”

“What did he say?” Sybil asked.

“Nothing helpful. He was hired by his friend’s uncle. No names. Paid in coin.”

“The uncle?”

“Conveniently out of town.”

“So they know enough to be scared of this Minos Society,” Priya guessed.

“Aye. I’ve got men at the pub and the flash houses in the area.”

“I hate it when secret societies are so… secret,” Sybil muttered. She waved the invitation like a banner of war. “You take the flash houses. I’ve got this apartment at the Albany to visit.”

“Well, that does not bode well at all.”

“For them ,” Sybil said grimly. “Because tonight I mean to get some answers.”

The Albany was a private collection of bachelor apartments in Piccadilly, set off the busy road. The main building, a converted townhouse, was dark brick with white-painted windows. The covered Rope Walk lay behind, flanked by additional buildings. Lord Byron had apartments here, as did any number of titled men who did not wish to be at home either with their parents or with their wives. And, apparently, a secret society.

Also, Peony was somewhere up on one of the rooftops.

Women were not allowed.

Lord Singleton, however, was allowed.

Apprehension and a deep desire for vindication and, let us be honest, violence, thrummed in Sybil’s blood. She was not sure what to expect, but these were the men who had tried to abduct her. Who had tried to bring real harm to her friends. Who were responsible for the ill treatment of any number of women besides.

It was not very surprising that it should all be headquartered at one of the most fashionable addresses in London.

Sybil crossed the courtyard and followed the Rope Walk to one of the new sets on the ground floor, near the end. The sound of carriage wheels and late-night carousers drifted from the next street over, but otherwise it was quiet.

Not a good sign.

For one thing, she was not particularly fond of quiet.

For another, Pierce was meant to be here with several of his men. Peony was in place, but where were the others? She would glean as much information as she could, but she did not know how many members waited inside. She could hardly take them all on, even as Singleton. But when else would they get a chance to get the members gathered in one place?

She could not afford to wait any longer.

“Psst,” Peony hissed. “Where is everyone?”

“I don’t know,” Sybil admitted without turning to look at her friend, lest it give them away.

“I don’t like it.”

“Me neither.”

“I did see Keir,” Peony said. “He went around back.”

Sybil nodded. “I guess this is it.”

“Don’t die.”

“Likewise.”

When Sybil finally knocked on the door, a large man holding a cudgel answered. He wore a rough coat, a rougher expression.

“I have an invitation,” she said.

“Password,” he barked at her.

Passwords. She was embarrassed for them. Secret societies should be more creative by now. She stifled a peevish sigh and lowered her voice. “Ariadne.”

Honestly.

“Go on in.”

That was when she realized she recognized his voice. He was one of the men who had grabbed her off the street.

The urge to drive her elbow into his nose was strong. Very strong.

“Here’s your mask. Put it on,” he added.

She was already wearing a disguise, and his name was Lord Singleton. But she took the half mask and tied it under the brim of her beaver-crowned hat.

The door opened into darkness, and she forced herself through it, reminding herself that she had three daggers on her person, and Peony. She knew her friend was at her back—or, more accurately, somewhere up high, her rifle trained on the men below. Sybil did not look up.

And Keir.

A single candle burned to show her the way to the main room. It smelled of roasted lamb and incense. The fashion for all things Classical had been indulged, which she supposed she ought not be surprised at, considering they had named themselves for an ancient Cretan myth. The white columns at the front of the Albany were echoed here, holding up the ceiling like a Grecian temple. There was a low table in the center with an oil lamp illuminating bowls of fruit and wine and baskets of bread with hard cheeses.

Around the table were guests wearing the usual fashion of a man-about-town, along with masks and cloaks, but they clearly knew each other. She could spot the other two new recruits from the way they sat quietly, eyes wide behind their masks, without a cloak as she was.

It was like any other gentlemen’s club, if not for the undercurrents, the venue. The things they did.

The man who stepped out of the shadows was also wearing a mask. There was nothing about him to recognize—his coat was like any other, his cravat white, his boots polished. His cloak thick and black. He wore no rings, had no scars.

The others came to attention, although coming to attention in such a group mostly consisted of affected expressions of ennui, leaning against the wall, setting down a terracotta amphora painted with a depiction of the labyrinth and King Minos. It was filled with red wine. It was also well over two thousand years old. Sybil had an antiquarian friend who would have wept at the desecration of such an ancient artifact. Not wept. Raged.

Sybil stood very still, waiting.

The man met her eyes. As he did not immediately shout at her to be removed, she could assume her disguise stood. Two more men joined him, unmasked, massive, armed. Protection. And bullies at a glance.

“Do sit down.” The man half bowed. “I am Minos. We are all Minos. That is how we protect each other.”

That was how they got away with every crime and wrongdoing. Lord Portsmouth had a long list of people from Parliament to the courts to the ballroom whom he blackmailed to cover his tracks. It was how he had gotten away with murdering his wives when they did not produce an heir.

Until the Spinsters.

Kitty, to be exact.

“Three of you have been invited to join us because you know someone like us or you show promise to be someone like us. An asset.”

And yet something nagged at her all the same.

Sybil’s palms started to sweat. It had felt like playacting before, with passwords and bored aristocrats, but a shiver went down her spine. She knew better than to underestimate a bored aristocrat. It only felt like playacting because they could afford for it to feel like playacting. There were already too many women in their lives who knew this was not a game.

“We have been keeping an eye on you.”

The marks in the betting books.

“We know what you’ve done, what you want to do. And that is why we can help each other. Especially now.”

“Why now?” someone asked.

“Because we are plagued by the Spinster Society.”

Someone else barked a laugh.

Sybil did not much feel like laughing.

“Ape leaders? Who cares about them? They are hardly a match for us.” This from a man Sybil was positive she could best in a bout of fisticuffs. Better yet, a duel.

“They are interfering,” Minos said tightly. “We can already no longer use the betting books to send messages. It is too convenient that Chiswick and Abbot and Copperwhite were found out just this month alone.”

Was he someone they had personally foiled? Sybil would have to go over Priya’s lists again.

“And I want them stopped.”

“So stop them,” Sybil called out even as her heart raced. “If this society is so powerful as to be worth our time, prove it.”

“It’s for you to prove yourself,” he snapped. “They have thinned our numbers, I’m not too proud to admit it. But it stops now. The Season is about to start, and we cannot have them in the way.”

“Stop them?” an older man echoed. “I’m not keen on murdering some wallflower.”

“Why not? You were perfectly keen on murdering that housemaid.”

A hush, a few mutters.

“That was an accident!” he insisted.

“Of course it was,” Minos said.

“We have warned them, but they are unreasonable. They are meddling. Put a stop to it.”

“How?” Sybil asked, mouth dry.

“I do not care. Do what you must. You help us, we help you.”

Bloody hell. He was all but putting bounties on their heads.

“Did you hear that? Sounded like growling.”

“Stray dog. Don’t be so feeble.”

“How are you going to help us?” One of the other new recruits asked. It was not a challenge. He was eager to know.

“Money. Witnesses, protection. Doctors who don’t ask questions. Suffice it to say that we are putting things back to rights.”

Like hell they were. Sybil clenched her fists.

“How much money are we talking about?”

“As much as you need.”

The man beside the recruit laughed. “He needs a lot. He’s the worst card player I’ve ever seen.”

“You all have titles and will inherit superior ones in due time. Minos can make you even greater. Prove your loyalty. Bring us your sacrifices, as Athens brought Minos their people for the Minotaur.”

Rage shivered through Sybil.

They were not sacrifices.

They would never be sacrifices.

“But we need funds to be effective, personally and for the society. The Season will be ripe with debutantes and heiresses. Find one. Admission to this Society is steep.”

“I’m not getting married . Tied to one chit?” Sybil recognized that voice as well. Lord Coxwell? Lord Campbell? Some name that started with a C.

“Don’t be so banal. Don’t make us doubt your commitment. Marry and you are free to do as you like without the eyes of the dowagers on you. Marry well and you can do anything at all. Eastbourne and Portsmouth had the run of Britain until those damned Spinsters.”

“This is absurd. I was told there would be women and wine,” Lord C argued. “Not this claptrap.” He pushed his hood back. “I don’t need your help. And when my father hears—”

Only he did need someone’s help.

As evidenced by the dagger currently sticking out of his back. He gurgled in shock, then pain, before crumpling. No one moved to catch him. A few of them, like Sybil, were frozen. Too many were smiling. Arrogant. Unmoved by the blood and the choking gasps of a dying man.

Sybil finally took a step toward him, but it was too late.

“Anyone else?” Minos asked.

The silence was palpable. Edged with excitement, fear. Potential.

“This is a secret society, and we take our oaths seriously. We won’t be undone by weaklings or spinsters.”

Sybil’s breath was loud in her ears. No one spoke. Blood pooled on the rug, creeping closer and closer to her boot. It smelled coppery, like wet, rusty coins. She fought back a gag.

“We’ve made a list of suitable quarry. Memorize it. There are fortunes to be had, gentlemen. Don’t disappoint us.” Minos smiled. “And one more thing.”

Well, that was never a good sign. What came after the show, after the flash and pomp, was usually the most important part.

And if the show was outright murder? Not encouraging.

“Get the Spinsters under control. Marry them or murder them, I don’t much care. As she helped take down Eastbourne, you can start with Sybil Taun—”

Sybil barely had time to react. And he did not have time to elaborate.

At the sound of her name, a gunshot cracked the air.

A bullet tore through the room, leaving behind a shattered window and hitting Minos in the foot. He screamed, blood spattering. He toppled to the side, caught by one of his men while the others froze in panic. Not so smugly arrogant now. Not so thrilled by the violence when it was not their doing.

Only one of the members stayed calm. He stood slowly, easing out of the pathway of the window in case another bullet followed the first. It didn’t. He waited. Watched.

Sybil watched him in return.

As best she could. As Minos was carried out, some of the members threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads. Wine spilled from the amphora, dripping onto the carpet with the blood. There was a great deal of shouting and panic.

But they kept their masks on.

Sybil snatched the list of suitable heiresses and darted toward the window.

Hands gripped her and hauled her out into the cold.