Page 24 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

O nly Sybil’s mother could have planned such an elaborate masquerade ball in less than two days.

And only her mother could be assured that the guestlist would respond immediately, canceling all other engagements. It did not hurt that word was out that Sybil was now in possession of a dowry. One of the largest in recent years.

If she wasn’t enough to draw the Minos Society out of hiding, her dowry most certainly would be. Not to mention, the event was being held at Priya’s house. None of her ledgers and notebooks of secrets were on the property because she was not a fool, but it would be temptation enough.

And if the Minos Society feared exposure, as evidenced by their masks and cloaks, then the Spinsters would unmask them for all to see. In the heart of Mayfair, their preferred hunting ground. Tonight, if all went well.

It had not taken long for Pierce to discover that a certain earl’s son, Lord Grant, had been shot in the foot and called for a doctor in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, he had also fled London before dawn on a ship bound for France.

“Are you sure about this, ma puce ?” Amandine asked. “I have outdone myself, of course, and I am happy to do it, but your father and I know perfectly well that you are up to something.”

Sybil hugged her mother, who wore a stunning green gown and a mask of peacock feathers glued to a handle dripping with crystal beads.

For once, Sybil did not have a mask. It was uncomfortable.

“I’ll tell you as soon as I am able,” she promised. It was the best she could do. It was already difficult enough to keep Keir calm. He lurked in the shadows of the balcony as guests began to arrive.

“Is he growling?” Amandine asked.

“He does that sometimes.”

Amandine twinkled at him over her shoulder. “I like it.” She turned back to Sybil. “And you’ll let me make the announcement? I want to see Lady Cartwright’s face when I release the swans in the garden. Luckily, the weather has learned to behave. Oh, and the white butterflies for your announcement!” She kissed her cheek. “I am miffed this could not be done in my own house, but I must say Lady Langdon has outdone herself with the flowers.” Her smile broadened. “So much lilac. Did you know it makes Lady Cartwright sneeze?”

Sybil grinned back. “She sneezes like a poodle.”

“She does indeed.”

“And you look stunning.”

“Yes, I do. Ah, here’s your father. Isn’t he handsome? I do love a masquerade.”

“I feel like a fool,” Sybil’s father grumbled, crossing the landing to join them. He held up his lion mask, which sparkled with amber spangles and had a mane of matching yarn and fleece that reached nearly to his knees.

“ Tres debonair ,” Amandine beamed. “Very elegant.”

“I have to be in order to keep up with you,” he replied. “You look like a queen, my darling. And Sybil, you are a princess.”

“Thank you, Papa.” Sybil wore a sapphire-blue gown embroidered with so much silver thread that she gleamed and glittered under the light of the chandelier. Diamonds and pearls dripped from her ears and encircled her throat. It was ostentatious, obvious. White spangled silk feathers had been sewn to the back of her gown, like swan feathers. There were birdcages everywhere. Her mother did like a theme. Particularly one that insulted anyone who looked askance at her daughter.

“You were never an ugly duckling, Sybil, but I hope you make them choke on the swan you’ve become. Now don’t dawdle,” Amandine scolded. “It’s important to make an entrance, but if you wait too long, no one will notice.”

“Impossible,” Charles said. “My ladies cannot be ignored. Don’t know what you’re up to, my girl, but give them holy hell.”

“I always do, Papa.”

Sybil watched her parents descend the staircase, the banister wrapped with ivy. Garlands of spring flowers draped over portraits, hung by ribbons from the chandeliers. Lilies of the valley, delicate bluebells, perfumed lilac branches in silver urns.

And Keir, waiting behind her. She felt him there, solid and powerful.

The others were in position.

It was time.

Sybil had not realized how surprisingly difficult it would be to be the only one without a mask.

All of the other guests hid behind spangles and paint and feathers, turning to watch her descend the stairs. Conversations swelled and softened. The rumor of her dowry preceded her, as planned. If nothing else, her mother’s party would be remembered. Lilac sweetened the air, purple and white blossoms already scattered on the floor like stars. There were swans carved from ice, sculpted out of butter on the sideboard. Made of flowers. Dangling from the ceiling so they looked to be floating.

Her mother was not subtle.

The master of ceremonies raised his voice, as though he were announcing someone important. “Miss Sybil Taunton, daughter of Lord and Lady Wentworth.” He added the last in case anyone had forgotten. Sybil knew that he had been ordered to do so by her parents. A reminder that they would not tolerate any disrespect.

Sybil lifted her chin and entered the fray, trying not to feel like a minnow in the ocean, watching for sharks. The men of the Minos Society, as well as the other garden-variety fortune hunters, were on the move. She might not be able to see them, but she fancied she could feel the ripples, like water betraying what lurked beneath.

But she was a Spinster.

Not a minnow, not a sacrifice.

Tonight, a swan.

Always a Spinster.

And she had an army at her back, hidden throughout the hastily decorated ballroom. Peony stood behind a cluster of potted trees. Emmeline and Matilda circled the room, alert. Priya glowed in pale yellow, every glance a reminder that she probably knew more about you than you did. The footmen were all armed. Not as armed as the Spinsters, but still armed.

And Keir was with her.

She did not turn to look for him. He would be in the shadows, or pretending to speak to other gentlemen, pretending, pretending. He was tall enough to scan the crowd as it pressed closer.

She might be on display, bait dangling and flashing over the river during salmon running—but she had never been so well protected.

Or so eager to deliver a comeuppance.

Sybil greeted guests, acting shocked and humbled by her dowry. She accepted several offers to dance, two glasses of champagne, which she did not drink. And received an offer to be compromised in the cloakroom and do away with all of this courting nonsense.

The viscount in question, who assured her he had a country house and seven hunting hounds, paused. “Do you hear growling?”

Sybil bit back a smile.

The orchestra, hidden in a jungle of ferns, began to play. Violins, a cello, a harp. Three flutes. Masked dancers paired together. The group of ladies who approached her were also masked, but she had no trouble recognizing them. She knew their voices, their comments, their sharp little smiles.

“Miss Taunton, felicitations, dear,” Lady Shrewsbury said. She was not yet twenty and already a duchess. It lent her a certain social power she did not yet know how to wield kindly. “You must be so relieved.”

“I can’t think why your parents waited so long,” Lady Joan added.

“Yes, poor thing, but finally a dowry to offset your… Well, you know.”

“My childhood in an alley?” Sybil asked bluntly, mostly because she perversely enjoyed the way it made them squirm. This was not the way the social game was played. You did not say what you actually meant. You did not engage in a frontal attack. It was all feints and parries, sugar-sweet poison unless you could be sure of privacy. “That I was an orphan? The fact that I stole potatoes so I would not starve?”

The ladies blinked. Fans were fanned with more vigor. Between the blinking and the fanning, they might yet create a wind current. One of the swans floating above them began to circle more quickly.

Sybil continued to stare at them, refusing to drop her smile or smooth over the awkward silence. There were white rose petals under her shoes. “Was there something else you wished to say, ladies?”

A sniff. “We meant no harm, I am sure.”

“Don’t let a dowry go to your head, Miss Taunton. As you say, you are still a—”

“Miss Taunton,” Keir interrupted sharply. “I believe you have promised the waltz to me.”

Sybil bobbed a curtsy. “Of course, Lord Blackburn.” His legendary icy stoicism seemed to be slipping. His eyes burned, green as will-o’-the-wisps.

“Lord Blackburn, you are too kind to our Sybil,” one of the ladies cooed. “Such condescension from a marquess to a… woman.”

Keir offered his arm and led Sybil to the dance floor, his jaw ticking. “Since when do they talk to you like that?” he demanded.

Sybil shrugged one shoulder. “Since forever. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last time.”

“Oh, it’s definitely the last time,” He said it with quiet menace.

“How formidable,” she teased, because kissing him under a spray of lilac and white roses was becoming more and more likely. She could not be distracted. Neither of them could be.

He raised his left eyebrow in that way she loved. “It ruins the effect when you comment on it.”

“Does it? Duly noted. My lord. ”

“Scoundrel.”

She felt better now, she realized. Ready.

“It’s time,” she murmured as the music ended.

Keir’s expression went inscrutable. She knew now that it only meant he was feeling too many things at once. He nodded once and brought their waltz to an end at the edge of the dance floor. The chalk to keep dancing slippers from sliding was already smudged. Sybil curtsied. His eyes narrowed. She almost stuck out her tongue, would have were this not such serious business.

Instead, Sybil walked away fanning herself, telling a dowager who tried to stop her that she merely needed a bit of air and a moment to rest.

“Of course, all the excitement!”

That dowager had no idea.

Sybil felt better the moment she stepped into the hall. The stifling heat, the masked faces all tracking her, made the back of her neck ache. She would rather jump into the icy Serpentine again. Or attend to Mrs. Farraway. Fight an actual swan.

She nodded to one of her mother’s friends, then passed the ladies’ retiring room—which was naturally plastered with Spinster Society flyers.

But the ladies’ retiring room was not her destination.

She paused by the door to the side garden, near the stairs down to the kitchen, and felt like an idiot. But she had to be seen, here more than anywhere. She poked her head outside. “Come on,” she muttered. “Think of my dowry. Take the bait.”

Someone grabbed her from behind.

Success.

“No hard feelings,” a man’s voice said in her ear. He smelled like wine and snuff. “But I need your dowry, Miss Taunton. We’re going to Gretna Green.”

He slapped his hand over her mouth without realizing that she was not fighting back and had not attempted to scream.

He was yanked off her within seconds.

Keir tossed him down the stairs, where Pierce waited. “One down.”

Sybil danced again, wandered toward the back gardens, danced some more, stepped outside for another breath of air.

One Minos Society member, two.

And three.

They had taken the bait, and now the Spinsters had quite a collection, all trussed up and gagged in the storage room off the kitchen. Keir had broken a few fingers. Sybil had dislocated a kneecap. Peony tripped three earls just because she did not like them.

Sybil’s mother had invited three magistrates to the ball, and Priya had invited three Bow Street Runners. They did not yet know what awaited them.

And if anyone noticed that Keir kept tossing men down the stairs, they did not mention it.

When Sybil returned to the ballroom once more, she was glad to be approached by Lord Bailey. Victor was an uncomplicated friend. “Will you dance?” he asked, grinning up at her from his overly elaborate bow.

“Of course, Lord Bailey.”

“Lord Bailey?” He made a face. “Never say you’ve gone and changed on me? Just because of a dowry?”

She softened her polite expression. “Of course not.” They always danced together, had done so for over a year now. Only she hoped he did not think there was a chance between them now. She did not wish to hurt his feelings.

But the dance was pleasant and he did not press or make advances, only jolly comments about the other guests. Keir stood against the wall, arms crossed, scowl scowling. He was not very good at this subterfuge business. Threat and menace boiled from him, so unlike his usual calm that more than one glance flickered in his direction. Appreciatively, it had to be said. He was rather delicious when he scowled.

She sent him a bright, cheerful smile. He only shook his head, fighting an answering smile. She could tell by the quirk of his mouth.

Someone else followed her down the deserted hall to the back of the house within a quarter of an hour.

He also went down the stairs. Headfirst.

“Surely there can’t be more of them?” Sybil asked, peering down to watch as Pierce dragged him away.

“The last one was not Minos Society, according to Gallagher,” Keir said. “But he deserves a scare for the way he tried to grab you.”

“I broke his little finger,” she said, shrugging.

Priya joined them, carrying a stack of printed flyers. Some of the ink had smeared in their haste, but they were legible. “It’s time. I don’t think your mother can fit one more person into his house.”

Sybil snorted. “She could fit all of London if we’d given her one more day.” She took some of the papers. “Even physics bows to my mother.”

Emmeline, Matilda, and Peony also joined them, carrying the same flyers. “We’re ready,” Peony said. “Everyone has gathered to watch the fire eaters your mother hired.”

Sybil grinned. “Ladies, let’s meddle in the affairs of men.”

If Sybil’s dowry of forty thousand pounds was enough to throw all of Society into an uproar, this was enough to shake them to the core.

After the applause for the fire eater had faded, the Spinster Society floated through the masked, bejeweled crowd handing out flyers.

At her mother’s signal, a spangled net released flowers from the ceiling—and more flyers.

Justice snowed down.

If the Minos Society did not wish to be named, the Spinsters would name them.

If they wanted to hide, the Spinsters would light torches in every dark corner of Mayfair.

The heiresses on the Minos initiation list had already been warned. Now it came to everyone else—especially as some of those families were complicit.

The Spinsters intended there be nowhere at all left to hide.

If Minos burned down their house, they would burn down Mayfair.

The confused silence turned to gasps of outrage, muttered curses. The names of the guilty passed from mouth to ear, like a lit fuse.

The men who had attacked them, who had planned to attack other women, were safely restrained below stairs waiting for Runners and magistrates and army men, already summoned.

It was done.

Sybil surreptitiously slipped backward through the open door onto the balcony, to finally catch her breath. She had been using it as an excuse to leave all evening, but she had not actually taken a full breath since the ball started. Since last night. An irate father passed between her and Keir, shouting for his carriage and his solicitor. Keir stepped around him, his eyes never leaving Sybil.

But it was too late.