Page 7 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

S ybil slipped out as soon as Victor was distracted by the arrival of a young debutante with a dowry of six thousand pounds. Just as well. Because she was distracted by Keir. Again. As usual.

Unacceptable.

He could take his rumbly voice and his strong jaw and his muscular arms and jump headfirst into the Thames.

She had done her duty. She had accepted the disdain of the guests, the affable pity, the shaking of heads over her wild ways, clearly a result of her birth despite the Wentworths’ careful upbringing. Violetta was the apple of Keir’s eye once more. Everything was as it should be. The proper order of the universe was restored, hurrah.

Sybil could go home and eat an entire cake now, if she wanted.

She deserved cake. Mostly because she firmly believed that every spinster and wallflower deserved cake. And wine.

Access to her own inheritance. The ability to own property. Vengeance.

But tonight, cake would have to do.

She accepted her cloak from a footman, but before she could finally escape the stuffy, crowded house, Lord Willoughby’s annoyed voice carried down the hall. “I won’t have those damned posters in my house.”

As the purveyor of those damned posters , Sybil stepped back into the shadows and waited. No need to draw his notice. Although the harried housemaid running to keep up with him would no doubt have welcomed the interruption.

“Throw those in the fire,” Lord Willoughby barked.

“Whatever is the matter?” Lady Willoughby glided in, her smile very pointed. “Your voice does carry, my lord.”

“Those damned posters from those women . In my house!”

Lady Willoughby’s smile did not waver. “Oh, is that all?”

“I want them tossed.”

“Of course, dear.”

He stalked away, snatching a glass of wine from a footman’s tray. Lady Willoughby sent the housemaid a grim look. “Put those back where you found them.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

Grinning, Sybil made a note to mention it to Priya. A sore ego and an ally in the Willoughby house. Either could prove useful.

Outside, the night air was cold enough to mist her breath and glitter over the windows of the hundred carriages lined up along the street, waiting for the ball to wind down. It was not likely to for several more hours. Horses stamped their feet. She had sent her own carriage home as soon as she arrived. She much preferred to continue on foot all the way to Spinster House, despite the damage it might do to her reputation. She failed to see how being outside was so egregious.

Until the rain started.

It turned the streets to silver and her pretty silk slippers to paper. She huddled into her cloak and waved at a hackney coachman. There were always a few driving around the square, waiting for several parties to let out. He nodded to her, and she stepped out to wait for him.

A carriage suddenly pulled out, barreling toward her, coming out of the queue. She heard the creak of wheels going too fast, the crack of hooves. She stumbled back, the wind of it on her face, the flash of the carriage window so close to her nose that it nearly left a mark.

And a great splash of half-frozen mud splattering all over her.

Thoroughly.

“Perfect,” Sybil muttered, wiping mud from her cheek and flinging it to the ground. Her heart hammered in her throat. “Just perfect.”

The carriage did not stop; the driver did not even glance back. She sucked in a cold breath.

“Are you all right, miss?” Three nearby coachmen scrambled off their seats, gathering around her, eyes wide.

She did not have time to answer before they were jostled aside and Keir was suddenly there, big, warm hands closing over her shoulders. His cool, impassive expression was lost behind a fearsome scowl. He looked wild, enraged. His hands were gentle. “ Sybil! ”

She blinked at him. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Rain soaked into his thick hair. “You could have been killed.”

The coachmen nodded behind him in unison like a Greek chorus.

“I’m fine,” Sybil assured them with a smile. She wiped more mud from her ear. How had it managed to get inside her ear ?

Keir stared at her with disconcerting intensity, as if he could see down to her bones. He was thorough, inspecting her for bruises.

“I’m fine,” she said again, softer.

The coachmen were just as scandalized as Keir. She forgot to mention that she put herself in much worse situations on a regular basis. A traffic mishap was an ordinary danger on a London street.

“That almost never happens! Must be three sheets to the wind, that one.”

“That bastard didn’t even stop.”

“Swear he sped up!”

“Did you see whose carriage that was?” Keir demanded of them. “I want a name.”

“No family crest, nothing. Couldn’t even see his face, all wrapped up in that scarf.”

Sybil’s smile died.

No identifying crest, a scarf worn high, a hat worn low.

She knew what that meant.

It was no accident.

She clawed her smile back. No need to worry the coachmen, who were staring at her with wide, frazzled eyes. The one on the left might start weeping.

“Where’s your carriage?” Keir asked.

“I don’t have one. I’m not going far.”

He stared at her for a long moment as if she had suggested she liked to leap off the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral on a regular basis just to see if she could fly.

She had climbed out of a cathedral window once, but he did not need to know that.

Not if the muscle twitching in his jaw was any indication. “My carriage is just here. Get in.”

His carriage was all perfectly polished mahogany, with gleaming gold accents, swaying lanterns at each corner. It was understated and practical while also being the height of luxury. Exactly right for the Marquess Blackburn. It would be warm and pleasant inside.

“Really, I’m not going far,” Sybil said instead.

“Sybil.”

“It will not help the rumors I’ve just worked so hard to squash.”

“ Sybil. ” That calm tone, patient, knowing, faintly exasperated. A hint of the Keir she used to know. Missed desperately, even now. “I am not letting you go home alone covered in mud, in rain that is rapidly turning to snow after nearly being run over.” His voice dropped. “You’re cold.”

She did shiver, though it had nothing to do with the temperature. “I am certain you need to see Lady Violetta home.”

He frowned. “Her mother just left with a headache. How did you know?”

“A lucky guess.” She knew Lady Pontefract. And the marriage-minded mamas of the ton . And her own luck.

“I can take you both home,” he decided. “The carriage can easily seat four. I am sure she won’t mind.”

Sybil knew that some battles needed to be lost for the war to be won. And that sometimes a frontal attack was not the best tactic. She nodded mutely and let him help her into his carriage. It was just as warm as she had expected, with hot bricks for the feet, plump cushions, dark blue velvet curtains.

And if he thought she would stay there, he was mad.

Her choices were thus: being trapped in this perfect carriage with perfect Keir and his perfect fiancée while covered in mud to make perfectly polite conversation. Or run on foot back home in the freezing drizzle and hope no one else tried to mow her down.

No contest.

She flung herself out of the carriage the moment Keir strode away, waving a farewell at the coachman who called after her, alarmed, and then she proceeded to sprint down the pavement in a way no gently bred lady would have ever contemplated.

And it felt good.

Finding his carriage empty did not feel good.

Keir’s hands curled into fists and the muscles at the back of his neck seized abruptly. The rain was turning to ice, but it was probably steaming as it hit his shoulders. He helped Lady Violetta inside, keeping his stoic, polite mask secure. He glared up at his coachman, Arthur, who was already holding up his hands placatingly, and with more than a hint of alarm. Keir smoothed out his scowl. Marquesses did not scowl. Marquesses did not go chasing after wayward ladies in the middle of the night. They did not chase ladies at all.

To hell with that.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“She ran off as soon as you were out of earshot, my lord,” Arthur replied. “Clever girl.”

The streets weren’t safe. They were cold and dark and slippery and filled with coachmen who were not careful. But she was clever and, moreover, would not appreciate his worry. He had no right to it. It was all out of balance. The hiss of panic through his chest was overblown. Unnecessary. Real all the same.

He nodded and climbed in to sit across from Violetta. He would see her home and then make sure that Sybil was also at home. Safe. Warm.

“Your friend was very kind,” Violetta said softly as the horses were urged into a steady walk.

“My friend?” He tried not to sound as impatient as he felt. Why was it taking so long? Anything could happen to Sybil. To a woman who was recently locked in the cellar of a man he very much wanted to strangle. He had made inquiries, in point of fact. But the Marquess of Eastbourne was in the process of being stripped of his title and had already fled to the Continent. Keir had toyed with the idea of finding him. And by toyed, he meant he had made plans, talked to the people he would need, both legal and criminal, but had not yet committed to action.

Not yet did not mean never .

In the meantime, he did have men stationed at the docks, waiting to alert him if Eastbourne dared return to England.

He also had a beautiful woman sitting across from him waiting for him to respond like a gentleman instead of whatever it was he was doing. “I beg your pardon?”

“Miss Taunton,” Violetta elaborated, and Keir wondered if he had thought about Sybil so hard that he had conjured a conversation about her. With the lady he was meant to be courting. Bloody hell. “She put herself in my mother’s path, which took no small amount of courage.”

Keir nodded. “She was sorry to have caused you trouble or embarrassment.”

“Yes, I believe she was.”

There was not much to say after that. Remarks on the evening’s entertainment, the celebrated violinist hired to play throughout the supper, the flowers. The turn in the weather, if the Thames might ice over to allow for skating.

All very appropriate.

Sybil would have said half a dozen wild and unsuitable things by now.

He should not find that so charming.

The carriage finally pulled up to the Pontefract townhouse, where the curtains in an upstairs window jerked closed. Violetta smiled. “My mother.”

“Ah.”

Keir stepped down and offered his arm. Violetta alighted like a winter sprite, her thick white cloak edged with fur, diamonds glittering in the frigid air. Keir waited for the butler to open the door before bowing, as was expected. “Lady Violetta, I bid you goodnight.”

And then, as soon as the door closed again, Keir thundered back to his carriage. “Home, Arthur.”

As he was not a stupid man, Arthur did not linger.

Sybil made it to Spinster House in record time. There was ice in her hair, quite possibly in her ears too, and her feet were soaked through in her pathetic excuse for dancing slippers. But she was smiling. Invigorated.

Not at all wondering if Keir was even now seeing Lady Violetta home.

Or kissing the back of her hand.

He would never—that was too forward.

But so was cradling Sybil on his lap. Taking her against the garden wall. Gripping her bare thighs.

But Sybil was Sybil. She already knew the rules were different.

She tossed her sodden cloak on a hook and determined not to waste the rest of her evening thinking about Keir Montgomery, who would definitely not be thinking of her. He would be reading something serious, drinking scotch. Looking over the terms of Violetta’s dowry.

Gah.

Sybil went straight to the kitchen for a very large piece of cake and took it to the ballroom and the basket of knives and the incongruous hay bale set up in one corner, on which Matilda had painted the face of a gentleman who had once insulted her. The mustache was a thing of legend.

They liked to aim for it.

Peony was already there, dangling from a rope attached to the ceiling.

Home. There was nothing quite like it.

Keir gave serious consideration to climbing Sybil’s trellis again, which was when he started questioning his own sanity.

He was overreacting.

It was not Sybil’s fault that he found he could not breathe if he did not know she was safe. He had seen that carriage barrel past her, had watched the force of the wind set her back on her heels. She could have been trampled. Tossed to the ground. Broken in a dozen different ways. Locked in a damned cellar.

But she wasn’t.

And he still could not stop it from repeating in his mind like a terrible play with an unwilling audience of one.

There was no light in her window. She could already be under the blankets.

A much nicer image to play in his mind’s eye as he went to sit in his chair and brood at the view from his window. First, he would make certain she was safe even if it was forward of him. And presumptuous. She did not have to know about it.

Which might have worked a charm if he had not instantly scrawled her name at the top of the paper on his desk.

Sybil was dangling from the ceiling when the note arrived.

It had been delivered to her house, and from there a footman had sent it here. Her hands were cramped around the rope as she turned in a lazy circle, peering down. “A note for me?”

“Yes, miss,” Peter replied, unfazed by the ladies dangling from the ceiling.

“At this hour?” Peony asked. “That does not bode well.”

“Perhaps not,” Sybil admitted. When notes arrived at Spinster House in the middle of the night, they did not generally herald an invitation to take tea. There was more often than not subterfuge involved. Criminal activity.

Not a message written by a marquess.

“A love letter?” Peony asked, grimacing. Peony did not care for love letters. She did not understand the fuss.

“Not exactly.”

Where the bloody hell was she?

Why had she not replied? Was she in trouble?

A footman left her house, but he did not come to knock at Keir’s door. He walked away down the street. She was not safely at home.

Keir would have followed him, if his little sister had not chosen that very moment to take ten years off his life.

Sybil,

When you are nearly flattened by a carriage and then offered an escort home, you do not run away on foot without a word. In inclement weather. In the middle of the night. Pray, send word that you are unharmed. I am not playing at games. Blackburn.

Sybil read the note three times, which was two times too many. There was no reason to read it more than once. It was hardly poetry. There was nothing private or personal about it.

Though he did seem worried for her wellbeing.

Which was kind.

Or merely dutiful?

This was the Most Stoic and Most Dutiful Marquess Blackburn, after all.

“Keir, why are you sitting in the dark like a bloody specter,” Sophie yelped—once she had stopped screaming. His ears echoed with it.

“Why are you lurking about the house so late?” he returned. “And don’t say ‘bloody.’”

She rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep.” With her hair knotted in rags and her slippers peeking out from a thick nightdress, she looked like his little sister again, not just the girl ready to be a debutante who rolled her eyes every time he said anything. “What are you doing?”

“Also not sleeping.”

“I came to borrow a book,” she said, then sighed. “But everything in this house is so deadly dull. Farming techniques and the history of water clocks and those etiquette manuals Father loved so much.”

“You clearly have not read those manuals—how would you know if they are dull?”

She rolled her eyes again. One day he would keep a tally of how many times she did that in one conversation. “I would rather start a proper bonfire with them.”

He did not blame her. If she only knew how many times he had been forced to read them, as well as every dry treatise dating back to the Romans. Dissertations on the Empire. Lectures. Papers. Broken rulers over his knuckles when he got something wrong. When he dared say at eight years old that he would much rather climb trees or learn to play the pianoforte than learn Latin.

“Even finishing schools have the odd novel,” she muttered.

He hadn’t thought about the library in the house. Everything was mostly the same as it had always been. Almost as though he were secretly afraid his father would come barreling out of his study shouting if Keir changed a single candlestick. But it was not his study any longer. It was Keir’s.

“I’m not going back to that school,” Sophie said defiantly.

“I know. They won’t have you,” Keir pointed out drily. “I’ve already made other arrangements.”

She frowned briefly before tugging her shawl closer together. “I should have guessed you would want to be rid of me as quickly as possible.”

“That’s not it,” he said, honestly surprised. “Girls go to finishing schools.” Didn’t they?

“Never mind.”

Dear Most Stoic and Dutiful Lord Blackburn,

I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. I am, however, sorry if you were worried. I can’t think why. I am a very staid and dull person and never cause trouble.

Dear Sybil,

Ha.

Dear Marquess of All Things Proper,

Is that any way to speak to a lady? I am sure I am offended.

S

Hoyden,

If I believed you, I am sure I would be most apologetic.

K

Sybil grinned. She couldn’t help it.

“Stay focused,” Peony grumbled when her dagger missed the target’s mustache by many inches.

“I am focused.”

“Only on those scraps of paper. Who are they from?” Peony glanced at the first note, with its precisely signed name, and groaned. “I should have known. That look on your face.”

“What about it?”

“It’s how Matilda and Emmeline look at each other. And how Clara used to look at Captain Thorn before they got married.” She shook her head, disgusted. “Sybil, really. I expected better of you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She wasn’t for marrying.

And Keir wasn’t for her.