Page 8 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (The Spinster Society #3)

T he next morning, Sybil joined the others for breakfast, where only half of a plum cake was set out among the sweet rolls and the toasted bread and coddled eggs. She did not feel the least bit guilty. Some nights called for cake. Even when she noticed the little note left by Mrs. Werthers, the cook. It read: Sybil Taunton, clean up your crumbs next time.

Priya drank tea while Peony spooned a truly indecent amount of raspberry preserves onto her bread. Her hair was damp. She always started the day with a swim, just as she ended it. Emmeline drank cup after cup of coffee with no food at all. Matilda mostly ate cheese. Sybil helped herself to eggs and roasted potatoes and a baked apple.

“Mrs. Werthers said you ate half a cake last night,” Priya said.

“Yes, and it was delicious,” Sybil replied.

“You only eat that much cake when there is a problem.”

“Not a problem. Only that someone tried to run me over with a carriage outside the Willoughby ball.” And Keir’s notes had reminded her too much of what used to be. “I decided I deserved cake.”

The others blinked at her. Matilda scowled. “So you did. That’s rather rude.”

“I thought so too. But I do not even have a turned ankle to show for it. A Spinster is made of sterner stuff than that.” She pushed a piece of chive around on her plate. “It could have been an accident. It probably was.”

“Did it feel like one?” Priya asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sybil admitted. “If it wasn’t, I assume it would be because of the betting book? A warning off from some lord with his wig all askew?” This was why Priya set the assignments and not the others. Sybil ought to have remembered that. Priya was careful. Methodical. Sybil was not. What had Keir called her once, when he climbed a tree to rescue her cat? Miss Menace.

Not the most flattering thing she had ever been called.

Not the worst, either.

“It has to be,” Emmeline said. “No one was keen on murdering you before.”

“Well, that’s not exactly true,” Priya said.

“Thank you for that,” Sybil muttered.

“I imagine they have been keen on murdering us for quite some time. It’s just as likely to be a result of any of a dozen things we have done, such as taking down the Marquess of Eastbourne. He no longer has his title, after all.”

“Good,” Sybil muttered. The shock of it had rippled through Mayfair.

“And Lord Portsmouth will hang.”

“That’s what you get for murdering your wives.”

“Lady Solomon. Viscount Churleigh.”

“The list is rather long,” Sybil admitted. “And good for us. But honestly, a carriage coming out of a dark and rainy night could easily be a coincidence.”

“I don’t like it,” Priya said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Be careful .”

“I always am.”

The resounding snorts of doubt from every other woman in the room was rather rude, actually.

Apt, she was forced to admit. But rude all the same.

“The betting book has been useful already.” Priya’s dark hair gleamed in the sun struggling to shine through the early spring clouds. Her smile was sharp. Smug.

“It has?” Relief had Sybil taking a too-large gulp of hot tea. “How so?”

“As you know, we have been keeping an eye on several gentlemen of the ton . Many of them are members of the club and have placed bets.”

“Anything incriminating?”

“A few of the regular sort of things to follow up on. But I did find something curious.”

“Which is?” For Priya, something curious might be a discrepancy in the household ledgers or a secret message intercepted on its way to Napoleon. One could never be sure.

“These three tiny circles, overlapping and stacked up in a triangle formation,” she explained, sketching one out with the pencil tied to her notebook with a silk ribbon.

“What does it mean?” Peony asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“ You don’t know? That’s alarming in itself.”

“Eastbourne and Portsmouth both have the mark by their names in the betting book.”

“And we already know they are terrible,” Sybil said. “We helped prove it.” Eastbourne had kept women with inheritances but no family captive in his cellar, and Portsmouth had had the regrettable habit of murdering his wives when they did not produce an heir.

Priya drummed her fingers on the table. “I should very much like to know who made these marks and why.”

“A gentleman at the very least, if he is a member of Fortingham’s,” Sybil pointed out. “They are very picky about their membership and who crosses that sanctified threshold, present company not included.”

“It’s a start.” Priya grinned. “Apparently, you were so bored you stole a case for us, Sybil.”

“I do what I can.” Sybil grinned back.

“Good, because there’s more. I have a list here of all of those names with that symbol next to them, and I did a little digging.”

“I know that tone.” Peony dropped her toasted bread and leaned forward. “Do tell.”

“The first is Lord St. John. He has three daughters, all out at fifteen. Two already betrothed. Reluctantly, it has to be said.”

Matilda narrowed her eyes. “I know the nanny in that household. She is not fond of the parents. Either of them. Leave it to me.”

“Excellent. And Lord Abbot. He tries to compromise young heiresses in the hopes of a rich marriage of necessity. Peony, would you take care of that, please?”

“I look forward to it. It will give me a chance to test out my new umbrella with the hidden sword.”

“It’s probably best not to skewer an earl if you can help it.”

Peony pouted.

Sybil waited, her back teeth tensing.

“Sybil, I have left the Earl of Chiswick for you.”

She let out a breath. “Thank God. If you told me to rest again I was going to stage a riot in your favorite parlor. The one with those giant ferns you love so much. It was going to be very messy. Not at all demure.”

“I am aware.”

“Is there mayhem involved? I find I am very much in the mood for mayhem.” Anything to stop thinking about Keir and Violetta. About Keir at all. Though she already knew that was impossible.

“I need you to keep him distracted while we steal away his very unwilling bride. I sent word this morning, and she does not find that the age difference, as well as his syphilitic reputation, makes him an ideal marriage partner.”

“He is ancient,” Matilda confirmed. “And do let me guess—his newest bride is barely twenty.”

“Seventeen.”

Sybil stopped just short of rubbing her hands with glee. There was so much she could not do. She could not change Society’s mind. She could not stop thinking about Keir’s thighs and his green eyes and his soft-rough voice. But this was something she could do. Taking down an earl. She had done it before and she could do it again. “Is there a file on him?”

“Naturally.” It was like asking if it rained in England. Priya slid the papers toward Sybil. “Feel free to leave your own mark.”

“Even better.”

Nothing quite like a nefarious plot to make a woman feel like herself again.

“Try not to get captured this time,” Peony said.

Of course, friends had that effect as well.

“ One time,” Sybil said, sighing.

Gaming hells, much like gentlemen’s clubs, did not admit women.

Well, ladies .

As Sybil was both not enough of a lady and too much of a lady, she probably could have snuck in.

But it was so much more fun to arrive as Lord Singleton.

She loved dressing as a young lord with a cravat and breeches. She had chosen an eye-watering chartreuse for her waistcoat, to draw the eye away from her face. Not that anyone here was likely to recognize her, even if half a dozen of them had spoken to her in the last month. For one thing, they were far too drunk to notice much of anything.

Sybil loved pretending to be Lord Singleton. She had created him for just this purpose—to cross the drawbridge of places she could not attend as a woman. As herself. Fortingham’s required membership, or she would have saved herself the social humiliation and stolen the betting book that way. But Lord Singleton could not apply for membership as he did not technically exist, nor did his viscount father living on the west coast of Ireland.

Still, Lord Singleton was very useful.

He could play vingt-et-un and billiards; he could walk wherever he wanted to without a companion. He could tell another gentleman to sod off. Which she did, with great enthusiasm, when he bumped into her on his way to the buffet table. She, in turn, bumped into a viscount and picked his pocket. Just for practice.

And fun.

Lord Singleton could also drink too much port (which she barely sipped and mostly spilled) and place wild wagers, all while egging on Lord Chiswick. The earl was repugnant. He had half a dozen bastards he did not support. It was a great pleasure to disrupt his plans and free Miss Maddox from his clutches, even if it meant choking on cheroot smoke and pretending to like port.

Say what you will, but the man could hold his liquor.

Regrettably.

She kept an eye on him as made a turn of the gaming rooms, ordering drinks for the others, playing a hand of vingt-et-un, beating Victor at billiards and grinning when he squinted as if he thought he recognized her from somewhere. More port wine.

How was it possible that Chiswick was not slumped over somewhere? The fumes coming from the man were enough to render her drunk just by standing downwind.

Still, she stayed close, trailing him from card table to sideboard—for roast lamb—and back to the tables. She bet against him at whist and lost.

Then she bet against him again and won. A lot.

Just to keep his attention.

He could not, under any circumstances, go home. Not yet. Not until his bride-to-be was safely elsewhere. But how did a man of his advanced years drink half a bottle of brandy in the time it took for another to drink a single glass and barely weave on his feet? Sybil was faintly queasy just looking at him. He was meant to be unconscious by now. Not looking bored as he wiped his mouth and tossed his cards down.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he asked.

“Another game?”

“I’ve played every game in here and won. Bah.” He stood up, motioning for his hat and coat. “Must get home. Getting married tomorrow, you know. A ripe little peach of a thing.”

That would not do.

“Congratulations!” Sybil said heartily, instead of gagging, which was very much what she wanted to do. Especially when several men shouted encouragement at him.

“Get them while they are young and fresh!”

“May her cunny—”

Sybil did not hear the rest of the remark, as it ended in choked laughter and slaps on the back. She took note of it, though, and of every single man who shouted disrespectful comments. For later.

The Spinster Society kept a very detailed list.

For now, she passed Chiswick another bottle of brandy. This one had a pear suspended inside and glittered with gold leaf. “A toast to your lady!”

“To the delights of my marriage bed!”

He drank deep.

And still he kept to his feet.

Honestly, he ought to be studied by scientific academies. This very night, preferably.

This was not the way it was supposed to go. That much brandy was supposed to fell him, at which point Sybil would drag him into a distant closet and lock him inside. But Chiswick only accepted his beavery-crowned hat, his gold walking stick. Made another crude jest.

Plan B, then.

The earl’s file indicated that he loved porkpies, brandy, and snuff. And that he was constitutionally unable to resist a horse race. And Sybil noticed that he did not seem to enjoy some of the comments about his lady, for vastly different reasons than Sybil disliked them. Chiswick glared far more pointedly at the younger men, the handsome, wealthy ones who were not old enough to be Miss Maddox’s grandfather.

Sybil could use that.

The mark of a good Spinster was pivoting under pressure. Plan A gave way to Plan B, and often, Plan C. Sometimes D, E, and F.

She considered a duel, which would be fun, but it might be put off until the next day, and she did not fancy being shot at by an arthritic, syphilitic earl. She had much more experience with swords. He was old enough to prefer them.

She paused.

Too many variables.

A hit to the ego it was. At least she was unlikely to be locked in a cellar this time.

Sybil stood up and slammed her glass down in a great, loud display of dramatics. “I’m more interested in your actual filly, Chiswick!”

Chiswick frowned at her, though his curiosity was piqued. “Eh, lad?”

“I’ve heard she won at Newmarket.”

“She did,” he said, preening. “Twice.”

“Wager that was blind luck,” Sybil scoffed. “That was two years ago.”

“Rode her myself to victory just last year at Prinny’s party.”

She snorted. “You couldn’t keep your seat on him anymore.”

Chiswick’s eyes narrowed.

She had him.

“I wager I could beat you , insolent pup.”

Someone whistled. A hand slapped on the table, the bet already taking life. They were drunk and bored, and horse racing was the ubiquitous Achilles heel of an English lord.

“It’s a wager,” Sybil said, smirking. “Let’s have at it, then.”

“Tomorrow. I’ve a wedding to prepare for.”

She shook her head sadly. “That sounds too conveniently like doubt to me, Chiswick. Beat me now or not at all and know yourself to be a coward.”

Someone hooted. Loudly.

“What do you say, Chiswick? A race in the Park before your nuptials? Get the blood up, eh? You’ll need it.”

She knew that the earl, soused and desperate to seem young and virile, would not refuse. Could not.

Did not.

“Fine. Hurry up, then.”

As far as Plan Bs went, it wasn’t bad at all.

Until she spotted Keir. What was he doing here?

He was the sort to drink at home by the fire, to walk in the rain because it made you stronger. To pay court to ladies like Lady Violetta so they could have many babies to carry on the family name.

And, apparently, to ruin Sybil’s night.

She forced herself to relax as she snuck glances in his direction. He did not belong here—he was steady as an anchor, the flotsam of the hell whirling around him.

But he would not notice her, and if he did, he certainly would not recognize her.

What in the hell was Sybil Taunton doing in a gaming hell?

Keir had been asking himself what he was doing there for the last quarter of an hour, but this was a much more pressing question.

Sybil Taunton was swanning about the place in tight breeches, her tip-turned nose scattered with freckles. Her hair was tied back but it was still too shiny, too pretty. Like gold.

How had no one noticed that Lord Singleton was actually the very meddlesome, very pretty daughter of the Earl of Wentworth?

It strained credulity.

It was clearly not the first time she had done this. For one thing, when he had inquired over her presence, he was informed that Lord Singleton was a viscount’s son from Ireland who liked to travel and buy rounds of port and wine and gin for everyone. He was well liked, even if no one could seem to recall a single relevant detail about his life.

For another thing, she was entirely too adept at moving about in those breeches, leaning over the billiards table so they tightened over her backside. She pitched her voice low as she loudly needled Chiswick into a horse race.

A bloody horse race at dawn in Hyde Park.

The woman was a menace to herself.

Surely she realized her disguise would fall away in tatters under the sunlight. It was one thing to pull such a ruse in a smoky, dimly lit gaming hell where the patrons were not exactly at their most observant.

And why pull such a ruse, in any case? Was it another trick that would land her in trouble, as the mess with Eastbourne had done? Something that might cause her to be nearly run down by a careless carriage driver again?

Like hell.

Like fucking hell.

There were many things he would like to do to Sybil that he could not.

Protecting her was not one of them.