The Singular Mr. Sinclair

by Marlowe Mia

  “Oh! I believe I know why Lord Ware was attempting to enter Almack’s.” Horatia scooted forward on the settee to lean toward Caroline. Then she suddenly clamped her lips shut, leaned back, and crossed her arms. “But I’m not saying another word until you promise not to worry me over where I heard it.”

  Frederica looked hopefully at Caroline. “Please, Caro.”

  Caroline sighed. “Very well.”

  But she reserved judgment on the veracity of what Horatia was about to say.

  Her hazel eyes sparkling, Horatia lowered her voice. “The word about Town is that Lord Ware is looking for a wife for himself.”

  “He’s too old for that, surely. Hasn’t he been a widower for simply ages? Why, he must be well over fifty,” Frederica said, with the callousness of the young. A pair of lines scrunched across her forehead as she tried to puzzle out Lord Ware’s age. “Perhaps nearer to sixty. Didn’t his youngest daughter Martha just present him with twin grandsons?”

  Horatia tapped the side of her nose, and then pointed at Frederica to indicate that she’d hit upon the crux of the problem. “If memory serves …”

  It always does in Horatia’s case. She hoards more nuggets about the ton than a squirrel amasses nuts for winter.

  “…Lord Ware’s only son died in childhood and his wife passed a few years after that, trying in vain to give him another,” Horatia recalled. “Grandsons His Lordship may have in abundance, but no son.”

  “Ah! Then he needs an heir,” Caroline said.

  “He already has one,” Horatia countered. “His nephew, Mr. Lawrence Sinclair.”

  Caroline might cast doubt on most of Horatia’s gossip, but she never tangled with her on who was who among the ton. Sometimes Caroline wondered if her friend had accidentally swallowed a copy of Debrett’s.

  She turned the name Lawrence Sinclair over in her mind but couldn’t find a face to put with it. He obviously hadn’t been in London for the past two Seasons or she’d have met him at some ball or recital or lecture or other. “If Lord Ware has an heir presumptive, why bother filling the nursery at his age?”

  Horatia lifted her chin and cast them a superior look. “It is well known that Lord Ware despises his nephew.”

  “Why?” Frederica asked.

  Horatia’s chin dropped a bit. “The reason is less well known.” Which meant she didn’t know. “But suffice it to say that his nephew’s shortcomings are appalling enough that Lord Ware will do anything to make sure he doesn’t inherit. Including taking a wife at his advanced age.”

  “One can only imagine how horrid the nephew must be,” Frederica observed with yet another shiver.

  But Caroline’s thoughts had traveled a different road and she couldn’t find it in her to fret about Freddie’s bad habits at the moment. “So only the young and presumably fertile need apply to become the next Lady Ware.”

  “Caro! Please.” Freddie’s cheeks flushed prettily. “A lady doesn’t speak of such things.”

  “Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?”

  New wives were expected to pop out babies at regular intervals, though it was rarely commented upon, and women who were increasing took pains to remove themselves from public view. The three girls had pooled their meager resources, trying to piece together how this popping out of infants was accomplished. As of yet, none of them were satisfied they had the complete story.

  “Caro,” Horatia said primly, “you’ve missed the main point.”

  “Pray, enlighten me.”

  “If any of us should happen upon Mr. Sinclair during the Season, we must remember one thing.”

  “That he must be horrid?” Frederica guessed.

  “Well, yes, that. Perhaps there are two things,” Horatia said. “Aside from his presumed horridness, what we must chiefly keep in mind is that he is neither fish nor fowl.”

  “Meaning?” Caroline cocked her head.

  “Either Lawrence Sinclair stands to become the next Earl of Ware or he is a gentleman with no prospects at all,” Horatia said. “I’d not chance it. No, indeed. Give me a thoroughly settled suitor with unambiguous expectations of his station in life. I for one am not willing to risk all, no matter how sparkling a countess’s tiara may seem.”

  “Nor I,” Frederica seconded, though she’d be equally likely to leap off the London Bridge if Horatia was also keen on it.

  “At least risking all would be exciting,” Caroline muttered. Such a mésalliance would have the added charm of upsetting her family no end.

  Perhaps if she pretended to a sudden romantic interest in the surely horrid Mr. Sinclair, her father would relent and allow her to set out on the program of travel and adventure she’d compiled for herself. Caroline hoped to emulate the excellent example of Mrs. Hester Birdwhistle. She had read every account of that intrepid lady traveler’s exploits a dozen times over.

  As told by the unconventional Mrs. Birdwhistle, the wide world beckoned. “Only the courageous soul answers when adventure knocks” was her credo.

  Caroline was about to ring for a fresh pot of tea because their current one had gone cold, when there came a pounding at the front door.

  Would adventure knock that loudly?

  It was more likely the caller was frustrated by the lack of an answer to his or her polite rap and had resorted to pounding. Their flighty footman, Dudley, must have abandoned his post again, leaving Mr. Price, the Lovells’ decidedly long-in-the-tooth butler, to answer.

  Even so, Caroline wouldn’t mention Dudley’s lapse to her father. Her lady’s maid, Alice, had conceived a tendresse for the footman. Caroline had far too much fun hearing about the budding below-stairs romance to put Dudley’s position in jeopardy.

  Then came a shouted “Hallo!” followed by the heavy stomp of masculine boots coming down the hall toward the parlor.

  Caroline’s eldest brother appeared in the doorway, his sandy hair tousled by wind, his cheeks tanned. He seemed broader, his shoulders more massive than she remembered. He dominated the space with his mere presence. Still, though it had been nearly three years since she’d seen him, she’d have known him anywhere.

  Caro had been suffering through fittings for the wardrobe for her first Season when he’d left, off to see the world on his Grand Tour. Once the war with that hateful Bonaparte had ended, civilized young Englishmen had flocked to the Continent to complete their education by traveling to new places. Her brother and his friend, Lord Rowley, had sampled the wines of Paris, viewed the majesty of the Alps, and experienced the splendors of Rome.

  All places of which I can only dream.

  But she couldn’t find a single shred of envy in her at the moment. It was enough that her favorite brother was finally home. And while the world might call him Lord Bredon, because as Lord Chatham’s heir, he was allowed to take one of their father’s lesser titles, to Caroline, he would always be simply . . .

  “Teddy!” She flew across the room to enfold him in a hug. “Oh, dear, dear Edward, you’ve grown so tall. A couple of inches at least.”

  “That’s what travel will do for a man,” Edward said, his voice deeper than she remembered it. “When you stretch your legs, they’re bound to grow a bit.”

  “Oh, I’m so longing to hear all about it. Come.” She took his hands and started leading him into the room. “You must tell us simply everything.”

  “A wise man rarely tells a woman everything.” A richer, more rumbling voice came from behind her brother.

  For the first time, Caroline noticed another man was standing there. He was dressed in the same manner as Edward, perfectly correct buckskins topped with a white shirt, striped waistcoat, and dark jacket. From his artfully disheveled cravat to his spit-shined Hessians, his ensemble was all the crack.

  But he didn’t seem especially at ease in his fashionable clothes. There was a tenseness to the man.

  He rem
inded Caroline of the lion she’d seen at the Royal Menagerie a scant week ago. She’d watched it for more than half an hour as it paced its small space, thick tail lashing its own ribs, powerful muscles twitching beneath its tawny fur. Such a magnificent creature didn’t belong in a cage. It was born to roam the savannas of Africa, king of all other beasts.

  She wondered where this man belonged.

  “Where are my manners?” Edward said. “And here I owe this fellow a great debt to boot. We met in Rome, you see, where he got Rowley and me out of a rather tight spot. We’ve been friends and traveling companions ever since. May I introduce him to you?”

  “Please.” Caroline welcomed anyone whom her dear Teddy held in esteem.

  Especially a gentleman who reminded her of a brooding lion.

  Edward turned to his friend. “It is my great honor to present my dear sister, Lady Caroline Lovell. She’s my favorite sister, mind, so behave yourself,” he warned the other man with a good-natured grin.

  “Stop it, Teddy. I’m your only sister, so naming me your favorite is far less of a compliment than you imagine,” she said with a laugh. But all the while she was thinking, Goodness! How irregular. Why would Teddy need to warn his friend about his behavior?

  Then Edward beamed at Caroline. “May I introduce Lawrence Sinclair?”

  The man gave her a quick, austerely correct bow from the neck. Caroline returned the required curtsy.

  So this is the perfectly horrid Mr. Lawrence Sinclair.

  She knew she ought to withdraw from someone who’d earned such a poor opinion from his own family. And a warning to behave himself from her own dear brother.

  But all she could think when she met the man’s piercing dark eyes was that he didn’t look horrid at all.

  Chapter 2

  God save me from respectable women.

  —Lawrence Sinclair

  Lawrence had met precious few ladies in his life. Lord Ware had packed him off to boarding school as soon as he could, lying about Lawrence’s age to get him into Harrow a year early. At first, Lawrence had been grateful. However, if living at Ware Hall was insufferable, being raised by wolves might have been preferable to his life at public school.

  Until Lawrence had shown the ability to defend himself, and become indispensable on the cricket ground, the prefects had made living at Harrow a hell on earth. But with enough time, one can become accustomed even to hell. Lawrence was forced to remain at school during holidays, when the other lads returned home to parties and country balls. He had few opportunities to acquire any of the social graces required for congress with the fair sex.

  He told himself it didn’t matter. He’d never need that kind of polish. He was better off at school than at Ware in any case. At least he was out from under his uncle’s thumb.

  Lawrence used the weeks when the hallways echoed with emptiness to catch up with his classmates in academics. He did manage to finally matriculate, though without much distinction. Lawrence was neither at the head nor the foot of his class.

  “Sort of a golden mean,” he’d told his uncle.

  “Trying to find virtue in mediocrity, I see,” Lord Ware had countered.

  Lawrence had no wish to read law. He hadn’t longed for a deeper understanding of algebra or geometry. Without a burning desire for more schooling, there was no reason for Lawrence to attend university. Still, his uncle wouldn’t countenance his returning to Ware Hall.

  Instead, the earl had purchased a lieutenant’s commission for Lawrence, and specifically requested for him to serve in the heavy horse. Since this branch of His Majesty’s cavalry always bore the brunt of any major action, Lawrence had no illusions about the sentiment behind his uncle’s graduation gift.

  However, Lawrence found that military life suited him. His old fencing master’s tutelage was put to good use. Because he was more at home with horses than people, becoming a dragoon was not without its benefits. Lawrence had found a place where he actually excelled. He could handle himself and his mount in pitched battle, acquit himself admirably in the action, and his semicontrolled aggression would save the horse and rider next to him as well, more often than not.

  He strove to be ready for whatever the enemy threw at him.

  But his time in His Majesty’s service had done nothing to prepare him for his reaction to Lady Caroline Lovell’s astonishing amber eyes.

  His mouth went dry. There was a hitch in his breath, and he suddenly felt all elbows and knees, a gawky youth instead of the steady young man he thought himself.

  Bredon’s sister was a goddess, or as near to one as Lawrence could imagine. All that was graceful, all that was innocent and sensual at once, all that was woman, she was neatly packaged before him, wrapped in a few layers of chiffon and lace.

  “Won’t you join us for tea, Mr. Sinclair?” she asked. Low and musical, even her voice was the perfect blend of angel and seductress.

  He could scarce believe his luck.

  Then he noticed that the goddess had reinforcements. Two other young ladies, of a somewhat less divine variety, had risen from their places on the settee. Unlike the gracious Lady Caroline, who smiled sweetly at him, these two eyed Lawrence as if he were a particularly repugnant type of slug.

  Introductions were made all around. More tea and a fresh tray of biscuits appeared. Lawrence had hoped to feel more at ease with something in his hands. He was never quite sure where to put them otherwise. But balancing a delicate china cup and saucer on one knee and a plate of biscuits on the other was not an improvement. When the young ladies on the settee continued to study him furtively, Lawrence wished he’d declined refreshment.

  And longed for his early days at Harrow.

  “Mr. Sinclair, where is your home?” the one named Horatia Englewood said.

  “Yes,” he choked out. Lawrence could hardly be expected to say more; he had just bitten into a sweetmeat the instant before she addressed him. Ware was home. Or he supposed it was as much home to him as any place, though it held no warm memories for him. It was mildly disconcerting to find this Miss Englewood had apparently ascertained he was from Ware. He knew nothing about her, save that she tightened her lips into a prim line each time she looked his way.

  “Your home, sir. Where . . . is it?”

  “It is,” Lawrence confirmed, wondering why Miss Englewood was belaboring the point. He’d been born in Ware Hall. Of what conversational value could that information be? Was she angling for confirmation of the fact that, even as the earl’s presumptive heir, he wasn’t likely to be welcomed back there any time soon?

  Miss Englewood gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “Well, if you’ve no wish to tell me…”

  Bredon laughed then, and slapped him on the back. His friend seemed unaware that he was seriously endangering the Turkish carpet beneath their feet because Lawrence very nearly dumped his tea. “She’s asking from whence you hail, Sinclair. Lud, man, I know it’s been years since you were at school, but do you not recognize a homonym when you hear it?”

  “A what?” Grammar had not been his strong suit.

  “A homonym,” the angelic Lady Caroline said. “Two words that sound alike but have different spellings and meanings. Where and Ware, you see?”

  The two girls on the settee tittered like a pair of canaries.

  “Honestly, ladies, you mustn’t laugh over a silly misunderstanding. Mr. Sinclair is our guest,” Lady Caroline scolded. Lawrence was impressed that her mild rebuke made the others duck their heads, to all appearances suitably chastised. “And besides, if my brother met Mr. Sinclair on the Continent, no doubt he’s been living in places where no one speaks English. Perhaps for quite some time. I wager if we held this conversation in French, he’d be brilliant.”

  “Or Italian or Spanish,” Bredon put in staunchly. “Lawrence has an ear for languages.”

  “Ah! Then he will no doubt be pleased t
o dazzle us with something delightfully foreign from his travels,” Miss Englewood said. When Lawrence didn’t respond immediately, she added dryly, “An ear for languages, perhaps, but not a tongue, apparently.”

  Miss Englewood was right. As much as Lawrence wished he could impress Lady Caroline with something suitable for the present company, all that came to mind at this moment were the words to a bawdy Spanish poem about a camp follower and an Italian drinking song.

  Neither would do credit to Lady Caroline’s very proper parlor.

  Fortunately, the goddess herself took charge of the conversation and steered it toward her brother’s travels. Bredon was used to holding court and soon had all three ladies hanging on his every word.

  Lawrence was grateful. It allowed him to seem to participate without actually doing anything but keep from spilling his tea. The other four laughed together so easily. They exchanged news of friends they held in common. Witticisms were batted back and forth like a game of shuttlecock. Sitting in their shadow, Lawrence almost enjoyed himself.

  But then Lady Caroline turned to him. “Now that you’ve returned from your time abroad, will you remain in London for the Season, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Lawrence swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He’d planned to seek temporary lodging, somewhere cheap, near Wapping Dock, perhaps, while he untangled this particular knot. He had a vague idea about contacting his mother. Perhaps he could persuade her to allow him to take her to Wiltshire to visit her family there.

  “I have no plans to remain in London, Lady Caroline.”

  “Then you must make plans,” she said with another dazzling smile. Her teeth were brighter than the cliffs of Dover at sunrise. “There will be balls and routs and musical evenings and oh! ever so many fascinating things to do.”

  Those fascinating things sounded like the worst sort of torture to Lawrence, but if she were there, he thought he might be able to bear them.

  “Well, I—”

  “That settles it.” Bredon slapped him on the back. “You’ll stay with us, Sinclair.”