The Singular Mr. Sinclair

by Mia Marlowe

  Lord and Lady Chatham were blessed with five sons and only one daughter. But when it comes to Caroline, one is more than enough . . .

  Caroline is about to embark on her third Season and her parents fear she’ll be permanently on the shelf if she fails to make a match this time. Unfortunately for them, that is precisely what Caroline wants! Curious and adventuresome, Caroline longs for a life of travel, excitement, and perhaps even a touch of danger . . .

  If only she can remain unmarried until she turns twenty-one, Caroline will inherit her grandmother’s bequest and gain her freedom. It’s not a staggering amount, but it’s enough to fund her dreams without a husband’s permission. She has her future all planned out—until Lawrence Sinclair appears on the scene . . .

  Intense, intriguing, and handsome, the man reminds Caroline of a caged lion. In fact, the more she knows of him, the more questions she has. And when she learns how dangerous he really is, he may just become her new fascination—the one she can’t resist . . .

  Books by Mia Marlowe

  Touch of a Thief

  Touch of a Rogue

  Touch of a Scoundrel

  Plaid to the Bone (ebook novella)

  Plaid Tidings

  Once Upon a Plaid

  The Singular Mr. Sinclair

  Mia Marlowe

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Copyright

  Lyrical Press books are published by

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  Copyright © 2018 by Diana Groe

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  First Electronic Edition: July 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0596-0

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0596-6

  First Print Edition: July 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-0-5161-0597-7

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0597-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Prologue

  Ware Hall, Cumberland, 1796

  By the time Lawrence Sinclair was ten years of age, he was certain of one thing in this world.

  He would never make a scholar.

  His tutor, Mr. Hazelton, despaired of Lawrence’s ever amounting to anything in the classroom. To start with, even after years of practice, his penmanship remained a rough scrawl of chicken scratches and uneven lines.

  “I cannot be held to account for it, Your Lordship,” Mr. Hazelton explained to Lawrence’s uncle, Lord Ware. “The boy persists in using his left hand unless I tie it behind his back.”

  Mr. Hazelton didn’t tell the earl that he also routinely beat Lawrence’s left knuckles with a ruler until they were red as poppies. Nothing worked. Lawrence remained stubbornly cack-handed.

  Perhaps his struggle to write legibly bled over into other subjects, but he failed to excel in any area of Mr. Hazelton’s tutelage. Lord Ware, however, was delighted with the progress of his son Ralph. Though a year younger than Lawrence, his cousin was already leagues ahead of him in grammar, rhetoric, and Latin. Ralph could do sums of long columns of numbers in his head and his French translations of John Donne poems were so beautiful the words still sang.

  Lawrence’s only flash of brilliance was that he sat a horse with distinction. He and his mount took leaps with ease, even ones from which older, more experienced riders might shy. He also learned that his tendency to use his left hand could be an advantage in fencing.

  “Your foe willna ken how to come at ye,” his old Scottish fencing master had told him. “But dinna let His Lordship know I let ye practice so. We must make sure ye can switch hands at will, aye?”

  Still, a gentleman with no prospects couldn’t rely on those talents alone to make his way in the world.

  For make his own way he must.

  Lawrence would inherit nothing. He and his mother lived under the begrudging care of Harcourt Sinclair, Lord Ware, because his father, the earl’s younger brother by less than a minute, had died in a curricle accident a month before Lawrence was born. Lawrence regretted not having any memory of his sire, but he wondered if he should. When the adults in his life thought he wasn’t attending, whispers of “just deserts” and “larking about with a Bird of Paradise” floated in conversations just over his head.

  People also remarked how very different Lawrence’s father had been from his brother, the earl. In appearance as well as temperament, Harcourt was a steady, plodding, draft horse. Lawrence’s father Henry had been a flighty racer, lean and strong. Twins were like that sometimes, everyone said. The earl took after their mother’s people, while Henry favored the Sinclairs’ darkly handsome line.

  Sometimes Lawrence stood before his father’s portrait in the family gallery of Ware Hall, gazing up at the deep brown eyes that were so like his own, and puzzled over the man. He often imagined how different his life might have been if his father hadn’t died while “larking about,” with or without any sort of bird.

  For one thing, Lawrence wouldn’t be living under his stern uncle’s roof. That would be a blessing beyond measure. Ware Hall was a fine, prosperous estate, with expansive grounds, but however well appointed, a cage was still a cage. Lord Ware’s strictures were hard enough on Lawrence, but the earl ruled the whole family with a heavy hand.

  Just once, Lawrence would have rejoiced to see his mother contradict his uncle on anything. But his mother was a quiet woman who seldom smiled, so docile and frail, Lawrence wondered if she cared about anything at all. Still, she surely would have been happier, he thought, if she’d been allowed to return to her own family in Wiltshire.

  Lawrence had never met his mother’s people. His grandfather on that side reportedly held a tidy baronetcy, but Lord Ware always said his brother had “married beneath himself, if that were possible.” The daughter of a minor, late-made noble simply did not signify when weighed against the son of an earl.

  Even a second son.

  But Lord Ware wouldn’t hear of Lawrence and his mother returning south. The earl might not like Lawrence overmuch—or his mother, either, come to that—but he was duty bound to provide for his nephew’s upbringing.

  For if there was one thing the earl was certain of in this world, it was duty.

  “The boy is my blood, demmit. He bears the Sinclair name. I’ll not have him growing up wild as a thistle and ending up like his father. We don’t need another foolish accident to blacken the house of Ware.”

  Then, mere days before Lawrence’s eleventh birthda
y, another accident did happen. It might not have been accompanied by whispers of shame and disgrace, but it was so horrific, so unexpected, it was an affront to heaven and the natural order of things and surely the will of God Himself. It made his father’s sins—including the “larking about” bit—seem small by comparison.

  And Lawrence became certain of a second thing in this world.

  His uncle wished him dead.

  Chapter 1

  Is there a more alluring sight in all the world than the sun rising over an unknown sea?

  —from the diary of Lady Caroline Lovell, only daughter of the Earl of Chatham, who has never in her life set foot on a watercraft larger than a rowboat.

  London, The Ides of March 1818

  “And then, because Lord Ware arrived late,” Horatia Englewood said, pausing for effect, “Lady Jersey ordered him to remove from the premises forthwith.” When this bit of information was met with a shocked gasp from Frederica Tilbury, Horatia added, “Politely, of course.”

  The breath of minor scandal was almost enough to pull Caroline away from the parlor window and back into her friends’ gossipy patter. But there were so many carriages moving past her family’s town house in St. James Square, she couldn’t look away. It was too delicious to imagine where they might be going.

  Granted, most of the travelers were bound for parlors just like hers, where dainties would be offered, both in the form of petit fours and in juicy tidbits about the ton. It was the time of day reserved for calls, after all, and Polite Society lived to see and be seen.

  But surely some of the carriages rolling by were headed for the docks. And perhaps a fortunate few of the passengers would board ships.

  Bound for far off Zanzibar or Madagascar or . . . some other exotic place that ends in –ar. The colors are brighter there, I’ll be bound, and even birdsong must sound deliciously mysterious. Best of all, when I went to the beach, I’d feel warm sand beneath my feet instead of horrid pebbles like those at Brighton.

  Caroline sighed, wiggling her toes inside her slippers, daydreaming about how that foreign sand must feel. She squeezed her eyes shut and, for a heartbeat or two, she actually thought she felt a soft breeze drift past her.

  When she opened her eyes, the gossamer curtains were swaying a bit. One of the parlor windows had not been locked down tight when the maids dusted last.

  Caroline sighed again, wishing it was a trade wind that caressed her cheek. Her imagination was always more interesting than what was actually happening around her.

  However, her friend Frederica, who, it must be admitted, did not suffer from an abundance of imagination, was riveted by Horatia’s story about Lord Ware. The girl giggled loudly over the tale, mostly out of nervousness.

  It was a bad habit from which Caroline was trying to wean her. Freddie was pretty enough, and her dowry several notches above adequate, but more than a few young bucks might scamper away from her giggle.

  “Surely Lady Jersey never did such a thing,” Frederica said, her words tumbling over each other instead of flowing gently in a calm, ladylike stream. It was yet another thing Caroline was trying to improve about her friend. The rapid delivery betrayed a lack of confidence, Caroline insisted. When she took time to think about it, Frederica was making some progress, but when excited, dear Freddie reverted to her jackrabbit manner of speaking. Now she rattled on. “Not even a Lady Patroness would dare turn Lord Ware away from Almack’s. Indeed, she wouldn’t. Surely.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed she did. Surely.” Horatia straightened her spine to ramrod uprightness. Then she looked down her nose in a surprisingly good imitation of Lady Jersey at her imperious best. “She said, ‘If we turned away the Duke of Wellington for neglecting to honor the rules of dress, do not think for one moment we will not refuse to admit you, Lord Ware, when you have the temerity to arrive late to supper.’”

  “Not that supper at Almack’s inspires punctuality,” Caroline murmured. To call the meager refreshments served promptly at eleven supper was charitable in the extreme. The weak punch and thinly sliced bread were famous for their awfulness.

  “Still,” Frederica said with a shiver, “imagine having the courage to snub Lord Ware?”

  “Oh, Freddie, you little goose. Lady Jersey doesn’t need courage. She has the rules on her side.” Horatia raised her teacup and sipped delicately, pinky properly out.

  She was right. Lady Jersey had the power of revoking Lord Ware’s voucher to Almack’s permanently. It was acceptable not to have that coveted ticket because one had not applied for a voucher. It was quite another thing to have been awarded one and then have it stripped away for behavior judged to be common. No matter how wealthy, how influential, or how important the Earl of Ware might be in the House of Lords, Lady Jersey wielded an even heavier club in Polite Society.

  Frederica shivered again.

  Like a wren fluffing its feathers. There’s another thing I need to correct before the Season starts in earnest.

  Carriage traffic had dwindled, so Caroline left the window and rejoined her friends. She settled into the Sheridan chair opposite the settee and helped herself to a biscuit. “Horatia, tell me. Did you see this astonishing exchange between Lady Jersey and Lord Ware with your own eyes?”

  Her friend’s lips pursed into a disgruntled moue. “Well, no, but—”

  “Then, may I ask how you happened upon this extraordinary bit of intelligence?”

  “You see, my cousin Violet’s bosom friend, Amelia, heard it from—”

  “So neither your cousin nor her bosom friend witnessed Lord Ware’s humiliation?”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” Horatia complained. “Amelia got it straight from her Aunt Harriet, whom she swears is the soul of discretion. And Amelia’s aunt heard about the incident from Miss Penelope Braithwaite, who was there.”

  “Penelope Braithwaite,” Caroline cast about through the myriad of introductions she’d suffered through during the last two Seasons, trying to remember the young lady.

  “I believe she sings,” Freddie prompted. “Didn’t we attend one of her recitals?”

  Suffered through one almost escaped Caroline’s lips, but she held it back. Her dear mother always warned that speaking ill of others was a prayer to the devil. Caroline wasn’t sure she believed it, but it didn’t do to take chances.

  “Oh, yes, now I remember,” Caroline said. “You and I have heard her perform, Freddie.”

  “As have I, but only once,” Horatia said with a snicker. “She abused the Mozart ‘Alleluia’ with such gusto, one hearing was more than enough.” Horatia shook her head. “And she fancies herself a lyric soprano.”

  “Why, yes, I believe she does,” Freddie said agreeably.

  Dear Freddie. If Horatia said Miss Braithwaite fancied herself a trained chimpanzee in a Parisian frock, you’d nod and agree.

  Caroline recommitted herself to shepherding her suggestible friend through the coming Season. She had no doubt fair-haired Frederica would turn heads. She was as pale and dimpled as the prevailing standards of beauty required. But fashionably pretty girls possessed of large dowries and small imaginations might fall prey to all manner of deception.

  It was no trouble for her to guard Frederica’s interests. After all, this would be Caroline’s third Season. She was plainly on the shelf and not likely to be plucked down from it. Not since she’d turned down half a dozen proposals and avoided a few more by tactfully discouraging her admirers.

  Which upset her parents no end, but suited her just fine. The sooner they realized she was unmarriageable, the sooner she’d be on her way to being her own mistress. Once she reached the magical age of twenty-one, she’d have access to the minor fortune bequeathed to her by her grandmother. Alas! She lacked another year before she attained that great age.

  Then Zanzibar, here I come! But for now, back to the question of Lord Ware and Lady Jersey .
. .

  “Do you really believe Lady Jersey would deliver a set down to Lord Ware with Penelope Braithwaite, however praiseworthy, respectable, and . . . musically inclined she may be, as the only witness to the event?” Caroline asked.

  Horatia and Freddie gave each other searching looks, as if wondering why they had not asked themselves this very logical question.

  “No, if Lady Jersey decides someone is in need of a reprimand, she never misses an opportunity to do so in as public a manner as possible,” Caroline said. “I think we may safely disregard this information.”

  Horatia’s shoulders slumped. “But it’s the most scandalous thing I’ve heard all week.”

  “What a thing to say.” Frederica rolled her soft blue eyes. “As if we wish to hear about scandal.”

  Caroline struggled to keep her face composed in a neutral expression. She loved both Freddie and Horatia, but they lived for scandal, relishing each morsel of gossip as much as the daintiest piece of cake. Caroline, on the other hand, only considered the hearing of such tales a means of gathering useful information.

  Such as . . .

  “Lord Ware’s daughters were all suitably married years ago. To my knowledge, he has no niece for whom he’s trying to arrange a match. Why would he be seeking admittance to Almack’s at all?” she asked.

  “Perhaps he likes playing cards,” Freddie suggested.

  Caroline shook her head. “No, men only play cards at Almack’s when their women have dragged them there. They save the real games of chance for White’s or Boodles.”

  She had no actual proof of this, never having been in either of those hallowed masculine enclaves, but it made sense.

  The male of the species saves all the good things for itself. Those mysterious, exclusive clubs into which they disappear are but one example. A gentleman may vote, or serve in Parliament, or study at university as he pleases. And men most particularly reserve for themselves the freedom to travel—unescorted and unquestioned.