Sin and Sensibility

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I received your note,” he said, moving to stand at the window.

  “I wanted to let you know where I would be, just as you instructed.” Continuing her show of uncaring serenity, she took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs facing the desk.

  “We looked for you at the boat races for an hour. Someone finally said they’d seen you stroll off in the company of Deverill.” He sat heavily in the deep sill. “I was actually grateful you had decided against rowing a scull.”

  “Oh, Sebastian, I would never do such a foolish thing. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t. I thought I did, but you’ve lately been challenging most of my notions about you. How did you come to meet up with Deverill?”

  “He came looking for me, I think, to make certain I didn’t join Fitzroy in his boat.”

  The duke nodded. “And where did you dine?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do.” For a long moment he sat silently, his gaze on the small garden outside. “I’m surprised that with the risks you’re taking, not only have you arrived home safely after each escapade, but you’ve managed to avoid a scandal at the same time. I think it’s only fair to warn you, though, that even the most proficient gambler loses on occasion.”

  “I know that. I’m willing to take the risk.”

  “I’m not finished. One of the reasons we—I—allowed you so much freedom when you were a child is that I didn’t know any better. I hadn’t even started at Oxford when I inherited the title, Shay, Zachary, and you. But ignorance, I suppose, is no excuse. And perhaps that makes your rebellion my fault.”

  Eleanor stood. “If your solution would have been to allow me less freedom, you would have been doubly wrong.”

  “Most female children of noble families don’t go fishing or jumping naked into lakes or riding off on their brother’s horses to break their arms, Nell. And when they grow up, they don’t venture into Vauxhall on their own, and they don’t wander off to have luncheon with hardened rakes without informing anyone first, or even after that.”

  “I thought Deverill was your dearest friend.”

  “He is. But you are my sister.” He blew out his breath. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that if you want to find your own husband, do so. If you want to visit Vauxhall or view the boat races, one of us will accompany you, and without complaint. But don’t…for God’s sake, don’t put yourself into danger. Please.”

  Eleanor closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts so she could finally explain this. “Sebastian, I love you. No, don’t give me that look. I do. But the blood that makes you a leader, that makes you hate limitations and demands that you think for yourself—that blood runs in my veins too.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then you should also know that until I was fifteen I could…do the same things that you did. And then I couldn’t.”

  “Elean—”

  “But now, for this moment anyway, if I’m willing to take the risk, I can do those things again. This time, though, it’s my responsibility, my decision. If I break my arm or get lost, it’s my fault. Not yours.”

  “That may be how you and I see it, but it won’t be how the rest of London views it. They’ll see—”

  “I don’t care what they see. I know that eventually I’ll have to go back to small dreams and small ambitions, and that because of the dictates of Society and the Griffin bloodline I’ll be forced to marry some fool of your choosing, but in the meantime, I will have some fun. Short-lived or not, at least I will have done it.”

  “My concern is that when you look back on this moment of yours, you’ll see it as the greatest mistake you ever made.”

  “Then at least it will be a mistake that I made for myself.”

  He let her have the last word. That felt significant, but considering the doubt and worry she still read in his eyes, he remained unconvinced. She’d given the explanation her best effort, and still no one was on her side. No one except perhaps Valentine—and that hardly counted.

  Tears starting down her face, she half stumbled into the morning room, surprising her aunt by collapsing on her shoulder in sobs she hadn’t even realized she was holding in. “I’m sorry,” she wailed, her voice muffled against Aunt Tremaine’s shoulder.

  “Oh, dear, and me without a parasol,” her aunt returned, patting her on the back. “You go on and cry, Nell. It seems as though you need to.”

  “I don’t want to cry. I want to punch someone.”

  “Not me, I hope. I would guess Melbourne, which I wouldn’t recommend, either. He’s quite muscular.”

  “No, not him.” Eleanor wiped her eyes, straightening. “I don’t know who I could actually punch, anyway. All of this frustration is my fault. But I won’t just give up and do what everyone else thinks I should. It’s not fair.”

  Gladys took her hand, leading her to the couch and seating her, before going to pour them each a cup of the tea Stanton had provided. “I think I should refrain from comment until I know what in heaven’s name you’re talking about.”

  With a hiccup, Eleanor sipped at her tea. “Oh, yes, I suppose so. I apologize, Aunt Tremaine. It’s just been in my head so much that I—”

  “—that you can’t believe no one else could know about it. I understand. But you must tell me.”

  “Yes. All right.” Eleanor took a breath and sipped at her tea again. She wanted to tell her aunt. Other than Deverill, she couldn’t think of anyone else she could include. Barbara knew a little, but only Deverill knew everything. Kind blue eyes looked at her as she sipped again. Gladys Tremaine was a perfect lady. She’d loved her husband, despite his lower rank, and before, during, and after her marriage had never even looked at another man, as far as Eleanor knew. She’d certainly never been tempted to kiss a rake—but Eleanor hoped she would understand the reasoning behind those unhelpful cravings.

  “I made a declaration of independence,” she said.

  “So Peep said. What sort of independence?”

  “From the Griffins. I announced that I meant to find my own husband without their aid or interference, and that I would act as I chose and associate with whomever I pleased. And I would dress as I liked.”

  Her aunt sat on the couch and sipped her own tea. “And Melbourne didn’t agree to this?”

  “No, he did.”

  “He did? Ah. Then might the problem be that you aren’t enjoying your new freedom?”

  “No, that’s not it, either.”

  “My dear, I’m afraid I’ll need a bit more information before I can offer any advice or assistance.”

  “I wish I could explain it to you, Aunt.” Eleanor flung her hands up in the air and back into her lap. “I have this opportunity to be free to do what I want, and I don’t know how to do it—or even what it is that I want.”

  “You went to luncheon with the Marquis of Deverill, unchaperoned. That seems like freedom to me, Nell.”

  “It isn’t. Not with Deverill. I mean, he does say things in my presence that most men wouldn’t, but he’s Sebastian’s best friend. He knows the rules.”

  “The rules,” Aunt Tremaine repeated in a dubious voice.

  “The rules about behavior toward me as established by Sebastian, Shay, and Zachary.”

  “You mean you feel too…safe in Deverill’s presence?” Gladys chuckled. “I didn’t think I would ever use those two words in the same sentence. ‘Safe’ and ‘Deverill.’ How odd.”

  It had perhaps begun that way, but it wasn’t precisely true any longer. Not since Valentine had kissed her. But despite his occasional verbal flirtations he’d already said nothing else would happen, and she wanted it to, blast it all.

  Eleanor shook herself. There he was again, just the thought of him, of his warm mouth, distracting her from not merely her conversation, but her larger goals. “I feel as though I’m wasting this time,” she said. “I know that eventually, probably sooner rather than later, I’ll go one st
ep farther than Sebastian is willing to tolerate, and he’ll put a stop to this. In the meantime, I have no idea what to do. To make the most of this moment, I mean. And all the while, everything I am doing seems to hurt or disappoint my brothers—Sebastian especially. I don’t want to do that, either.”

  “It’s a difficult dilemma. Freedom, I believe, always has a price.”

  “That’s precisely what Deverill said.”

  “He has a great deal of sense, then.” Aunt Tremaine raised an eyebrow. “Surprising, that.”

  Yes, it was. In fact, Valentine’s compassion and understanding had been a constant source of amazement to her. Eleanor swirled the tea in her cup. If she told anyone else, though, she had the feeling that all of it would disappear. That once she said it aloud he would instantly return to being the same jaded, cynical rake to her that he was to everyone else. And she didn’t want that to happen.

  What it all came down to, though, was that whatever happened was required to have meaning only to her. And the doing of it, and the consequences, were for her alone. “What I really need right now,” she said with a deep breath, her thoughts barely running ahead of her words, “is to know that you, at least, understand what I’m trying to do.”

  Her aunt looked at her. “You don’t even understand it, my dear.”

  “But—”

  “I do understand. Your mother was my sister. An earl’s daughter, suddenly married and a duchess. And not just any duchess, mind you, but the Duchess of Melbourne. An eight-hundred-year-old title, belonging to a family and a name dating back to the Romans.”

  “Grifanus,” Eleanor supplied. She’d grown up knowing that, knowing that her family had practically founded the British nobility.

  “It wasn’t easy for Elizabeth, either,” Aunt Tremaine continued. “But she decided it was worth it. She was very proud of who she was, and of the legacy of which her children became a part.”

  “So I should just stop this and beg Melbourne to find me a husband of his choosing? Someone worthy of me?”

  “No. You should do what you think is necessary to be happy. Only keep in mind that your name doesn’t stand by itself, Eleanor. Others share it.”

  “I know that.” She kissed her aunt on the cheek. “And I won’t forget it, either. Thank you.”

  “I don’t think I did anything, but you’re most welcome. And any time you need a friendly ear, I have a pair of them.” Aunt Tremaine set aside her tea and stood. “I won’t even tell you to be careful, because I know that you will.”

  “I will try,” Eleanor amended, walking her to the front door. And she’d best try harder, considering what had almost happened with Stephen Cobb-Harding. What would have happened, if it hadn’t been for Valentine, who had twice now come to her rescue. Counting on him to do it again would be foolhardy, however infatuated with him she might be.

  But she would have to trust him at least one more time. Everyone’s talk about adventures, and about what she’d used to be able to do as a child, had sparked an idea. Eleanor smiled as she headed back into the morning room and the small writing desk there. She had her adventure. Now all she needed was the courage to ask Valentine for help in achieving it, and most of all, the courage to go through with it.

  Valentine had one of his grooms deliver the letter to Cobb-Harding, but waited down the street himself to watch and see what might happen next. As he had expected, within ten minutes Stephen Cobb-Harding had stormed out to his tiny stable, grabbed a mount, and thundered off toward Pall Mall. Following at a discreet distance, Valentine allowed himself a grim smile as the fool went from one club to another, obviously trying to verify whether they’d sold off his papers or not. The answer had to be devastating. And as far as the marquis was concerned, every ounce of agony and dismay was well deserved.

  Now Cobb-Harding could scream and curse and rage at the sky, but there was little or nothing he could do to rectify the situation. Though Valentine hadn’t said anything about it to Eleanor, his concern hadn’t been for every naive debutante in London; it had been to prevent any harm from befalling her or her reputation.

  And so his letter to Cobb-Harding had been very specific. He was to pay, or to leave the country. And if within the month he had remaining in England the fool came near her again, spoke one word to her or to her family under any circumstances, the day would end with him being locked into debtors’ prison—or on board a convict barge, if Valentine could arrange it. A twenty-three-thousand-pound debt with no hope of repayment was a serious offense.

  When Stephen didn’t emerge from White’s, Valentine approached more closely. Cobb-Harding sat in the bay window, drinking his way through a bottle of bourbon. Undoubtedly he’d paid cash for it.

  Valentine smiled darkly. He didn’t ruin other men’s lives as a rule; he didn’t care enough about most of them to bother with it. This particular man, though, had stepped directly into the middle of a friendship. And more than that, though Valentine couldn’t even put a name to it. All that mattered was that Stephen Cobb-Harding go away. Permanently.

  He had no intention of standing there watching a man drink himself into oblivion, so he returned to Iago and swung into the saddle. His options for other activities at this time of afternoon were fairly limited. No heavy games would have begun at any of the clubs, Parliament had no afternoon session today, and any ladies whose company he might desire would be out visiting with friends.

  With a frown he turned Iago for home. He hadn’t desired any female’s company for over a week. No, that wasn’t quite true, because he practically went hard every time he conjured a thought of Eleanor Griffin—which seemed to be with alarming frequency. No good rake spent this much time and effort on one woman, and especially on one whose favors he could never hope to win—would never sanely attempt to win. It was ridiculous.

  If not for his idiotic debt to Melbourne he could be off arranging a rendezvous with Lydia or Lady Danning, or any of two dozen other chits he’d ensnared over the course of the last Season or two. But at the moment he couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t imagine being satisfied by one of them while Eleanor still roamed London looking for the perfect adventure, and getting herself into God knew what mischief.

  That was it, he decided. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t stop thinking about her as that he was anxious to settle his debt and move on. The only way he could remove his obligation to Melbourne was to stop Eleanor’s mischief. And the only way he could do that would be to help her find her adventure—and her husband.

  “Bloody, bloody hell,” he muttered, turning for home.

  It bothered him more than he cared to admit that until Belmont’s, Eleanor would have considered Stephen Cobb-Harding a potential husband. They’d danced together, chatted about nonsense for an afternoon, and she considered him a possible mate. That scenario hadn’t exactly gone well—and he wasn’t precisely sorry about it.

  She wouldn’t name any other potentials for him to review, and he wondered why. Yes, he would probably make fun of them, but how could she expect him not to? Most young, single gentlemen were good for nothing so much as a joke. They certainly weren’t good enough for her.

  “What?” he asked aloud, frowning. Where had that come from? A man not good enough for a woman? Such a female didn’t exist. Except that she apparently did.

  “Hobbes,” he said as the butler opened the front door of Corbett House for him, “do we know of any young, handsome gentlemen of the unmarried persuasion who might appeal to a young lady seeking an adventure?”

  “You, my lord,” Hobbes answered immediately, accepting his coat, hat, and gloves while he toed the door closed with one foot.

  Valentine snorted. “I said ‘young.’ I’m two-and-thirty. And I may have neglected to add ‘upstanding’ to the list.”

  “Oh. In that case, Lord Zachary or Lord Charlemagne? The Earl of Everton? Roger Noleville? Stephen Cobb-Harding? Thomas Chesterfield? Thomas Atherton? Lord Warefield? John Fitz—”

  “Enough already,”
Valentine interrupted. “You might have replied to my query with something along the lines of ‘a great many, my lord,’ or ‘nearly a dozen, my lord.’ I didn’t ask for a litany.”

  “Apologies, my lord. There are a great many young gentlemen who might suffice, my lord.”

  “Bugger off.”

  Hobbes bowed and started down the side hallway toward the servants’ quarters. “At once, my lord.”

  “Wait a moment.”

  The butler turned smoothly around, his unflappable expression unchanged. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Any news?”

  “You have received a great many letters and calling cards, my lord.”

  “Are you and Matthews in league to kill me with an apoplexy?”

  “I wasn’t aware that your valet was trying to do you in, my lord. I shall speak to him about it.”

  Ah, so they were working separately—until this moment, anyway. “Letters and calling cards from whom, Hobbes?”

  “Lady Franch, Lady DuMont, Lady Caster, Miss Anne Young, Lady Eleanor, Lady Bethenridge, Lady Field—”

  “Thank you, Hobbes.” Valentine stopped his retreat up the stairs. “Did you say Lady Eleanor?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  His heart skipped a beat, then began pounding harder to compensate. “Calling card or letter?”

  “Letter.”

  “I’ll take that one.”

  The butler returned to his station, retrieving a letter from the pile littered across the side table and salver. Climbing the stairs to reach Valentine, he handed it over. “Will there by anything else, my lord?”

  “No. Go away now.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And I’m not home to anyone but a Griffin. Unless it’s Melbourne. If he calls, I’ve fled to Paris.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Valentine retreated to the small office adjoining his private chambers and seated himself behind the desk there. He placed the letter in front of him, adjusting it so that it sat exactly parallel to the front of the mahogany desk. And then he looked at it.