To Sin With A Scoundrel

by Cara Elliott

  “Perhaps that’s a wise idea,” agreed Ciara. It seemed her blue-deviled mood was rubbing off on everyone around her.

  “Ciao, tesoro.” Alessandra kissed Peregrine, then Ciara. “I look forward to hearing all about tomorrow’s ball at our next meeting.”

  Her current sentiments on the subject were best left unsaid.

  Gathering her son in her arms, Ciara accompanied her friend to the front door and then sought the soothing sanctuary of the kitchen. The sweet smells of melting sugar and cinnamon immediately enveloped them in a buttery warmth. So, too, did Cook, who dusted the flour from her yeasty hands and quickly set a pan of milk to heat on the hob.

  Ciara bit her lip as she watched the elderly woman fuss over Peregrine’s bruised forehead. It suddenly struck her that her son was surrounded by females. The only men of the household were the butler McCabe and Jeremiah the footman—and neither was a day under seventy. It couldn’t be good for a boy to grow up without a strong male influence in his life. She didn’t want him to be cosseted and petted until he became a spoiled brat. Suffering a few scrapes was all part of life. He must learn to take his lumps and laugh them off.

  Not that Sheffield would have made an ideal role model. Ciara repressed a shudder. A drunken wastrel with a hair-trigger temper was hardly an example to emulate. She knew that her late husband wasn’t all that different from many aristocratic fathers. But she wished for something more for Peregrine.

  Warmth. Laughter. Love.

  She had no illusions that he would get any of those things from Sheffield’s family. The only reason they were trying to gain guardianship of the boy was on account of his money and his lands.

  Fear froze her throat, and for a moment she couldn’t swallow. As Peregrine smiled and bit into one of the freshly baked pastries, she turned away, hoping to hide her worries. Lud, she was really in no mood for making a reentry into Society. Amid the gaiety and glitter of the evening, she would be like… a fish out of water. Especially if Hadley chose to plunge headlong into some new scandal.

  However, Ciara reminded herself that she had survived far worse than a London ball. Be damned what the ton whispered behind her back. Sticks and stones could break her bones, but words could never hurt her…

  Now, if only there were a grain of truth to the old adage.

  “You look bored.”

  Lucas glanced up from his half-empty glass.

  “I had heard you were rusticating in the country for a bit.” Lord James Jacquehart Pierson—known to his friends as “Black Jack” on account of his shoulder-length raven hair and olive complexion—flopped into one of the leather armchairs and signaled to the club porter for another bottle of brandy. “What happened—did the fountains all dry up in Kent?”

  He gave a gruff grunt. Would those particular jokes never evaporate?

  “Or have you plans to make another splash in Town?” Jack propped his boots on the brass fender and lit a cheroot. “Whatever you have in mind, count me in. It’s been dull as dishwater around here.”

  “Stubble the witticisms, Jack. Lest you wish to be fishing your teeth out from the bottom of the Serpentine.”

  “In a foul humor, are we?” Jack blithely ignored the warning. “What’s dampened your enthusiasm for fun—other than a pair of black and blue cods?”

  His answering oath would have made a sailor blush.

  “Oh, very well. We’ll paddle along to another subject.” Blowing out a plume of smoke, Jack offered a refill of brandy. “Or perhaps you would prefer whisky. Did you know the word derives from Scotch Gaelic?” His friend paused ever so slightly. “Uisge beatha means water of life.”

  “My, my, aren’t you a font of knowledge.” Lucas set aside his drink and flexed a fist. “A pity your brain will soon be taking a bath in the club’s punch bowl.”

  Jack chuckled. “Cry peace, Hadley. I promise to put a cork in it for the moment.”

  He slouched back in his seat. “You damn well better.”

  “Don’t be a prig. Things have been sadly flat around Town, especially with Sandhurst away in Scotland on his honeymoon.” Jack stared morosely into his brandy. “He returned yesterday, but he’s so besotted with his bride, he has no interest in making the rounds of the gaming hells in St. Giles.” His mouth pursed in a wry grimace. “Not that I blame him. Lady Olivia would tempt any man to settle down.”

  “Settle down?” growled Lucas. “Good God, what a depressing thought.”

  His friend’s expression brightened considerably. “That’s the spirit. I knew I could count on you to be hell-bent for some fun. Tomorrow evening, there’s going to be a special high-stakes game of vingt-un at the Wolf’s Lair. And from there we’ll move on to a charming little bordello that I have discovered in Southwark. The girls—”

  “Sorry,” interrupted Lucas. “I have a previous engagement.”

  Jack flicked a bit of ash into the hearth. “The more, the merrier. Bring your current lady along. In my experience, they often find a naughty adventure exhilarating.”

  “This one won’t.” Realizing that he was sounding awfully sardonic for a man about to announce his betrothal, Lucas added, “She’s not… that sort of lady.”

  Frowning, Jack drew in a mouthful of smoke and spirits before letting out a rumbled laugh. “Damnation, you had me fooled for a moment.” The sound grew louder. “You with a respectable female? What a bouncer!”

  Lucas didn’t crack a smile. “Actually, it’s true. I am engaged to escort Lady Ciara Sheffield to the Countess of Saybrook’s ball.”

  The ensuing paroxysm of coughing woke up the elderly gentleman napping in a nearby chair.

  “Harrumph. You young men should switch to a mild Virginian tobacco if you can’t stomach Indian cheroots.”

  Jack sputtered an apology before turning back to Lucas. “Your wits must have been left permanently waterlogged by your latest stunt.”

  “Jack…” warned Lucas.

  “Nothing else could explain this sudden delusion.”

  “Delusion?” repeated Lucas.

  “That you somehow fell into a baptismal font and emerged a saint.”

  “You think I am not capable of change?” Lucas was beginning to enjoy seeing his friend’s agitation. Simply to annoy him he added, “Perhaps I am ready to shed my old skin.”

  “Pollywogs turn into frogs, not princes,” muttered Jack.

  Lucas lifted his glass and swirled the brandy. Firelight winked through the cut crystal, turning the amber spirits into a shimmering vortex of liquid gold. It stirred a sudden recollection of Lady Sheffield’s glorious hair, alive with highlights of copper and sunshine…

  “Damn it, Lucas.” His friend shook his head. “Are you demented? Deranged?”

  “I’m perfectly sane,” he replied.

  “Then listen to reason! Steer clear of any involvement with the Wicked Widow. Need I remind you that her first husband ended up dead?”

  The sneering remark brought to mind Ciara’s vulnerable face, her gaze shaded with fear…

  His grip tightened on the glass. She was all alone, and yet she had the courage to stand up to the vicious gossip and nasty rumors. Damnation—she deserved more than scorn. She deserved someone to come to her defense.

  “From what I have heard, it’s a wonder she didn’t kill him sooner.”

  “Ye gods.” Jack refilled his glass. “Why her when you have your choice of any number of willing wenches?”

  “Maybe I’m attracted to her mind,” drawled Lucas. “My uncle has nothing but the highest praises for her intellect.”

  His friend snorted in disgust. “Since when have you favored a female’s brain over her body?”

  “Have you met Lady Sheffield?” he asked, unwilling to admit that he did find her intelligence intriguing.

  His friend shook his head. “Like the Grim Reaper, she seems to live in the shadows.”

  A smug smile crept to his lips. “Well, I assure you, beneath her black shroud is more than skin and bones.”

/>   “Because she feeds on the blood of her victims.” Jack exaggerated a ghoulish grimace. “I still don’t understand—why go out of your way to seduce a suspected murderess…” He thought for a moment, and then his expression brightened. “A wager—tell me it’s on account of a wager.”

  “You know very well that a gentleman does not discuss his relations with a lady in public,” replied Lucas. “Code of honor.”

  “Mad, Bad Had-ley lecturing me on morality? Someone must have spiked my cigar with opium.”

  His friend’s unrelenting sarcasm was beginning to rub him a little raw. “Are you implying that I’m not a gentleman?”

  A bark of laughter jabbed deeper. “No, I’m not implying it—I’m saying it straight to your face.”

  “Damn it, Jack, that’s unfair,” said Lucas defensively. “I’ve never cheated at cards or reneged on my vowels. And you know that my word is good as gold.”

  His friend shrugged. “Of course I’m not questioning your honor among your peers. But as for your antics in Polite Society… Hell, Lucas, your name has become a byword for bad behavior. Admit it—you are a rake who takes great glee in thumbing his nose at the rules.” Jack flicked the butt of his cheroot into the fire. “Not that there’s anything terribly wrong with that. All your friends consider you a capital fellow. But in a pinch, you would hardly be the first man I’d want to depend on.”

  Bloody hell. Lucas took a long swallow of brandy. And then another. What a sobering sketch of his character.

  Jack reached for the bottle and refilled their drinks. “You are looking a little green around the gills. Dare I hope you are having second thoughts about taking the plunge with the Wicked Widow?”

  Lucas didn’t answer.

  His friend arched a questioning brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken offense at my words. If I’ve been blunt, it’s only for your own good.”

  He forced a sardonic grin. “Don’t worry. It’s not as if I haven’t heard the lectures before.”

  “Then cry friends and come along with me to Southwark tonight. I know where we can find some very pretty whores who will make you forget all about Lady Sheffield.”

  “You go on,” he said softly, unsettled by the conflicting urges to be both noble and naughty. “Perhaps I’ll join up with you later.”

  “You are ill.” Jack gave him a fishy stare. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep. I shall save you a seat at the gaming table tomorrow night. Play will be for high stakes—it promises to be an interesting interlude.”

  “As I said, I’ve already given my word to escort Lady Sheffield to the ball tomorrow night,” replied Lucas. “And much as it might surprise you, I intend to honor it.”

  Jack expelled a long-suffering sigh. “Well, it’s your funeral.” Rising, he drained the dregs from his glass. “I’m off to Cupid’s Cave.” He hesitated a fraction before flashing a parting grin. “I shall leave you to sink or swim on your own.”

  Lucas swore a silent oath at his friend’s retreating rump.

  Save for the cracking coals and an occasional snore, the reading room was quiet as a crypt. Lucas shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mood growing more on edge as he mulled over the conversation. It seemed that his recent soggy slip had turned his whole world upside down. Forced to look at himself from a new perspective, he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw.

  Damn. He closed his eyes and touched his fingertips to his throbbing temples. His head ached, and the brandy had left a stale taste in his mouth. Maybe he was sick.

  Or perhaps the widow’s kiss had possessed a potent poison after all. That would account for the strange shivers of fire and ice that took hold of him whenever he thought of her. And for the temporary insanity of agreeing to all her terms.

  Starting tomorrow…

  No, he wouldn’t think about the consequences of his actions. He had always lived for the present, so why change now?

  Raising his glass, he mouthed a silent toast to his real self. Mad, Bad Had-ley. A man who knew how to have a good time.

  It was all very well to feel a twinge of sympathy for Lady Sheffield, but he owed no real allegiance to her. Some faraway time in the future he might be caught in the Parson’s Mousetrap, but for now, it was all a sham. He was still free to do exactly as he pleased.

  Pushing back from his chair, Lucas hurried for the door, hell-bent to catch up with Jack and have some fun.

  Chapter Eight

  The townhouse torchières were ablaze, the golden flames casting a pattern of dancing shadows across the pale Portland stone. Turning up the collar of her cloak to ward off the evening breeze, Ciara stepped down from the earl’s carriage, glad that the dark velvet hid her face from the other guests for a few moments longer.

  All too soon she would be bared for all to ogle. The Wicked Widow in the flesh. No doubt her presence would stir a swirl of lurid speculation. She shivered, wishing she could turn and slink off into the darkness.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Lucas tightened his hold on her arm. “Nervous?” he asked.

  “A little,” she admitted.

  “Don’t be,” came his whispered reply. “All eyes will be drawn to you—”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered.

  “On account of your beauty, grace, and regal bearing,” continued Lucas smoothly. “You are looking exceeding lovely tonight, Lady Sheffield. You should always wear that shade of indigo blue. It sets off your golden hair and ivory skin to perfection.”

  The earl was, of course, a practiced flirt, but his flatteries helped her relax as they passed through the portico and into the entrance hall.

  “Though of course,” he added in an exaggerated whisper, “I would prefer to see you wearing nothing at all.”

  “Shhhh.” Ciara slanted a swift look around as a footman approached to take her wrap. Oh, Lud, she had forgotten how very grand and glittering these gatherings were. The sparkle of the ornate cut-crystal chandelier seemed to magnify the splendor of guests making their way across the checkered marble tiles. For an instant, it all ran together in a blur of sumptuous color—the costly jewels and colorful silks of the ladies, punctuated by the elegant black-and-white formality of the gentlemen. Pomp and polish, privilege and pedigree.

  Propriety.

  What a fool she had been to think this charade might work. She felt like a drab sparrow amid all the brightly feathered finery. And beneath the peacock plumage, they were hawks at heart.

  Ready to eat her alive.

  Lucas leaned close, shielding her for a moment from the sidelong stares. “Smile, my dear,” he murmured. “In my experience, nothing stops the ton’s scrutiny better than to act as if you haven’t a care in the world.”

  Though her lips felt as if they were carved out of ice, Ciara forced them to curl upward.

  “That’s the spirit.” He placed her arm on his, a gesture that was strangely protective. “Another trick is to stare back and imagine them all naked.” He flashed a roguish wink. “You will find that quickly strips away their aura of smug superiority.”

  Despite her nervousness, Ciara had to choke back a laugh. Heavens, he was right. The short and stout dowager Duchess of Stamford did not appear nearly so intimidating without the armor of her gaudy gown and brilliant baubles.

  “Shall we go up and greet our hostess?” asked Lucas.

  Seeing that the curved staircase was already crowded with a long line of guests, Ciara was tempted to hang back. But on recalling the earl’s exhortation, she nodded. “Yes, go ahead and lead the lamb to slaughter,” she said under her breath.

  His light laugh tickled her cheek. “Trust me, you will find that most of these people are sheep in wolves’ clothing. Don’t let them frighten you.”

  Ciara let out her breath, surprised to find how much his banter helped relieve the tension. There was something to be said for humor…

  Lucas escorted her into the line and immediately began an amusing anecdote about the mansion’s history. That is, Ciara assum
ed it was entertaining. She caught only bits and snatches as she lowered her lashes and ventured another glance around at her surroundings.

  The architectural details were magnificent—the carved balusters, the ornate moldings, the decorative wall niches filled with exotic flowers. Equally impressive was the procession of ancestral portraits on the cream-colored walls. Peering down from their gilded frames, the Saybrook family looked to be a rather stiff-rumped lot, she observed. But then again, the starched ruffs and pinched corsets of Elizabethan times did not encourage any show of a smile. She could only hope that the current flesh-and-blood countess, a hostess noted for her style and wit, would be more welcoming.

  As for the other guests…

  Ciara was aware of the surreptitious scrutiny from all sides. She could feel the heat of the hurried looks against her bare arms, and could hear the whispers of silk and speculation. Wondering, no doubt, what had drawn the Wicked Widow from her lair.

  “Ah, Lord Hadley!”

  A throaty laugh from their hostess drew Ciara from her own inner musings.

  “How delightful to see you have returned to Town.” With a flourish, Lady Saybrook extended a gloved hand to Lucas. “Things have been sadly flat around here without you making a few waves,” she added.

  “My dear Alison, I shall try not to stir the waters tonight.”

  The countess winked. “It looks like you have already caused a tempest in a teapot—or rather the punch bowl.” Turning to Ciara, she flashed a warm smile. “How delightful to finally meet you, Lady Sheffield. I have heard so much about your scientific accomplishments.”

  “Y-you are too kind, Lady Saybrook,” stammered Ciara.

  “I fear you will find me a complete scatterbrain when it comes to scholarship, but I do love gardening.” The countess had raised her voice so that those nearby could hear every word. “So I do hope you will tell me about your latest work with medicinal herbs.”

  “Gladly,” she replied.

  “Excellent. Come sit with me at supper, if you please.” Lady Saybrook waved Lucas toward the dance floor with a flick of her fan. “Don’t keep her all to yourself, you naughty rogue.”