Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5)

by Grace Callaway

  “How could you bloody not know?” her sister snapped.

  “Because no one’s been interested in me before,” she said quietly. “Not truly.”

  Something flitted through Rosie’s eyes, but her chin remained lifted. “That doesn’t excuse what you did. You stole the man I love—”

  “Do you love him?” Polly studied her sister.

  “He’s handsome, rich, and a peer. Everything I wanted. I would have fallen in love with him eventually—if you hadn’t snatched him from under my nose!”

  Rosie’s words confirmed what Polly believed. And gave her courage to say what was in her heart.

  “I’m not trying to excuse my behavior. It was my fault for not sharing my feelings about the earl, confused as they were.” Releasing a breath, Polly went on, “But I didn’t take anything from you, Rosie, because the truth is he wasn’t yours to take. You may have been infatuated with him, but you don’t know him. Sinjin is more than a stepladder to social success; he deserves to be seen as more.” The truth flowed from her like water released from a valve. “I don’t know if he and I have a future together, but I’m going to stand by his side now. To help him through his present troubles because I believe in him—in the man he wants to be.”

  The room fell silent. Polly didn’t know what else to say. She’d let it all pour out in a way she’d never done before, and now there was nothing left for her to do. Except wait.

  “Get out,” Rosie said flatly. “I don’t want to see you or speak to you ever again.”

  Anguish gnarled her insides. Heat pushed behind her eyes, but she pushed it back.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Just go!”

  She did as her sister asked.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At one o’clock the following afternoon, Sinjin strode into Kent’s study. His gaze circled the room, noting the presence of the Strathavens and Kent before landing on Polly. Despite the undercurrent of tension in the room, the sight of her calmed him, his apprehension replaced by a swell of possessiveness.

  He’d never known that sense of… rightness about a woman before—hell, about anything in his life. When he’d proposed to her, he’d done so on blind instinct, with a gut-deep hope that somehow he could make a marriage work. But then she’d told him the kind of union she wanted, and the truth had struck him: she was exactly what he needed and never thought he could find.

  A gently bred lady who saw him as more than a fashionable catch. A sweet wanton who aroused both his body and his mind, showing him pleasure unlike any he’d experienced before… and he hadn’t even had her yet. In truth, everything with her felt new and different, giving rise to a heretofore dormant sense of optimism: could his future be better than his past?

  Although he didn’t fully comprehend the reasons behind her need for privacy, he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, it made her the perfect match for him. They would have passion and, he hoped, a kind of… friendship.

  I believe you. Her three simple words had rocked him to the core.

  But he would have to have a plan for when his devils attacked, to shield her from who he became under their influences. The black devil was the lesser of his worries. In the past, women were drawn to him in this state: his euphoric energy and neck-or-nothing confidence, his insatiable sexual appetite. When the pendulum swung in this direction, he could fuck for hours—couldn’t get enough—and his gut told him that, with Polly, this would not be a problem.

  Hell, she’d come twice with him in the carriage, fully clothed. Imagining what he could do to her naked in a bed, he’d had to relieve himself several times last night. Even so, seeing her now, with her plump coral lips and big kitten eyes, he felt a hot stirring in his blood.

  He would still have the blue devil to contend with, but for that he could fall back on their agreement about privacy. The freedom for each to do as he or she wished with no questions asked. Thus, when his spirits took that despicable plunge, he would retreat somewhere—an apartment he could keep for such purposes. He would commit to going there if he was low… or if his high turned to ill-temper. He wouldn’t emerge until he was himself again. He’d make sure she never saw him at his pathetic worst.

  As long as he kept Polly’s expectations low and his devils hidden, there was no reason why he couldn’t make a go of marriage with her. Of course, he had to convince her family that he would make a worthy husband and hence his presence in Kent’s study.

  Judging from his future in-laws’ expressions, he realized the task would not be easy. Kent stood, glowering at him behind his desk. The Strathavens flanked Polly, the duchess beside her on the settee, the duke posted like a sentinel behind the ladies.

  Whether they liked it or not, Sinjin was going to make Polly his; for her sake, however, he would prefer their blessing. It was clear that she shared close relationships with her kin, and he didn’t want her to feel the strain of opposing loyalties.

  He bowed. “Thank you all for seeing me.”

  “Polly told us you would be calling.” Kent’s scowl conveyed his feelings about the visit. “You’ll understand why I am not best pleased to learn of your escapade with my sister yesterday.”

  The man didn’t know the half of it. Polly had said that she would tell her brother about her meeting with Nicoletta but not the rest of what had transpired—thank God. Heat crept up beneath Sinjin’s collar. He’d never gone courting before, hadn’t imagined he would need more than his title and wealth to recommend him. But Kent clearly saw through those trappings, and Sinjin felt like a schoolboy called to the carpet by an exacting schoolmaster.

  As he fumbled for an excuse, Polly spoke up.

  “As I explained, it wasn’t Lord Revelstoke’s fault,” she said steadfastly. “He didn’t know that I intended to interview Miss French. I did that all on my own.”

  “You were alone with him in his carriage,” her brother bit out.

  “The earl was only trying to protect me. Get me to safety,” she insisted.

  Her defense of him affected him the way her belief in him had. It was like being struck by a blast of sunshine during a rain shower: unexpected and stunning, its warmth glimmered through him. Save his brother, no one had ever stood up for him, and she was certainly the first female to do so.

  Yet as much as he savored his kitten’s loyalty, he was a man who could speak for himself.

  “Sir, I regret the circumstances that brought Miss Kent and I together,” he said, “but I do not regret the consequences. She came to my aid when no one else would, and you may rest assured that I will do right by her.”

  “You embroiled my sister in your affairs. You’ve compromised her.” Kent’s palms slammed onto his desk, and he leaned forward, his expression foreboding. “How the devil will you rectify that?”

  “By requesting your permission to court her.”

  “You want to court my sister?”

  “I want to marry her, actually. But she wanted more time to be certain of her feelings.” He nodded at Polly, who was blushing, looking so damned adorable that he ached. “Although the circumstances of how I met your sister are admittedly less than fortuitous, I give you my word as a gentleman that my intentions are honorable. I will woo her until she consents to be my wife.”

  He directed the last part at Polly. Despite her stated ambivalence about their future, she was looking at him as if he could hang stars in the sky for her. He wanted her to look at him thus always. Beside her, the duchess let out a heartfelt sigh.

  “Out of the question.” Kent’s peremptory tone dispelled the moment. “You are not wooing, much less marrying, my sister.”

  Sinjin wasn’t surprised by Kent’s stance, nor was he cowed by it. “I am, sir, unless she tells me no. Even then, I will move heaven and earth to convince her to be mine.”

  “How romantic,” Her Grace whispered to Polly. “Strathaven was the same way, you know.”

  Behind his wife, His Grace aimed his gaze to the ceiling.


  “Need I remind you, Revelstoke,” Kent went on grimly, “that you stand accused of a heinous crime. In all good conscience, I cannot allow my sister to be associated with a man who is quite possibly a brute.”

  A muscle leapt in Sinjin’s jaw. He might deserve Kent’s righteous scorn, but he wasn’t a fellow used to standing down to anyone. As he struggled to control his rising temper, Polly popped up from the settee and came to his side, so that they faced her brother together.

  “That is why you must help clear his name, Ambrose,” she said earnestly, “because he didn’t commit that crime. As I told you earlier, I am absolutely certain Miss French was lying. You know you can trust me on this.”

  Evidently, Kent took uncommon stock in his youngest sister’s judgement, for he said in terse tones, “Be that as it may, he’s still not good enough for you. He is the architect of his own troubles. You know his reputation. And the fact that he was at that den of iniquity in the first place—”

  “I’m sure Strathaven was no stranger to such places before our marriage,” the duchess chimed in. “And look at him now.”

  “Why am I being dragged into this?” the duke said, raising a brow.

  His lady twisted around to look at him. “Because you were a rake just like Revelstoke here, and look how well you turned out.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” The duke’s gaze dropped to her throat, and he slipped a finger beneath her choker of pearls, the touch more than a little proprietary. He smiled faintly. “I couldn’t have done it without your reformatory efforts, pet.”

  Color stole up the duchess’ cheeks. “Nonsense, you were always a good man. You just needed the right motivation to change your ways. And the earl appears to be in much the same situation.”

  Sinjin didn’t know what to make of the fact that Her Grace apparently was taking his side. He cast a questioning look at Polly; she gave him a small smile in return.

  “You cannot be serious, Emma,” Kent protested.

  “I am,” the duchess replied. “Recall how you didn’t approve of Strathaven, either, and yet he’s turned out to be the best of husbands. Why shouldn’t Revelstoke be given the same chance to prove his worth? He seems to be genuine in his suit, and Polly believes him.” Her brows lifted with a significance that Sinjin didn’t fully understand. “Of all of us, Polly is the most equipped to judge true from false—and to make decisions about her own future.”

  Looking disgruntled, Kent crossed his arms over his chest. “I cannot condone our youngest sister being involved with a man with Revelstoke’s past—and that’s to say nothing of his present troubles.”

  “I’m hiring Runners,” Sinjin intervened swiftly. “To look into the clue that Pol—I mean, Miss Kent, found. Thanks to her ingenuity, we now have reason to believe that Nicoletta French has a connection to…”—he darted a glance at Her Grace—“a theatre. Of sorts.”

  He had no problem being frank, but the last thing he wanted was to offend the one member of Polly’s family who was championing his cause. Nor did he think that Strathaven would take well to his bringing up a brothel poorly disguised as a theatre in front of the duchess.

  “Oh, we’re familiar with The Cytherea,” Her Grace said cheerfully. “We’ve been there.”

  Sinjin’s brows shot up, his gaze veering to Strathaven.

  “Be forewarned, my lord,” the duke said wryly. “Marrying a Kent is not for the faint-hearted.”

  “Pish posh. You know I did a marvelous job interviewing that actress at The Cytherea when we were busy clearing your name.” Turning to Sinjin, Her Grace added, “As to Runners, we’ll not hear of it. This matter concerns your future, which now concerns Polly’s future, and therefore the future of this family. No one but the best will do. Which is why Ambrose will take on the case himself, won’t he? With my assistance, of course.”

  “You’ve always said that everyone is deserving of justice, Ambrose,” Polly put in. “Surely you cannot stand by and let a man you know to be innocent be accused of a crime he did not commit? Whoever concocted this reprehensible plan may have other schemes planned against him. You must help him. Please—for my sake.”

  Kent’s mien was one of aggrieved resignation. Sinjin even felt empathy for the man. It couldn’t be easy being faced with those wide-eyed feminine pleas.

  “Bloody hell.” The investigator dropped into his chair. To no one in particular, he muttered, “Why couldn’t I have had brothers?”

  “You have Harry, and he’s more trouble than us by far,” Her Grace said.

  “My brother Harry is a genius and a scientist, but he has a penchant for blowing things to smithereens,” Polly said in an undertone.

  Sinjin wondered why she didn’t seem like she was jesting.

  “Thank you, Ambrose,” Polly went on softly. “And you as well, Emma.”

  Her sister beamed; her brother just shook his head.

  “Now that that’s settled, we ought to work out a plan of attack,” the duchess said.

  Kent drummed his fingers on the desk. “At this point, we have naught but hunches concerning Miss French. We need evidence of her true identity before we consider other suspects. The place to begin the search appears to be The Cytherea.”

  “No time like the present,” Her Grace said. “Shall we take your carriage or ours?”

  “I’m coming too,” Polly said.

  “I appreciate the offer, sweeting, but The Cytherea is no place for you,” Sinjin countered.

  “On this, we agree,” Kent declared.

  “Polly could prove useful.” Her Grace delivered a meaningful look to her brother. “After all, she’s the one who discovered the connection to The Cytherea. Strathaven and I will escort her.”

  “I won’t be any trouble at all,” Polly promised, “and I’ll be perfectly safe with all of you present. Please. Let me help.”

  She turned big, beseeching eyes first to her brother, then to Sinjin. God help him, Sinjin couldn’t be the one to refuse her. Besides, everyone in that room would protect her—he, himself, would do so to his dying breath.

  “Fine. Polly goes with Em and Strathaven. The earl,”—Kent jerked his chin in Sinjin’s direction—“rides with me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Descending from the carriage, Polly spotted Sinjin and Ambrose standing at the entrance of a rickety building. Over their heads, a painted sign boldly proclaimed, “Welcome to The Cytherea: Where Every Performance Guarantees a Happy Ending.”

  Polly hurried over, accompanied by Em and the duke.

  “There’s an entrance around the corner,” His Grace said. “It’ll take us directly backstage.”

  “Lead the way,” Ambrose said.

  As they all moved on, Polly whispered worriedly to Sinjin, “How was the ride over with Ambrose?”

  “You’ve heard of the Spanish Inquisition?” came the wry reply.

  “Oh no. I’m so sorry—”

  “Kitten, I’m teasing. Be at ease.”

  Searching his vivid midnight blue gaze and aura, she saw that he was teasing. Partly, anyway, for faint annoyance did speckle his glow.

  “Did Ambrose ask a lot of intrusive questions?” she said.

  “He asked me questions that any good brother would ask. In his shoes, I’d do the same.”

  “Thank you for understanding,” she said softly.

  “You’re welcome. Thank you for believing in me.”

  Basking in the warmth of his regard, she returned his words. “You’re welcome.”

  His lips formed an almost boyish curve. He was always handsome, but when he smiled at her this way, his mouth a gentle contrast to the wicked slash of his cheekbones and hard line of his jaw, he was undoubtedly the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm and guided her through the entryway, bending his head to avoid the low-hanging beam.

  Inside, her eyes slowly adjusted to the windowless gloom. She saw a host of cluttered vanities, dark islands around which some dozen or so ac
tresses gathered. The women were laughing and chatting as they primped themselves in the cracked looking glasses, their auras flittering around them like bright butterflies.

  Polly’s eyebrows rose at the cast’s skimpy attire. Most of the ladies wore short filmy robes, paint… and very little else. She glanced at Sinjin to gauge his response.

  He was scanning the crowd impatiently. “Who should we talk to first, I wonder?”

  “Well, knock me down with a feather! If it isn’t my fair lady.” A bespectacled blond fellow came rushing over, and, to Polly’s surprise, stopped before Emma. His waistcoat was ink-stained and his cravat raggedy, but he made a leg with remarkable flourish. “Miss Kent, how smashing of you to pay me another visit,” he said with a dazzling smile.

  “She’s the Duchess of Strathaven now.” His Grace came to stand behind Em, his icy green gaze narrowed on the newcomer’s face.

  The blond fellow’s enthusiasm dimmed. “Oh… you brought him back as well.”

  “Everyone, this is Mr. Dunn,” Em said briskly. “He’s the resident playwright, and we made his acquaintance during the course of another case. Mr. Dunn, I’m afraid we need your help again.”

  “I live to be of service to you, lovely lady,” the playwright declared.

  From the look on her brother-in-law’s face, Polly predicted that if Mr. Dunn continued in this vein, his days of being of service would be numbered.

  She spoke up hastily. “Mr. Dunn, we’re looking for information concerning Nicoletta French. We believe she may have some connection with this theatre.”

  The playwright’s bespectacled gaze shifted to her. He jolted as if struck by a thunderbolt.

  “You,” he breathed.

  “Um… pardon?”

  He advanced, stopping just short of her, and, to her shock, dropped down on one knee.

  “Daughter of Zeus, just look at your eyes,” he said ardently. “Erato, Calliope, Thalia—you are all the muses and more wrapped up in one divine package. You, fairest maiden, are the inspiration I have been searching for.”

  “Thought I were your inspiration, Dunny,” a blond actress called out good-naturedly.