Page 76 of The Scandalous Spinster

The marquis studied her face, trying to read her expression, but she had years of training in this particular field. He would see only what she allowed him to see: proper, plain Miss Vinegar, in over her head. Yes, the very one who did not recognize entertainment. Until it was too late.

The marquis’s hand was very good.

Hers was better.

He hissed a curse. Someone gasped as though they were at the theatre. Clara did not preen, though she dearly wanted to.

Very well, she preened a little. For the plan, of course. Not her own entertainment.

“The lady wins,” the dealer announced over the general commotion.

“Absurd,” the marquis bit out, temper flaring.

“The terms were set,” Devil said coldly from above them. The shadows hid his eyes, but his tone was clear enough. “You have until sunrise, Eastbourne, to bring me the papers.” A faint smile. “Well done, Lady Clara.”

Clara gathered her peacock pin and her diamond bracelet and the rest of her winnings, stuffing them into her reticule. It gave her the opportunity to make sure her other supplies were at hand. The spectators crowded in as the marquis made his displeasure known. Clara used the confusion of bodies and fans and elbows to slip further into the crowd.

Away from Bram.

“Clara!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Clara heard Bram shout her name and did not turn back, did not dare to even pause.

She could not afford to talk herself out of this mad plan. They had run out of time and options. Winning Heloise’s fortune did not do Heloise any good if they could not find her.

And Clara was certain they were here.

The mistakenly delivered trays, the secret passageway, the keys, the doves, the fact that Sybil had not made it to the next town.

And so Clara kept on, fleeing in her red dress, between the red frock coats, the red shawls, the red velvet tablecloths. She could lose herself, just for a moment. Just long enough.

There was movement behind her, someone scuffling with someone else. Bram was closing in; he must be. She ducked out of the main room, through the nearest billiards room, and down a hall lit with sconces. The sound of footsteps behind her. Not Bram.

A hand gripped her shoulder hard and dragged her around. One of the marquis’s men dressed as a footman. “You’re coming with us.”

“Unhand me.” Too much? Not enough. “How dare you.”

“Hurry up,” another footman snapped, hurrying their way. “Before that big ox of hers finds us.”

The grip on her bare shoulder was purposely too forceful. Clara’s misgivings turned into fear. She made sure they saw it, though it stung her pride.

As he dragged her down the hall, she struggled, scratching, flailing her limbs wildly, mostly to cover the fact that she had dug into her reticule. They took her down the stairs at the end of the hallway, where she dropped a red ribbon on the top step.

Through a forgotten door, out into the kitchen garden, where no one wandered at this hour.

Through the hedges, along the garden wall, past the door with the orchid.

Another red ribbon on a branch.

To another door set behind a tangle of lilac bushes.

Red ribbon, red ribbon. She scattered them like lampposts along St. James, pointing the way to the best clubs. All the way into the grotto, away from the flickering candlelight and the sounds of music and laughter from those enjoying alternate amusements, down to another warren of caves much less frequented. There were no statues here, no glass lamps, no tapestries to soften the damp.

Only stone and metal locks and a room filled with missing women.

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