Page 1 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Chapter One

If Sybil Taunton had her way, she would have brought the entire building down until it was rubble.

Twice.

Three times, even.

Gentlemen’s clubs, as untouchable and ubiquitous as they were, deserved much worse than that. They sheltered men who dallied with other people’s lives with impunity. Viscounts, earls, marquesses. The dreaded dukes. Fortune hunters, rakehells.

Murderers.

She would have lit a match to every club on St. James Street, if she could.

That said, it was rather convenient to have most of her targets gathered in one place. As a member of the Spinster Society, Sybil often had occasion to take down the kind of unrepentant man who languished inside drinking port wine and gambling away their sister’s or daughter’s dowry. It certainly made it easier when she knew where to find them.

The club currently in question contained a betting book which Sybil wanted.

Needed.

Was absolutely going to claim for her own.

Naturally, women were not permitted inside the club.

Naturally, Sybil was not going to let that stop her.

The very idea.

She had not let storms or broken carriage wheels or being tossed into the Serpentine stop her. Nor being locked in the Marquess of Eastbourne’s cellar with several other women and chained to the wall. She was the only one with the dubious distinction of being chained to the wall—after she had tried to strangle one of the guards.

That she had been caught at all still rankled.

The fact that the marquess was found guilty, imprisoned, and stripped of his title was a balm. And no less than he deserved.

But that was ages ago.

Tonight, she was back in Mayfair, with the wealthiest and most powerful men in her sights and quite ready to topple them like toy soldiers. It was long past midnight, edging closer toward dawn. They were thoroughly in their cups, which was helpful. She might have waited for morning, when fewer members congregated, but it would be easier for someone to notice her then.

And it was so much more fun this way.

A challenge.

Not to mention that she had decided on her current course of action approximately twelve seconds ago.

She was not technically on assignment. Lady Priya Langdon, founder of the Spinster Society and general Keeper of Secrets, had suggested she take some time to rest after her ordeal at the Eastbourne estate.

Rest was boring.

And therefore detrimental to the soul, surely.

By the second day sleeping in late and drinking tea and wandering around Hyde Park, she was ready to chew the pretty silk paper right off the walls. Footraces against Peony helped. Practicing with the swords and the daggers kept in Spinster House’s converted ballroom was always invigorating.

But as much as she tried to exhaust herself, she fell into bed unable to sleep—or worse, unable to stop waking up in a sweat, the weight of the iron chain pressing into her ankle. The raw marks had mostly healed, though they left some scarring. Her ankle was perfectly functional. It was rather dramatic of her mind not to leave well enough alone.

And now here she was, a lady on St. James Street in the middle of the night. St. James was Not For Women. It was an unspoken decree handed down throughout Mayfair. It was a gentleman’s arena.

All of London was a gentleman’s arena.

England.