Page 2 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

The bloody world.

She would have this betting book. She would steal the secrets of the most powerful men in Mayfair. Tonight.

Right now.

In her fashionable dress and pelisse, with no regard for propriety. Nor the weather, which had decided on a cold drizzle but threatened to turn to ice with a moment’s notice. Extremely rude for early spring.

But a perfectly good reason to let a lady inside where it was warm and dry.

She was not exactly prepared. She could have dressed as a maid and slipped through the side entrance. Or as a man. She was improving in her application of false beards. She had picked up the trick of using spirit glue from an acrobat at Astley’s Amphitheatre.

None of which was helpful at the moment.

Sybil had a mad plan that was no plan at all, and the ability to cause unholy havoc.

Perfect.

Play to your strengths, as her mother was fond of saying. Of course, she generally applied it to social or political maneuvers, but never mind.

Sybil slipped inside the hallowed halls, which appeared to be like any other room in Mayfair: crowded, stuffy with smells of perfumes and cheroot smoke, wine spilled, candles guttering out. The mahogany wood panels were polished to a gleam, as were every pair of shoes in attendance. It was shiny, loud, extravagant.

There was a great deal of yelling coming from the room with the card tables—which she could not investigate beyond a glance, as the butler had planted himself in front of her with a sniff. “Courtesans must enter through the side door and be vetted.”

As an earl’s daughter—adopted daughter, technically—Sybil could have taken offense. Great offense. Or else she was supposed to pretend not to know what a courtesan was—even at the age of twenty-nine, having been born somewhere in the Seven Dials but brought up in Berkeley Square. She was supposed to pretend a lot of things.

“It’s raining,” she told the butler. “Drizzling, even. It’s very uncomfortable.”

He blinked at her.

She tilted her head. “I am sure you meant to offer a lady shelter in such inclement weather.” She loved the weather, actually. She liked the cold bite of the wind, the threat of a storm. Another thing she was supposed to pretend not to like.

“This is not appropriate,” the butler insisted, his voice squeaking slightly. He was very high in the instep—she could see that by the perfect press of his cravat, the furrow in his brow when he found a woman daring to infiltrate his domain. But he was also at a loss as to how to deal with a lady.

Also, he was very tall. She might not be able to take him in a fight.

On second thought, she could take most men of his kind in a fight. The element of surprise was always on her side.

New plan.

Did it count as a new plan if there was not one that preceded it?

A plan, then.

Because behind the butler with the flaring nostrils was the betting book. Leather-bound, opened on a table next to a cut crystal glass holding quills. The inkpot was gold and shaped like a lion.

And behind them both: Keir Montgomery, the Marquess Blackburn.

A man she could not take in a fight.

Well, a fair fight, anyway.

Sybil had no intention of playing fair. The odds were never even, the battlefield never forgiving. The enemy always had a pistol to her parasol. Parliament. The law. Social convention. She had learned that here in the glittering heart of posh London just as easily as she had in the Seven Dials rookery where she spent the first six years of her life.

Keir leaned against the wall near the staircase. His hair was too long as always, thick waves that touched his collar. He was too tall, too muscular, too imposing. Handsome was too plain a word for him. He was arresting. Interesting. Impossible to ignore.

More’s the pity.

She had been trying for years. They had been the best of friends as children and then strangers, and now… something else. Indefinable. Uncomfortable. Unwise to the extreme.