Page 23 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Chapter Six

Just because she was a spinster long on the shelf and about to embarrass herself at the Willoughby ball did not mean that Sybil had to look the part. So if she washed her hair three more times than was necessary to scrub away the last of the tea-stain hue, that was perfectly within her rights.

And if she wondered if Keir would notice, it was no one else’s business.

Also, utterly ridiculous.

Because it was not her business either.

He was not her business.

He was not the boy who had met her at the gap in the garden wall to share sweets and secrets and a laugh, that surprised, rusty laugh of his, which only too seldom made an appearance. He was not the boy who had broken another boy’s nose for calling Sybil a guttersnipe. Or the boy who had taught her a secret language using the light of a lantern, such as smugglers were said to use in Cornwall.

He was not a boy at all, of course. He was a man grown, more solemn and serious with each and every day.

Except for those brief moments that took them both over. A collision, a conflagration. It made her miss him all the more. Made her crave him with every fiber of her being. The girl from the gutter and the marquess.

It did not matter. The girl from the gutter was a little busy at present.

She did not have time to replay the way he had groaned into her neck, the play of the blue light from the fireworks on his cheekbones. The way her body came alive for him, each and every time.

Willoughby House was lit from top window to kitchen cellar, golden light spilling over the bare rosebushes, the slender trees shining like swords in the cold mist. The heavy London fog settled low, thick and smoky, as coal fires were lit against the unseasonable chill. The wheels of carriages echoed behind her as Sybil made her way between the lit torches.

She stepped inside and handed her cloak to a footman but ducked down the hall, away from the ballroom and the master of ceremonies waiting to announce the guests. The house simply sparkled: the polished marble floors under her dancing slippers (her toes were already cold), the crystal beads of the chandeliers overhead, the ornate gilt frames showing off paintings of generations of family spaniels. And one cow roughly the size of a barn. Hothouse lilies stood sentry, perfuming the air so thickly that she coughed a little as she made her way to the ladies’ retiring room.

It was too early in the evening for the ladies to crowd inside for a rest between dancing sets, or to fix a dropped hem. Sybil ducked behind the painted screens used to give some privacy to the row of chamber pots. There were baskets of cloths, perfume, a washstand with jasmine-scented soap.

Sybil unrolled the notices she had tucked inside her reticule. This was not her usual work for the society, but as she was here anyway, she may as well make herself useful. Her friend Clara used to do this before she married a retired captain and moved to the seaside. They had many secret members, who would never be associated with the society and therefore could work covertly for these sorts of things.

Sybil was not such a member.

At least not in London. Not in Mayfair. Not anymore.

She pinned the papers to the fabric at the back of the folding screen: the names of men who ought to be avoided for a woman’s own safety, and proof of their transgressions. Fortune hunters who pretended they were well-to-do. Widowers whose wives had died under mysterious circumstances. How to procure certain teas and tinctures. Midwives who did not judge or ask too many questions. A hastily scrawled drawing of how to use a hatpin to do as much damage with as little force as necessary.

More information than the Bow Street Runners could gather. Sybil felt more than a bit smug about that, actually.

She was still smirking when she slipped into the ballroom.

And nearly collided with Lady Pontefract.

And her daughter.

Sybil was going to have to eat crow with a serving of humble pie for dessert.

Lovely.

“You!” Lady Pontefract all but screeched. Her brown ringlets bobbed with outrage. Guests glanced in their direction, eager for more gossip.

Sybil kept her smile in place. “Lady Pontefract, I understand that you are upset.”

“Upset?”

“Maman, please,” Lady Violetta said. She was tall and slender and beautiful. Her smile was genuine, soft. A little bit desperate. She did not appear to care for the attention.

“I assure you this is all a misunderstanding,” Sybil continued soothingly. “Which I will make clear with all alacrity, I promise you. In the meantime, it can only help that we are seen to be friendly and unaffected, don’t you think?”

Lady Pontefract paused.