Page 34 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Chapter Eight

The next morning, Sybil joined the others for breakfast, where only half of a plum cake was set out among the sweet rolls and the toasted bread and coddled eggs. She did not feel the least bit guilty. Some nights called for cake. Even when she noticed the little note left by Mrs. Werthers, the cook. It read: Sybil Taunton, clean up your crumbs next time.

Priya drank tea while Peony spooned a truly indecent amount of raspberry preserves onto her bread. Her hair was damp. She always started the day with a swim, just as she ended it. Emmeline drank cup after cup of coffee with no food at all. Matilda mostly ate cheese. Sybil helped herself to eggs and roasted potatoes and a baked apple.

“Mrs. Werthers said you ate half a cake last night,” Priya said.

“Yes, and it was delicious,” Sybil replied.

“You only eat that much cake when there is a problem.”

“Not a problem. Only that someone tried to run me over with a carriage outside the Willoughby ball.” And Keir’s notes had reminded her too much of what used to be. “I decided I deserved cake.”

The others blinked at her. Matilda scowled. “So you did. That’s rather rude.”

“I thought so too. But I do not even have a turned ankle to show for it. A Spinster is made of sterner stuff than that.” She pushed a piece of chive around on her plate. “It could have been an accident. It probably was.”

“Did it feel like one?” Priya asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sybil admitted. “If it wasn’t, I assume it would be because of the betting book? A warning off from some lord with his wig all askew?” This was why Priya set the assignments and not the others. Sybil ought to have remembered that. Priya was careful. Methodical. Sybil was not. What had Keir called her once, when he climbed a tree to rescue her cat? Miss Menace.

Not the most flattering thing she had ever been called.

Not the worst, either.

“It has to be,” Emmeline said. “No one was keen on murdering you before.”

“Well, that’s not exactly true,” Priya said.

“Thank you for that,” Sybil muttered.

“I imagine they have been keen on murdering us for quite some time. It’s just as likely to be a result of any of a dozen things we have done, such as taking down the Marquess of Eastbourne. He no longer has his title, after all.”

“Good,” Sybil muttered. The shock of it had rippled through Mayfair.

“And Lord Portsmouth will hang.”

“That’s what you get for murdering your wives.”

“Lady Solomon. Viscount Churleigh.”

“The list is rather long,” Sybil admitted. “And good for us. But honestly, a carriage coming out of a dark and rainy night could easily be a coincidence.”

“I don’t like it,” Priya said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Be careful.”

“I always am.”

The resounding snorts of doubt from every other woman in the room was rather rude, actually.

Apt, she was forced to admit. But rude all the same.

“The betting book has been useful already.” Priya’s dark hair gleamed in the sun struggling to shine through the early spring clouds. Her smile was sharp. Smug.

“It has?” Relief had Sybil taking a too-large gulp of hot tea. “How so?”