Page 36 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Sybil stopped just short of rubbing her hands with glee. There was so much she could not do. She could not change Society’s mind. She could not stop thinking about Keir’s thighs and his green eyes and his soft-rough voice. But this was something she could do. Taking down an earl. She had done it before and she could do it again. “Is there a file on him?”

“Naturally.” It was like asking if it rained in England. Priya slid the papers toward Sybil. “Feel free to leave your own mark.”

“Even better.”

Nothing quite like a nefarious plot to make a woman feel like herself again.

“Try not to get captured this time,” Peony said.

Of course, friends had that effect as well.

“One time,” Sybil said, sighing.

Gaming hells, much like gentlemen’s clubs, did not admit women.

Well, ladies.

As Sybil was both not enough of a lady and too much of a lady, she probably could have snuck in.

But it was so much more fun to arrive as Lord Singleton.

She loved dressing as a young lord with a cravat and breeches. She had chosen an eye-watering chartreuse for her waistcoat, to draw the eye away from her face. Not that anyone here was likely to recognize her, even if half a dozen of them had spoken to her in the last month. For one thing, they were far too drunk to notice much of anything.

Sybil loved pretending to be Lord Singleton. She had created him for just this purpose—to cross the drawbridge of places she could not attend as a woman. As herself. Fortingham’s required membership, or she would have saved herself the social humiliation and stolen the betting book that way. But Lord Singleton could not apply for membership as he did not technically exist, nor did his viscount father living on the west coast of Ireland.

Still, Lord Singleton was very useful.

He could play vingt-et-un and billiards; he could walk wherever he wanted to without a companion. He could tell another gentleman to sod off. Which she did, with great enthusiasm, when he bumped into her on his way to the buffet table. She, in turn, bumped into a viscount and picked his pocket. Just for practice.

And fun.

Lord Singleton could also drink too much port (which she barely sipped and mostly spilled) and place wild wagers, all while egging on Lord Chiswick. The earl was repugnant. He had half a dozen bastards he did not support. It was a great pleasure to disrupt his plans and free Miss Maddox from his clutches, even if it meant choking on cheroot smoke and pretending to like port.

Say what you will, but the man could hold his liquor.

Regrettably.

She kept an eye on him as made a turn of the gaming rooms, ordering drinks for the others, playing a hand of vingt-et-un, beating Victor at billiards and grinning when he squinted as if he thought he recognized her from somewhere. More port wine.

How was it possible that Chiswick was not slumped over somewhere? The fumes coming from the man were enough to render her drunk just by standing downwind.

Still, she stayed close, trailing him from card table to sideboard—for roast lamb—and back to the tables. She bet against him at whist and lost.

Then she bet against him again and won. A lot.

Just to keep his attention.

He could not, under any circumstances, go home. Not yet. Not until his bride-to-be was safely elsewhere. But how did a man of his advanced years drink half a bottle of brandy in the time it took for another to drink a single glass and barely weave on his feet? Sybil was faintly queasy just looking at him. He was meant to be unconscious by now. Not looking bored as he wiped his mouth and tossed his cards down.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he asked.

“Another game?”

“I’ve played every game in here and won. Bah.” He stood up, motioning for his hat and coat. “Must get home. Getting married tomorrow, you know. A ripe little peach of a thing.”

That would not do.

“Congratulations!” Sybil said heartily, instead of gagging, which was very much what she wanted to do. Especially when several men shouted encouragement at him.