Page 8 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

“She is not exactly a spinster. She is exceedingly popular and received seventeen marriage proposals this Season alone.”

“Ghastly.”

Sybil nudged her friend fondly. “Rather the point of a Season.”

Peony shuddered. “Dancing is enjoyable but completely ruined by men sweating on you and talking about the weather or explaining things to you which you already know.”

“They sweat on you because they can’t keep up with you. No one has your stamina.”

“They can’t keep up with you, either.”

“Yes,” Sybil admitted drily. “And it has not made me particularly popular, either.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

Her lack of dowry was the actual impediment. She could have galloped across a ballroom, swung from the chandelier, and trod on all of the ducal toes she wished, if only she had a large enough dowry. And it had driven her dancing instructor mad when she was a girl. The moment she picked up the steps, she was incapable of practicing them over and over again. What was the point when there were so many other things to do? He had prattled on about grace and elegance and perfection in one’s skill, but she had stopped listening before he had even begun.

That had not endeared her to future dance partners either, dowry or no dowry.

“Well, I am certain that Priya will enjoy combing through this,” Peony added.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, or the next day,” Sybil said.

“Are you not staying here? It’s late, even for us.”

She shook her head. She mostly lived at Spinster House, but it was her father’s birthday this week and the only gift he ever asked for was for her to spend it at home. She would sooner saw off her foot than disappoint him. Or her mother. They had taken her in, dirty and hungry, and then proceeded to immediately turn feral in her defense. She would not repay that kindness by adding even more chaos than she generally did just by existing. Best not to bring evidence into their house when she could avoid it. The book would stay here, and she would go home.

In the cold rain, still pelting down from the sky and still threatening to turn to ice.

Still, she was quite pleased with herself and the night’s work when she ducked down the laneway to the mews and the side door leading to the music room. Footmen lurked by the front door, waiting to open doors and take away wet clothes. The servant door led down to the kitchens and the storerooms, where there was always someone lingering, even at this hour. Sybil had long ago learned the trick of the music room door, as well as the lower left window, which she could unlock with a length of wire she kept in one of her many pockets. In a pinch, she could scale the trellis at the back of the house and pull herself over onto her bedroom balcony.

Which, apparently, was tonight’s route.

Someone had latched all of the doors and windows extra tight against the storm. Lightning flashed on wet window panes, the bent heads of shriveled roses in the gardens. It was unseasonably cold and damp for this kind of subterfuge, to be honest. She was already soaked through and shivering. Her nose was numb.

She loved it.

To a point.

A good thing, too, as she could see a footman passing through the house, candle glowing as he moved from room to room. A scullery maid would be up soon to light the fires. And although no one would be particularly shocked to see her climb through a window, the arrangement worked best when everyone could ignore her comings and goings. That way, no one had to talk to her parents about it (mortifying at her age) and her parents did not have to ask her any questions.

As another birthday present, she would not embarrass her gentle, kind father by making him ask her not to climb through windows in the middle of the night. He would worry. Her mother, just as kind but decidedly less gentle, would not ask. She would demand. Possibly with a sharp implement in hand.

The rookeries had taught her how to survive, and the Spinsters had armed her, but her mother was the one who taught her to stand her ground. And she would not let the Marquess of Eastbourne and the days she spent in his cellar take that from her. The fact that she hesitated briefly, wanting to simply sail through the side door and find her warm, dry bed, made it imperative that she scale the trellis instead.

It made perfect sense.

In her head.

She would not give in to fear. Or cold. Or memories of a cellar that in the light of day were not that terrible: she had not been alone, and they had all been fed and generally left on their own. She was the only one chained to the wall.

Sybil pulled a long leather lace from her pocket and tied it around her waist, tucking her skirts and cloak into it so it would not trip her up. Her fingers were already cramping with cold and her breath misted briefly in the air above her when she exhaled. A minor setback. She stepped up onto the decorative pedestal she had dragged into position months ago for this very purpose. She used it to reach the trellis and haul herself up, climbing swiftly. She had practiced in the Spinster ballroom for many hours. Peony had constructed a kind of obstacle course with a wall for scaling, which she delighted in pushing the members through until they cried. Or tried to strangle her.

Sybil had not cried, but she did try to strangle her.

Three times.

But it was worth it. She could climb like a cat, sure footed and nimble, even in the middle of a wet and unpleasant night. She was a little out of breath as she pulled herself over the balcony wall. She had not quite mastered the trick of doing it gracefully, it had to be said. There was a considerable amount of flailing and cursing. Her arms ached and her ankle was sore, but she felt better as she pushed into her bedchamber. More like herself.

Not at all like someone whose chattering teeth were causing distress. She was made of sterner stuff than that. She had once fallen through the ice on the edge of the Serpentine in January.

This was nothing.

Her chamber was familiar, the coals died down to red hearts in the grate, the smell of candles and flowers in the air. Her trunk at the foot of the bed. A bowl of yellow lilies, because they were her favorite when she was seven and her father insisted they should always be on her writing desk.

Everything as it should be.

Except for the large man lurking in the shadows.