A Woman Made for Sin (27 page)

“She did not leave directly for London. A week ago, she left for Gent Manor to visit
a friend. She was to depart from there.”

Chase took the glass of port being handed to him and followed his father-in-law’s
guidance, downing it in one swallow. It stung the back of his throat, but it helped
to revive his body, which had temporarily gone numb.

Millie was at Jennelle’s. Jennelle had told him that she believed Aimee to be with
Reece, and must have convinced Millie of the same. That left Chase as the sole topic
of their conversations. And Jennelle had been so angry at his treatment of Millie
that he would not be surprised to learn it was she—not Millie—behind his wife’s silence.

“Aldon, I had intended to leave this afternoon for Dorset, but those plans have obviously
changed. Do you mind if I stay and leave in the morning?”

“Think that would be best. You are going to need a good night’s sleep before you tackle
what awaits you in Tarrant Crawford.”

Chase had little expectation of sleeping much, but his father-in-law was correct.
Tomorrow was going to be a long day of dealing with two angry women, but he would
recover. And most importantly, he would recover in the loving arms of his wife.

“Clive, I need a glass of the Glenturret,” Millie said, trying to keep her voice low
enough that only Clive would hear.

She looked back over her shoulder and sighed in relief as the second-to-last group
of men rose to their feet and left the tavern. The remaining lot continued their focus
on Bessie, who in turn focused solely on them in an effort to elicit a higher tip.

Clive slid a glass toward her and Millie cringed as she lifted it to inspect it. “Do
you own any glasses that do not endanger men when they drink from them?” she asked,
pointing to a chip in the side that looked exceedingly sharp and hazardous.

Clive gave her what he hoped to be a menacing glare and snatched the glass from her
hand. He poured the contents into another glass and shoved it back toward her. “Here.”

Millie’s eyes stared at the obvious dirty smudge marks. Then with a small shrug, she
offered him a sweet smile that caused Clive to smile back before he realized what
he was doing. Millie then turned and caught Devlin openly studying her. Refusing to
act flustered under his open stare, she walked over to where he sat and handed him
his drink.

Devlin took it and placed it on the small table to his left. “Why don’t you bring
another drink over and join me?” he said, waving his hand to one of the empty chairs.
“I’ll cover the expense with Clive.”

Millie looked longingly at the empty chairs haphazardly scattered about her. Her feet
hurt and the idea of sitting down, even for a few minutes, was very appealing. Even
the idea of a drink sounded good. From the moment they knew it was forbidden, she
and Aimee and Jennelle had snuck down to their fathers’ studies to drink scotch, brandy,
and even gin. Millie had done so out of principle, Aimee had asserted it was to understand
her dear Reece better, and Jennelle had proclaimed her actions to be in the interests
of research. But whatever the reason, they all continued sneaking tastes whenever
they could, until one day they realized they were not only acquainted with the flavors—they
enjoyed them.

“Sit,” Devlin softly ordered. “It’s uncomfortable watching a woman make love with
her eyes to a piece of furniture instead of me.”

Flames erupted in Millie’s purple gaze as it snapped to his, but she clamped her lips
closed just in time. Instead of lecturing him on the improprieties of making vulgar
comments to women, she marched over and grabbed the back of the nearest chair and
turned it so that it was close to Devlin’s, facing the fire.

Devlin chuckled as he watched her gracefully sink onto the hard surface. Under his
breath, he said, “Try slouching a little.”

Millie shot him another glare as she quickly caught his meaning. Just as she had deduced
his background, he suspected hers. And now he was baiting her. With a slight raise
to her right brow, she gave him a long, steady look. Then she reached down, pulled
up the hem of her dress, and gave in to the urge to massage her calves and ankles—something
no proper woman would ever do. Millie was lost to the sensation for several minutes,
only to have her annoyance renewed at finding Devlin grinning at her when she at last
reopened her eyes.

“You definitely need a drink,” Devlin said firmly as he shifted in his seat in an
effort to rise.

Millie eyed the pale liquid in the filthy glass on the table next to her and shook
her head. “No, thank you, Mr. MacLeery. The glass is unclean.”

Devlin sat back and gave her a saucy grin, amused by her propriety. “Take it. It’s
yours. I still have a bit left of this one to enjoy,” he said, lifting another semi-full
glass and swirling it around.

Millie smiled back, realizing that Devlin was assuming that she was curious, not knowledgeable
about the taste of whiskey. She glanced at the drink but unable to help herself, she
wrinkled her nose once more at the dirty glass.

“Ah, lass, that only adds to the earthy taste of a good scotch.”

Millie’s gaze shifted from the scotch to Devlin. He was toying with her. His eyes
were a much more brilliant shade of green than she had previously realized. With his
dark features and austere countenance, he was not a pretty man, but she suspected
he could attract practically any of her sex without much effort. Oh, yes, he was definitely
playing with her. Why, she did not know, but it removed all guilt about her decision
to try to pry information out of him.

Millie picked up the glass and held it for a moment before saying, “A drink for a
question.”

Devlin sat back and intertwined his fingers. “I agree,” he said readily.

To Millie, too readily, but nevertheless, she lifted the glass to her lips and took
a long swallow, closing her eyes as if she enjoyed savoring the flavor on her tongue.
“Mmm. This is very, very good.”

Devlin sat back and let go a small snort, once again feeling surprised and more than
slightly attracted to the woman who called herself Ellie. “Interesting.”

“Many women enjoy scotch,” Millie countered with a slight shrug. “Especially those
who work in taverns such as these.”

Devlin winked at her and shook his head. “But they cannot recognize good whiskey from
average. Neither would a mere governess have knowledge of such things.”

Millie took another small sip to hide the shot of anxiety that ran through her. “Alas,
unfortunately for you, our agreement never included answering your questions.”

Devlin smiled and pulled his left ankle to sit upon his right knee. He knew Clive
suspected Ellie to have been a kept woman. And while it was possible, having been
with several—including some who were quite expensive—Devlin was positive Ellie was
not one of them. Ellie lacked the jaded look they all carried. And even if she had
just begun her life as a courtesan, he just could not believe the petite beauty in
front of him would settle for being kept on the side, receiving leftover affections
as it suited someone else. So if she was not a governess, nor a courtesan, that left
only one other option. Like him, she had not just lived among the upper class. She
was one of them.

“Then ask your question.”

He watched her purple eyes in fascination as she rehearsed the question in her mind
before asking it. “Why do you own a gambling establishment when you despise the occupation?”
Devlin knew that she had assumed much about him, but how she had come to such accurate
conclusions was irksome. He looked back at Clive.

“Clive said nothing,” Millie said, seeing where his mind was heading. “It is the way
you look at the emblem on your handkerchief—pride mixed with what appears to be hatred.”

Devlin swallowed and forced his features to look relaxed and unconcerned. But he had
not realized until now that just as he had been studying her, she had been scrutinizing
him as well. “Perhaps I have a passion for gambling.”

Millie squinted her eyes in disbelief. “Mr. MacLeery, an honest drink deserves an
honest answer.”

Devlin leaned forward, bringing him within a foot of her. He could see that such nearness
made her uncomfortable, but Ellie refused to pull back. He wished it were because
she was attracted to him. “You and I both know each other to be liars, but I will
give you the truth. I am not a gambler, nor have I ever been nor will be.”

That Millie did believe. Devlin MacLeery was not a gambler. His voice cracked with
hatred at the very subject. Still, he had told her nothing more than what she already
knew. “While I delight in free information, I am still waiting for the answer I purchased.”

Devlin grimaced, acknowledging she was correct. He had not answered her question.
He could lie, but untruths bothered him. He preferred dodging and hedging truths.
“I do not like gamblers. But I need money and rather enjoy the idea of relieving foolish
men of theirs.”

Millie decided that she could drink a whole bottle of scotch, but nothing more on
that subject would be volunteered by Devlin. “Did you grow up in Scotland? At your
ancestral home?”

Devlin’s face hardened and he closed his eyes. She had changed topics, but not for
the better. “Aye,” he answered, preparing himself for questions about his home, family,
and place of birth.

“I always wanted to go there.”

“We could go to Gretna Green tonight. Just give me a moment to call for my coach.”

Millie rolled her eyes playfully. “Such a tempting proposal when put such a way, but
I cannot.”

Devlin licked his lips and studied her face.
Cannot
she had said. Not
will not
. He had called them both liars and he meant it. But they also loathed to lie, and
therefore did it sparingly. Truth to Ellie’s real identity just might be buried in
every comment. He just needed to read between the lines and find the truth.

“I suspect if you came back home with a new English bride you met working in a tavern,
your family would be more than a little upset.”

“You’re right about that,” Devlin confirmed before taking a large gulp from his own
glass. “Still, you would look good in Drumindaloch.”

Millie blinked. She knew the names of the castles of only a handful of clans. And
Drumindaloch was one. It was the very castle that Mother Wentworth had left to visit
nearly six weeks ago. “You are not
of
the MacLeerys,” she whispered, “you actually
are
a MacLeery.”

Devlin froze. MacLeery was not a common name, but then neither was it uncommon. In
all the years he had made London his home and spent time with nobles, not a one had
ever deduced just how closely he was related to the chieftain of their clan. Then
again, he had never mentioned Drumindaloch castle. Still, how many would know the
name of a castle that was in much need of repair and belonged to a clan with little
power? Very few—and that included the nobles who had known his grandfather, before
his father took over and with his gambling ruined their family in every way thinkable.

His curiosity was shifting to something else. Just who exactly was Ellie? And if Ellie
knew what hardly a soul outside of where he lived in Scotland knew of his clan and
his home, just what else did she know about his family? Did she know his father tried
to rectify his repeated losses by forcing a horrific marriage to a wealthy woman on
his only son? She may know of his refusal, but whoever Ellie was, she did not know
his real reasons. Devlin would have done his duty and married his wealthy neighbor’s
purportedly malevolent daughter, except he knew his father would only spend his wife’s
money as well. Only when his father was dead did Devlin intend to return.

There was noise in the background, but the silence between them was growing. Devlin
finally said, “So if you know who I am, then you know why I cannot go home, but I
cannot fathom why you cannot return to yours. Why is that?”

For a second, he saw her eyes grow large before they returned to their normal kind
but curious expression. Still, it was enough for him to realize that he had guessed
correctly: It was not that she did not want to; she could not. Ellie was afraid of
the idea of going home, and it was that fear which kept her from going back. Fear
of whom? Just who was she running away from? If she was gentry, an abusive husband
would send her into the arms of friends and family—not here. Perhaps she had done
something illegal. And yet Clive had relayed how she had been quite vehement in her
assertion that the law was not after her. But that didn’t mean the law was not involved.

Devlin swallowed as he realized just what could send a gentleman’s daughter to this
life. Ellie had not done wrong, but she was hiding from someone who had. There had
been a lot of murders of nobles the past Season. Had she witnessed something that
placed her in danger? Was that why she was here—a place no one from the upper class
would look?

A rush of protectiveness suddenly overcame him. He wished he could take back his flippant
comment about Gretna Green and propose the idea more seriously. He could protect her
then. He could remove her from this life and give her one to which she was accustomed.
He certainly had the funds. As the idea started to take shape, Devlin found it more
and more appealing. Ellie was far more than just beautiful. She had a wild spirit
that spoke to his.

“But I do go home. To a very nice one. Every night,” Millie said, interrupting his
thoughts.

It was Devlin’s turn to narrow his eyes in disbelief. “We both know your destiny was
not meant for the Thames.”

“Neither was yours.”

“Aye, but whoever cast you out should be shot.”

Millie shook her head, then drank the last of the scotch and put the glass on the
small table. “Unlike you, I deserve to be here. I doubt that you do. Otherwise you
would not look so—”