To Sin With A Stranger (5 page)

“I only wished to ask you to dance.”

“Dance?
To dance? You caressed my cheek. You humiliated me, made light of my charity and my attempts to help widows and orphans of war. Why would I ever agree to dance with an ill-mannered rogue like you?”

“Because I asked, and I saw the way you were looking at me when I entered the assembly rooms.” He lifted an eyebrow teasingly, bringing to the surface a rage Isobel could not rein in. She slapped his face again with such force that his head wrenched to the left.

He raised his hand to his cheek. “Not bad. Have you thought about pugilism as a profession?” He grinned at her again.

Isobel stepped around Sterling Sinclair, the beast of Blackburn, and started for her father. But the minister was only two steps away. Staring at her, aghast. She reached out for her father’s arm, but he stepped back, out of her reach.

She glanced to her left and then her right. Everyone was staring. Everyone.

Isobel covered her face with her trembling hands and shoved her way through the crowd of amused onlookers. She dashed out the door and down the steps to the liveried footman who opened the outer door to the street for her.

She ran outside and rested her hands on her knees as she gasped for breath. Her father would surely send her away for embarrassing him this night.

No matter what punishment he chose for her, Isobel was certain he would never allow her to show her face in Town again.

And Lord Blackburn, the wicked Marquess of Blackburn, was wholly to blame.

Much of our activity these days is nothing more than a cheap anesthetic to deaden the pain of an empty life.

Unknown

Four of the clock in the morning
The Sinclair residence
Grosvenor Square

A shadow fell over Sterling as someone stepped between him and the light of the single candle that lit the fore-parlor where he and Grant had gathered to share a late brandy. He squinted his eyes and tried to discern from the shape of the silhouette which of his sisters had come down from her bed to chide him.

“Does your cheek require my embroidery skills, dear brother?”

Siusan.
He should have guessed from the rigid fold of her arms over her chest.

“You left so quickly after that miss humiliated you before the
ton.
” Her tone was as stiff as her stance. “I didn’t have a chance to see if you were injured from such hearty slaps.”

Sterling glanced at Grant, who leaned as far back as possible in his chair, as if it would make him less noticeable to his angry sister. “There wasn’t anything for a Scot to drink at Almack’s, so we left.”

Siusan strode toward him and set her hands on her hips. “There was lemonade.”

Sterling chuckled and raised his crystal of brandy. “Allow me to rephrase. There wasn’t anything for a
real
man to drink.”

Siusan snatched his glass and tipped a bit of the amber liquid into her mouth before handing it back again. “Nay, you had the right of it the first time.” She sat down on a gilt-rimmed settee beside Grant. “So, will you tell me where you went?” Her tone was much softer now, after a taste of brandy, something Grant did not miss, and he quickly filled a crystal from the decanter for her.

Siusan accepted it, without comment. Her attention still lay with Sterling. “Everyone we met wanted to know you, Sterling. Wanted to hear all about you—and our family. It was almost like being in Edinburgh for the Season again…well, except for the very different way people treated us tonight. Och, it was wonderful…like we were special, our company a gift to all of Society.”

Grant shifted his golden-green eyes to Sterling. “Mayhap we should have stayed a bit longer, eh?”

Sterling shook his head. “What is more important, paving our way into Society…or
this?
” He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a weighty leather bag and tossed it, the contents clanking loudly as it landed on Siusan’s lap.

His sister looked up at him. Her pupils grew until her eyes looked black, ringed with a thin band of silver. “What is this?”

Sterling leaned back and grinned. “Seeds to plant and watch grow into a fortune.”

Confusion etched a fine line between Siusan’s eyebrows. “We used all the winnings from the fight to purchase the requisite finery to enter Society. Where did you get this?”

“I’m not daft, Su. I held out what we’d need to run the household for another month or two.” Sterling leaned forward and snatched the bag back. “These coins are residual winnings from the bout at the Pugilistic Club. One of London’s best needed a little time to pay, is all. Actually, I was damned right astounded when he admitted he was a bit shallow in the pocket. Comes from an old, respected family. Curious, eh?”

“I am sure if the ton knew of our true circumstances, they’d be scratching their pates too,” Siusan said. “’Curious,’ they’d say. ’Would have reckoned the Sinclairs were in want of nothing.’ But it isn’t true, is it? Our da saw to that.”

Grant shifted uneasily upon the settee. “We all have it in our power to change our circumstances.”

“Aye, we do,” Siusan agreed, “but Sterling isn’t making it easy for any of us with his wicked ways.”

Sterling raised his brow most innocently. “I only asked the lass to dance.”

Grant snickered. “Well, you must have done something more to earn two open-palmed slaps from her.” He glanced forlornly at the last few drops of brandy in his glass, and then looked at the nearly empty decanter with a sigh.

“Too bad too,” Siusan interjected. “Judging by the way all the misses and their mamas were clamoring over the likes of you, Sterling, all you likely needed to do was be a gentleman, and Miss Carington would have swooned.”

Grant nodded. “You’ve got the right of it, Su. Word is that she is the daughter of one of the most prominent and noted members of the House of Commons. Who knows, Sterling, had you simply charmed the lass, you might have been betrothed to a woman from a respected family by the end of the Season—and been halfway to earning back the Sinclair honor Father demands of us. I have no doubt he would have approved of such a match.”

“But instead you created a spectacle, and every member of the
ton
was witness to it,” Siusan huffed. “Who knows what your very public blunder has cost us all!”

Grant leaned forward in his chair, palming the empty glass and thrumming his fingers against its side. “Sterling, you could have at least told me what you planned to do before the ball. Why, I might have been able to stir up a wager for the book at White’s.” Grant set his glass on the table, then raised a hand and moved it before him as though he was reading from the betting book. “A miss of good breeding will slap a duke at Almack’s—twice.” He laughed, obviously quite amused with himself. “I’m sure someone would have taken the bet. Could have made us a few bob, don’t you think?”

A jolt cut through Sterling at Grant’s words. He sat upright, suddenly wide awake despite the early hour and the brandy flowing through his body.

Siusan seemed to ignore Grant’s comment. She grabbed the bag from Sterling, plucked out a shiny coin, then tossed the bag back to him. “Pin money.” She flicked her long sable hair over her shoulder as she rose and, without another word, quit the fore-parlor for the passage.

Sterling cocked his head and listened to her ascend the stairs until her footfall faded from his hearing. He whipped his head back around to face Grant.

His brother set his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “What is it?” he asked quietly. “What has so aroused your brandied mind that you could hardly wait for Siusan to leave—a bet of some sort?”

Sterling stared blankly at his brother for some moments as he followed the logic of his idea through.
Could it be possible? Could this be the answer?

Unbidden, his head began to nod, slowly at first, then faster as he began to believe he had stumbled upon a perfect way to earn the money they now lacked. Sterling reached out and grabbed Grant’s arm. “What do you know about this Miss Carington?”

Grant blinked. “I dunno. I heard a bit at the club when she showed up waving about a fan of pamphlets and spouting off about her charity.”

A slow smile eased over Sterling’s lips. “Tell me everything you know.”

Two days later

“I did not ask him if I may leave to shop, I just did,” Isobel told Christiana as they walked along Pall Mall in the direction of St. James’s.

“Y-you just left?” Christiana sputtered. “Why, if my father was only half as angry with me as yours was with you after embarrassing him at Almack’s, I wouldn’t dare set foot outside the house without his express permission—in writing. You are certainly braver than I!”

Isobel gave a short laugh. “I am not brave at all. Parliament is in session and therefore he is not at home. Ah, here we are.” Isobel hooked her arm around Christiana’s and turned her into Harding, Howell & Company.

Christiana stopped a few feet inside the door. “What if you are found out?”

Isobel walked to a counter and lifted a painted silk fan in her hands. “Why should I be? He always returns home late in the evening from the House of Commons. I simply need to arrive at home before him. Honestly, Christiana, I could not endure another day restricted to the house without dying of boredom. La, it has been a full week.” She set the fan back down. “Dresses and millinery are in the fourth department. Come on, I haven’t got much time, you know.” She giggled and caught up Christiana’s hand and pulled her toward the back of the store.

They were passing the glazed partition that marked the beginning of the haberdashery, when a wiry-haired gentleman suddenly looked up and stared at Isobel, dropping the reticule he had been holding for the woman beside him while she examined a swath of blush-rose silk. “Gorblimey, it’s her, Dorthea.”

“Who, dear?” the woman replied in a decidedly uninterested tone.

“Miss Carington,” he replied in a hushed voice. “You know,
her.”

The woman whirled around. “Oh my goodness!”

Isobel felt their gazes upon her and her cheeks warmed, but she kept moving, tugging Christiana along with her. How could it be that days later people were still buzzing about her slapping Blackburn at Almack’s? Honestly, it should have faded from memory by now. She was simply not that interesting. Her father had told her as much time and time again.

“Excuse us, Miss Carington.” Each of the woman’s words grew louder, and it occurred to Isobel that she was being pursued through the store. “Please, might we have a word or two with you?”

The gentleman’s voice trailed after them. “We just wondered if you would share your intentions.”

Lud, would they not just let her be? Isobel walked faster to put as much distance between her and her pursuers as possible.

“Isobel, they are speaking to you. Please stop.” Christiana stopped walking mid-stride. She held firm to Isobel’s hand, preventing any further movement.

Isobel looked down at her slippers and sighed. She heard the couple move behind her instantly, and so she took a steadying breath and turned around, a forced smile upon her lips. “Were you speaking to me? I hadn’t realized, I do apologize. I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you both.”

Then, finally realizing he had forgotten his manners, the gentleman smiled and introduced himself. “Do forgive me. I am Lord Triplemont, and this is my wife, Lady Triplemont.” Lord Triplemont bowed, and Lady Triplemont tipped her head toward them.

“I am Miss Isobel Carington, and this is Miss Christiana Whitebeard.” Isobel bobbed a quick curtsy, trying not to tip over in her confusion. “I apologize again, but I do not know what
intentions
you desire to glean from me.”

Lady Triplemont laughed. “Why, if you will marry Sterling Sinclair, the Marquess of Blackburn, before Season’s end.”

Isobel tore her head around and stared at Christiana, hoping she might make some sense of this, but her friend’s expression was as blank as her own must have been.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Triplemont, but I have not the faintest notion what you are about.” Isobel crinkled her brow. “Why do you ask such a thing? I am sure I am the last miss in London he would wish to marry, and he most certainly is the last man I would ever consider after his rudeness at Almack’s.”

Lord Triplemont handed his wife’s reticule back to her. “You see, Dorthea. The wager is naught but madness. I told you as much when I first heard of it.”

His wife shook her head. “No, no. There is something to it. Ten thousand pounds that Miss Carington will marry Sterling Sinclair, the Marquess of Blackburn, before the end of the Season. There is something afoot between her and the Marquess of Blackburn. She just is not admitting to it.”

“I beg your pardon, but did you say—a
ten-thousand-pound
wager?” Isobel cocked her head. “I am quite certain that I did not hear you correctly. You could not have said—”

Christiana was nodding her head as she blurted, “Ten thousand pounds that you will marry the fighter before Season’s end.” She giggled and clapped her hand over her mouth for an instant. “Preposterous! But oh, how exciting, don’t you agree, Issy?”

“No, I do not!” Isobel’s heart started pounding and she suddenly felt very light in the head. “Lord Triplemont, please, tell me you jest and there is no wager.”

“The wager was recorded in the betting book at White’s last eve,” he told her.

Suddenly Isobel could not seem to catch her breath. It simply could not be true. Such an enormous wager was certain to create a stir among the
ton,
and then her father would be bound to hear of it.
Unless…
unless she could appeal to the gentleman who had logged the bet and convince him to withdraw it immediately. “Lord Triplemont, pray, wh-who placed the bet? I must know the truth of all of this. I am but a miss whose reputation is in great danger. I must stop this nonsense. I am sure you can understand. Won’t you help me?”

“I wish my husband could tell you the gentleman’s identity.” Lady Triplemont placed her hand comfortingly on Isobel’s arm. “The bet was placed anonymously directly through White’s. A sizable portion of the ten thousand pounds is being held in escrow at the club to preserve the bettor’s true identity. It is my understanding that the anonymous nature of the wager is part of what makes it so enticing.”