The Duke's Night of Sin (22 page)

He sat immobile with a look of total disbelief on his face.

Siusan opened the door and stepped out onto the pavers and focusing straight ahead, did not allow herself to look back.

Sebastian hardly slept all night, and he was sitting before the window at Blackwood Hall waiting for the sun to rise and light the snow-dusted fields below.

How could he sleep when he knew that Siusan was there, in London.

For hours he’d mulled last night over in his
mind again and again, but finding her at the theater made no sense to him. How had she come to be in London?

The only clue he had was that she was sitting with the two Sinclairs he’d met at their residence in Grosvenor Square. She was clearly one of their number. She and Lady Priscilla Sinclair resembled each other so closely that someone might mistake them for twins. And yet, he had convinced himself otherwise … because he had wished it to be true.

He had been attracted to her and wanted her to be a simple miss, despite overwhelming evidence that she was a lady.

It was clear to him now that she was one of the sisters they had claimed was not in London. She was not possessed of red hair, so it only stood to reason that she was Lady Siusan Sinclair—not Miss Siusan Bonnet. Hardly a stretch of the imagination. How thick he had been not to have realized this. How easily he’d fooled himself.

What he could not fathom was why the daughter of a duke was posing as a commoner, a teacher at a school for young ladies. Nothing about her seemed to make sense.

He picked up his cup of tea and frowned. It was cold after sitting beside him for hours.

One thing was for certain. Despite her wishes, he could not simply let her go.

He would find her.

And convince her to marry him.

The Lord Mayor’s special committee on the Condition of England Question was to meet at two of the clock at Mansion House. Urgent reports had been delivered by special messenger overnight to each committee member, detailing intelligence received by the Home Office that Spenceans, unhappy with the deteriorating economic state of England, were planning to gather
en masse
and overthrow the British government by taking the Tower of London and the Bank of England.

The committee consisted of high-ranking members of Parliament. It was an appointment Sebastian did not take lightly, for he knew he was not assigned to the committee based on merit but because of fortunate birth. It was imperative to the honor of his family, honor that he serve to the best of his ability and distinguish himself, however he might.

He had just disembarked from his carriage and was approaching the impressive front façade of Mansion House when he noticed a young lady with golden ringlets gesturing to him from across
the street. Her face was familiar to him, though he could not recall where they had ever met. At first he was certain she had mistaken him for another.

She waved her handkerchief. “Your Grace,” she called out in a tone so soft that he barely heard her over the rumble of passing carriages.

He crossed the street to her. “May I be of some assistance, miss?” She was tall, but very thin, and so girlish in shape that he wondered at her age. Barely out, if that, he imagined, yet she was standing here unescorted.

She looked up him, her eyes filled with disappointment. “You … you do not remember me?”

“I am afraid I do not.” Sebastian fumbled through his memory, but he did not recall ever seeing her.

She raised her lace handkerchief dramatically and sobbed into it. “Dear heavens. What ever shall I do now?”

Sebastian gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “You are distressed. Please, tell me how I may be of assistance.”

At that moment another carriage drew up before Mansion House and two members of the House of Lords stepped out onto the pavers. They turned and paused to look at him, there with his hand upon the girl’s shoulder.

“Your Grace, you must remember, you must!” She looked up through tear-filled eyes. “I was in the library during the gala at Blackwood Hall. You … we … oh, dear Lord, I am with child!”

A jolt coursed through every vein in his body. “Dear miss, I am quite certain we have never been introduced.”

“We have. At your gala, and again at the Lord Mayor’s dinner.”

Sebastian squinted. Yes, he did remember making her acquaintance at the dinner—but she was not his lover in the library. Siusan was.

“Are you so dishonorable that you would deny me, leaving me to explain this to my father alone?” Her voice was growing louder, and passersby were beginning to watch them.

“Your father?” Sebastian was readying to ask her if he could help her find him, so deep was her distress, when she spoke a name that turned him cold.

“Yes, Lord Aster.” She gazed up to Mansion House. “He is inside, awaiting the meeting of the special committee. I heard you were to attend, so I thought I would speak with you here privately rather than at a ball or a rout.”

Sebastian studied the miss. No, she couldn’t be the woman in the library. She was thin and lacking
the curves of a woman. And yet, how did she know about what happened in the library?

“Miss … Aster,” he stammered, “I cannot discuss this with you presently.” His head was beginning to spin. “May we meet on Friday in Hyde Park? By the fountain near the Park Lane gates at noon.”

Miss Aster nodded. “Very well. Friday at noon.” She started to walk away from him, but turned suddenly. “You
will
be there … or I fear, Your Grace, you may very well live to regret your decision.”

W
ith a few spare guineas in his pocket, courtesy of his dear sister Su’s published lessons, Grant took inspiration from his brother Sterling, the eldest of the Sinclair siblings, and set out to turn pence into pounds at the card tables.

While the other members of the club had witnessed his skill at any number of games, it never
failed to amaze Grant how many of the gentlemen gamesters would lose everything in their pockets, then continue to join him at the tables again and again. When would they realize that the cards one was dealt had very little to do with the outcome of the game and that deftness at reading emotions on the faces of the other players was the true key to winning?

Grant sipped a whisky at a small table near the bow window and assessed the potential players in the club. His favorite players possessed over-confidence, a taste for strong spirits, and, most importantly, fat purses. This fortuitous blending of qualities in men unfortunately seemed in short supply that night. So when his gaze lit upon an animated young man wearing an ill-fitting frock coat, Grant decided to approach the lad for sheer amusement.

“I am telling you, the wager is a sure thing, and is being listed in the betting book as we speak, sir.” The innocent-looking lad was telling this to a heavy, balding lord who was so topped with brandy he could barely hold his eyes open, despite his obvious interest in the proposition.

“Did I hear mention of a sure bet?” Grant sidled up to the young man. “My favorite sort.” He set
his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Tell me more.”

The young man looked him in the eyes, clearly distrustful of him. Grant softened his expression and manufactured a smile that stretched from his mouth to his eyes. The young man was instantly relieved.

“All right then.” The lad looked about the smoky room and gestured Grant and the older man closer. “By week’s end, a purchased-his-title nobleman will marry the youngest daughter of a senior member of the House of Lords.”

Grant leaned back and frowned. Hardly intriguing.

“You may be swayed to change your mind when you hear that the bride is with child and”—he looked around the club to be sure no else was listening—“the dishonorable groom-to-be is none other than the Duke of Exeter, the Lord Mayor’s new favorite.”

Grant’s eyes went wide. “The hell you say!” After Siusan said that the duke had claimed that he loved her outside the theater, he doubted very much the duke was simply going to beg off from Siusan and marry some chit just out. “I do not believe a word of it.”

“Then take that position on the bet.” The young man was grinning. “Six club members are waiting over there to do so the minute the wager is entered in the book.”

“Is that so? Weel, I might join their number, but instead of standing in a bloody queue, I vow I should like a whisky whilst I wait my turn.”

And some more information from you, lad, if you please.

He looked at the older man sitting at the table. He was asleep. “I do not care to drink alone. Join me, sir?” Grant gestured to his table beside the window.

“I do not mind if I do.” The lad tugged his collar high about his head, leaving his ferret-like nose and weak chin nearly concealed beneath his neckcloth. He followed Grant to the table, and there they sat for over an hour, until the young man had taken his fill of spirits and was now sleeping with his head on the small table for all the world to see.

And Grant had all of the information about the sure bet—information he felt compelled to deliver to Siusan at once.

Grant found Siusan sitting in the front parlor with her sewing basket beside her on the tea
table. But she wasn’t stitching. Instead, she was using her silver scissors to clip out her columns from the stack of newspapers beside her on the carpet.

She was singing merrily, even after she noticed that Grant had entered the room.

“What are you so bleeding happy about? Bought a new frock … or a fan perhaps?”

“Neither. I received a letter from our father this afternoon.”

“Well, I see you have not slit your wrists, so I must assume you have instead dosed yourself with laudanum to dull the pain of his words.”

“No need for such dramatics this time. For you will be amazed when you hear what the letter says.”

“Who is next to be cast out the house?” He cocked his head. “Ah, I see the smile on your lips. Priscilla, eh?”

Siusan laughed. “What a thing to say. Nay, no one is being cast out to the pavers.”

“Then what is it? I can only tease you for so long before I grow frustrated with your delay.”

“Well, it seems that Da’s man of affairs—known better to us all as the Grim Reaper—” She lifted a single eyebrow and Grant nodded his head all too knowingly. “Has been sending our father my
columns and the newspaper report of my heroic rescue of the Duke of Exeter. It would appear he is aware of my alias, Miss Siusan Bonnet.”

Grant’s eyes became suddenly serious. “No repercussions from that?”

“Thankfully, none at all. In fact, Da claims that I have changed and, through my work and drive, I may have redeemed myself.” She set her scissors atop the pile of newspapers and grinned.

Grant eased back into the tufted chair near the fire. “He said you
may
have changed, is that right?”

“Aye, which is why he is coming for Christmas to observe my transformation himself.” Siusan stacked her clippings and set them inside her sewing basket. She peered up at Grant, all levity shorn away. “I am so close, Grant. So close to winning back Da’s favor and respect.” Then her lower lip quivered. “But it would take so little for him to learn why I ventured into teaching lessons and what else happened the night I saved the Duke of Exeter. Oh, Grant, I feel as though I am standing before a great precipice, and the smallest breeze might cast me down into its depths.”

Grant scratched his head. “I admit, Siusan, you do play awfully close to the edge, but I have heard something today that may change your position.”

Siusan set her scissors on the table and leaned forward. “Do tell me your news is good.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes did not quite agree with his words. “I was offered a bet at White’s this afternoon. A nobleman will marry the pregnant young daughter of a senior member of the House of Lords before week’s end.”

Siusan shrugged. “The wager does not interest me, nor should it you.”

“Ah, but see, Su, it should interest you because the groom is said to be the Duke of Exeter.”

Siusan came to her feet. “What? This cannot be.”

“Something was afoot. I knew it, and so I was a most kind host to the young man offering the bet and filled his belly with the strongest whisky White’s possessed. Within an hour I learned the full story. Su, the bet is crafted as a losing proposition for the duke. If he denies responsibility, the lass will tell her father that the duke forced himself on her. If he marries her, he will be admitting that he bedded a prominent lord’s young, innocent daughter—thereby losing favor and respect in the House of Lords.”

“He could not have done this.”

“Aye, you are correct about that, for the alleged intimacy supposedly occurred in the library at the duke’s gala. And, the interesting bit is, the duke
cannot deny that Miss Aster was his lover because he never saw her face.”

Siusan’s knees wobbled beneath her and she sank down on the settee. “I am the only one who can exonerate him.”

“Aye, but telling the duke you were his faceless lover will do nothing to free him from this web. You would have to make a public announcement of some sort.”

“Then that is what I shall do.”

“Careful now. I think you are thinking irrationally owing to the stunning nature of what I have just told you. Think about this. The moment you admit that you were the woman with the duke in the library, you forfeit your own honor—and Da’s damnable respect.”

“And my family.” Siusan felt suddenly dizzy as the blood seemed to drain from her head down to her feet.

The air was frigid and spitting snow as the first public meeting of Spenceans took place. Sebastian stood alone, shivering, before a large contingent
of constables and faced down the protestors, his mission, to prevent a riot.

By noon, more than twenty thousand people had come from as far away as Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire, Leicestershire, and Derbyshire, and as near as Cheapside, all to protest outrageous food prices, loss of textile jobs because of mechanization, and the government’s and Regent’s blatant waste of public funds.