The Duke's Night of Sin (4 page)

Killian, Priscilla’s twin brother, rose and crossed the room to take Siusan’s hand. “You said he never saw your face.”

“That’s right!” Priscilla exclaimed. “He hasn’t a clue about your identity.” She fashioned a smile for her. “Don’t you see? You have nothing to fear, Su.”

Siusan shook her head. “Someone may have recognized me when I left the library. A crowd was standing at the other end of the hall—I bumped into a man as I turned into the crowd.”

“That may be true, but the passage was unlit. You said it yourself,” Grant recounted in a very logical manner. “No one expected the duke to emerge from the passageway, and therefore I
would venture to say that no one paid any mind to it until the duke stepped into the grand hall and was announced.”

“Even if someone did recognize you, no one but the few of us knows what happened in the library,” Lachlan reminded her.

“He
knows.” Siusan sniffled.

“Aye,” Lachlan admitted, but waved her words from the air as if they mattered naught. “As an unmarried man—and a newly ascended duke—he is certainly not looking for scandal—or to be leg-shackled to a lass simply because he sought to brag about a tumble in his library. You see, there is very little cause for worry.”

Lachlan, who had more than his share of tumbles with the ladies, presented the soundest reasoning. The duke was not about to risk everything on some quest to identify her. A tiny smile tugged at Siusan’s lips. “Thank you, Lachlan. Of course, you are right.” She gave an embarrassed laugh.

Priscilla scrunched up her nose in confusion. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because my portmanteau is packed. After last night, I saw no recourse but to leave London immediately, to protect all of you from Father’s wrath once he learned the shame I have brought
the Sinclair family.” Siusan looked down, not wanting her brothers and sister to see the redness she felt rising into her cheeks.

Surprise widened Grant’s eyes. “And just where do you think you were going … without coin?”

Siusan shrugged. “I hoped that I could convince Mrs. Wimpole to allow me to stay with her until the duke leaves.”

“Do you not think those in service will hear of a lady hiding out with a cook? I declare, that lot loves gossip more than the
ton.”
When Siusan did not reply, Priscilla rushed forward and took her hand. “Well, no need for that, is there now?”

Siusan smiled feebly, wanting to believe they truly had forgiven her for endangering their futures. From the soft smiles on their faces, she knew they had. If only their father could see the goodness in his children—instead of only their faults.

“Come, let me help you unpack your things—” Priscilla pulled her out of the parlor and toward the stairs. “And any of
my things
you might have placed in the case by mistake.”

Siusan laughed as they ascended the staircase. Until she remembered Priscilla’s blue satin slippers … which might have made their way into her portmanteau, accidentally, of course.

Though Siusan trusted the truth of Lachlan’s logic, it seemed dreadfully unwise to venture into Society so soon. And yet, here she was less than twenty-four hours later, down the lamplit Grand Walk at Vauxhall Gardens.

“It is as I said, Siusan.” Lachlan took no measure to obscure how pleased he was with himself. “Nothing to fret about.” He bowed his head and tipped his beaver hat at a comely lady who passed by, ignoring the gentleman at her side. He turned his head to Siusan then, and grinned, as if he’d just proved his assertion again.

A sense of unease prickled Siusan’s skin each time they left the ebbing glow of one lamp to step into the golden halo of the next. Lud, she wished the lamps were not so bright, and that this night, the moon merely grinned instead of glowing pure and white like a great pearl.

“I will concede that your keen assessment of the situation seems correct, brother.” And it did, for in the past quarter-hour alone they’d encountered more than a dozen members of the
ton,
and not one had viewed them with a sickened gaze. All simply gawked at them, which was completely
normal behavior whenever the striking Sinclairs appeared
en masse.

Still, Siusan could not allow herself to relax and enjoy the cool air and the troops of lively entertainers performing throughout the Gardens. “The night is not yet over, dear brother,” she reminded Lachlan. Though she wished it were, and that they were headed for the carriage and home—instead of tromping toward the center of the Gardens.

Just then, Siusan turned and had not Lachlan caught her arm, she would have fallen, bringing unwanted attention to herself. Priscilla, caring sister that she was, had condescended to allow Siusan to wear the very blue slippers she had mistakenly packed in her portmanteau. At first Siusan thought this gesture supremely gracious. But now, as the shoes’ low, but too-narrow heels spiked deep into the gravel with every step, dangerously challenging her balance, Siusan began to wonder if allowing her to wear the beautiful shoes was truly meant to be some wicked form of penance for accidentally placing them in her portmanteau.

“Perhaps a glass of arrack punch would steady your frayed nerves, Su.” Grant raised his chin to the supper boxes in the distance ahead of them.

Siusan stilled her step. “Nay. Too many lamps. Too many people,” she muttered in reply.

“Och, weel of course there are,” Grant told her, as they cut a shorter path through the stands of elms. “While the food is predictably horrid, the wine is of superb vintage and not to be missed.” He chuckled. “There, do you see? No one—except those with infantile palates and corseted bellies—is eating. Only sampling the wine.”

She smiled weakly back at him. God, she was being the veriest goose. Lachlan was correct, she reminded herself. He
was.

As they entered the dining area, Grant spoke to a barrel-chested man in a dark suit of clothes, and before Siusan could reconsider, their party was ushered into a private booth.

A quart of arrack was instantly set upon their table, along with several thick glasses, while a slightly dusty bottle was presented to Grant, who approved the wine to be opened and a glass poured.

An hour passed, and the brothers were standing a few yards from the dining booth, glasses in hand, reminiscing in slightly slurred, loud voices with Gentleman John Jackson about their brother Sterling’s short-lived career in pugilism. Another younger pugilist, judging by his enormous size, had just joined the quartet of half-inebriated men.

“Do you think we can convince one of our
brothers to escort us home?” Siusan asked, not really expecting a reply, when she saw Jackson throw a treacle-slow mock punch at Killian, who pretended to take a blow to his jaw and was now slowly staggering backward. The men burst into riotous laughter.

“Och,
men.
How can they make light of Sterling’s bout with the Irishman? Sterling could have been killed by that blow.” Priscilla narrowed her eyes at the gathering. “Lud, you do not think that Jackson and that other fellow are trying to persuade Killian to reenter the ring? Not with his fast temper.”

Siusan shook her head.
What a ridiculous notion.
“He is merely enjoying the folly.” Priscilla did not appear convinced. “I vow that even if your twin sought a life in pugilism, he would never get a match. The whole of England has heard the rumor that he killed a man. Only a fighter with a supreme wish for death would dare enter the ropes with Lord Killian Sinclair.”

“I do not agree.” Priscilla’s eyes fixed on the conversation behind her. “I canna make out what they are saying? Can you, Su?”

With a bored sigh parting her lips, Siusan rose slightly from the bench and leaned forward to peer over Priscilla’s shoulder. “If I am not mistaken …
I heard them mention White’s. Wait … no, Watier’s—” Thinking to hear better, she leaned farther over the table, setting her hand down for balance.

Just then, her hand caught the lip of a glass, toppling it. Siusan winced as she saw a torrent of red liquid coursing toward Priscilla’s lap. Siusan’s eyes went wide, and she shrieked a warning to her sister, who was too absorbed in the gentlemen’s conversation to have noticed that something was amiss.

It was too late. The wine was pouring off the table like a crimson waterfall.

Priscilla yelped as the wine drenched her blue satin gown. She shot to her feet and glared at Siusan. “I canna believe you did this! You sought to ruin my gown last night at the gala, and you could not rest until you succeeded, could you?”

“Nay, Priscilla. Nay, it was an accident.” Siusan held out her lace handkerchief to her sister, but Priscilla slapped it away. Everyone within fifty paces was staring at them. “Please, Priscilla, lower your voice. Everyone is—”

“Nay!” Angry tears erupted in Priscilla’s eyes. “You’ve always wanted this gown, admit it why don’t you! You’ve coveted it ever since Simon said he admired it—”

The blood seemed to rush from Siusan’s head, and her knees wobbled beneath her. She dropped back down to the bench, leveled by the blow of her sister’s words.

Priscilla gasped at her own outburst and clapped her hand to her mouth. She stood still as a statue for several moments, staring, before finally rushing around the table to Siusan. “Oh God, Siusan, please forgive me … I am so sorry. I swear on Mother’s grave that I did not mean what I said. Truly, I didn’t.”

Tears flooded Siusan’s eyes. She propelled herself from the box and raced into the shadows of the elms. God, she didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to be alone.

Priscilla called after her. “Wait for me. Please!” With a pleading glance back at her brothers, she turned and gave chase.

“It is a lovely evening to stroll Vauxhall Gardens, Sebastian, but I must sit down and rest for a few minutes if you do not mind,” his grandmother said.

“Of course.” Sebastian led her to a marble bench along the Grand Walk and settled his grandmother down upon it. It was an unusually pleasant evening, but Sebastian, feeling caged within
Blackwood Hall, would have spent it in the fresh air even if torrents of rain were falling from the sky. He had bent his knees to sit beside his grandmother when he saw
her
pass beneath a lamp.

There was no mistake. Even across the distance, he recognized the miss from the library.

The same dark, wavy hair he saw as she escaped down the dim hallway. The very same blue gown. As she passed beneath an unusually bright lamp, he could see the color clearly. Only … dear God, was that blood? No, no. Surely he was wrong.

Widening his eyes, he tracked her until she darted into a clutch of elm trees and disappeared from his sight.

His heart pounded inside his chest, and he shot to his feet. “I am dreadfully sorry, Grandmother. But I must leave for a moment—just a moment. I promise you.”

“What are you about, Sebastian?” It was evident that she was not appreciative at being left, especially not in the Gardens.

He knelt before his grandmother. “I believe I have just seen
her.”

“The miss you saw last evening?” Her eyes widened excitedly.

“Yes”—he came to his feet—“but I fear she may
be in some manner of distress.” He turned and looked toward the elms.

Just then, he and his grandmother witnessed three towering men plunge into the darkness under the trees at breakneck speed.

Bloody hell!

“Go then, Sebastian. I will be fine here in the light. But do take care!”

Instantly, Sebastian tore across the Grand Walk and, without a thought, ducked into the grove of elms.

S
ebastian could hear the crunch of gravel and knew that the men—and his passionate lady from the library, too, were not far ahead.

Then, there was a loud crack trailed by a violent shiver of branches and leaves. “Damn me!”

Sebastian froze and listened.

“Hold up, Grant. I slammed me noggin into a great branch, and I’m surely bleeding.” A Scotsman, his clear voice low and deep.

Sebastian crept closer. Ghostly bones of white moonlight reached between the trees, and he could now discern two unusually large men.

“Och, ye clumsy buffoon. You’re not bleeding at all. You spilled the wine when you fell. He reached down, snatched up the bottle, and only after holding it into the moonlight, did he turn and pull the other man to his feet. “You’re damned lucky you didn’t spill it all. Do you know what I paid for this?”

“Too much, when our pockets are damn near empty,” the other man snapped back.

A breeze picked up behind Sebastian, tumbling dried leaves in erratic circles around him and pricking up the hair on the back of his neck. Huge branches just above him creaked and groaned in the wind.

He stared up, waiting for one to choose its moment and crash down upon him, killing him instantly. Sebastian had no doubt just this sort of freakish accident would claim his life, for it was the way of things. The way every other Duke of Exeter had met his end.

He was wary now, his thoughts of his own demise warring his instinct to attack the Scots.

Three men had entered the trees behind the woman. He glanced around but detected no other.
Ahead, he could see two of them arguing about spilled wine. No longer three, as there had been when he first saw them enter the grove of trees. Where was the third man? Likely still pursuing the young lady.

Ah, but one man he could handle, even one rivaling the size of these two Scottish hulks.

Sebastian backed silently onto the trail, keeping the two men in his sight. He would circle around them quickly, though, and if the stars in the sky above were with him, on the far side of the elm grove, he would come upon his miss … and the third man.

Damn it, though. It might already be too late to offer his protection.