The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 (11 page)

Wearing a resplendent gold gown that seemed to enhance the honey highlights in her lustrous locks and the amber flecks in her hazel eyes, Sybil shone brighter than the luminous candles and wall sconces illuminating the grand room.

Her eyes widened at the spectacle before her. It was a small reaction, as was the way her fingers laced together, the way she squeezed her hands as if nervous. Not the reaction he expected from someone who performed at lavish opera houses and attended galas with London’s elite.

But she didn’t remember any of that, did she?

No, Sybil’s life was no longer her own.

Not anymore. And it unnerved her.

That much was obvious to him.

Of course, she still held her utensils as was proper and played the part of a refined woman to perfection. No wonder she was such a success in London, notwithstanding her reputation of having loose morals.

He studied her every word, every action for a sign that she might indeed be portraying yet another role. That of the delicate damsel in distress. However, Fiona made it impossible for him to gauge his guest’s true intentions.

Throughout the meal, the Dowager Viscountess prattled on about fashion and music – music being a topic Sybil was most articulate about. No surprise, given her profession, though she lacked the passion he expected her to project while discussing a subject so dear to her.

As it so happened, her animation stemmed from lamb with mint jelly. Of all things? Logan took another sip of his port, confounded. Sybil adored lamb with mint jelly. And scones …

Scones.

One mention of the pastry caused Logan to sit at rapt attention. First Sybil mentioned daisies, now she mentioned scones. Each held a prominent significance between Logan and Arabella.

Sybil knew this.

Especially when it came to scones.

Orphaned at a young age, Logan worked as a chimney sweep until he took to the streets. He began pickpocketing to support himself until Arabella and Sybil’s father encountered him one day. Instead of calling the police, Mr. Charles Sutton offered Logan a job in his bakery.

Though not much older than the man’s daughters, he worked hard. Logan quickly learned how to bake and often prepared Arabella’s favorite … orange scones. Together they would sit on the back stoop after he had completed his work and Bella would read to him.

Later she taught him to read.

All the while, Sybil jeered Logan.

How is it that his guest possessed an uncanny ability of casually mentioning so many emotional attachments between him and Bella?

This couldn’t be a coincidence.

No, Sybil was a consummate actress, Logan considered as he took a large gulp of port. An actress … how could he be sure she wasn’t performing even now?

Could Sybil’s memory loss be fake?

Logan was certain she was toying with him as Sybil explained that food, the aroma and tastes, seemed to break through her memory though she remained incapable of remembering who attacked her or why.

For some inexplicable reason, Logan couldn’t take his eyes off of his guest. He blamed it on his need to discern her true intentions, though that rang hollow to his own ears as he studied every motion, noting that she had a habit of tucking a stubborn, stray tendril behind her left ear.

Her sister possessed the same habit many years ago, he noted as his limbs flooded with warmth. God, how he used to adore watching Bella, memorizing every facet of her character.

The fact that her sister so resembled Bella caused him to snap at a footman serving the dessert course. Relief flooded his veins once they completed their meal and their party retired to the library.

The fire crackled in the grate, its crimson and orange flames emanating warmth as did the sconces lit throughout the vast room. The large room possessed rich mahogany from floor to ceiling and shone to perfection when illuminated at night. The walls danced with shades of carnelian intermingled with the warm glow of citrine. The bookshelves, polished and preserved, were even more impressive in this light.

The many engraved wolves hid themselves at this hour, releasing the room from their imposing gazes, though they remained watchful all the same.

Ever protective.

Ever predatory.

Much like the master of Winterthorne.

Upon entering, Sybil halted in mid-step, her mouth agape. “This room is breathtaking,” her voice had taken on a dreamy quality as she studied the shelves, stacked floor to ceiling with tomes in various sizes and colors.

Logan added to the collection as often as he could. While the older spines were muted with age, the newer acquisitions jumped off the shelves with vivid hues, their crisp gold and green paints brightening even the dullest of volumes that stood beside them.

Fiona nodded her approval. “That it is. Logan has one of the finest libraries I have ever seen.”

“Do you like reading, Mr. Ambrose?” Sybil asked.

Such an innocent question.

Yet one that caused Logan to swallow hard against the resentment that lodged in his throat. Only after he filled a large tumbler of whiskey and downed it in two hefty gulps, did Logan trust his voice.

“Yes, I do.” Three words, muttered through clenched teeth. Six letters, encompassing his life’s struggles, his life’s triumphs.

Again Sybil reminded him of his most personal secrets, for he was an orphan who knew not how to read when he first met Sybil. Yes, she knew him when he was illiterate. At the time, Sybil had mocked him and tortured him, taking great delight in highlighting his deficiencies.

Illiterate.

One word. Ten letters. Defining all he had once been but no longer, for Logan learned quickly that knowledge led to power and the only way to acquire said dominance was to read.

Since then, Logan had grown to love words. Words, the very thing that once filled his heart with dread became his salvation.

Because he learned that there were much more dangerous monsters to fear than words.

On that day when realization set in, a habit formed. One in which he meticulously dissected each word, each letter, counting and processing what was once foreign to him, what so many took for granted.

Reading
… one word, seven letters, held such considerable significance in his life. Incorporated so many of his choices.

Learning to read help forge him into the man he was today … a powerful man, a business partner to Colin. Reading helped him garner affluence, commerce acumen, and respectability though he cared not about propriety.

In his heart, he would always be that ridiculed lad. He would always be a mercenary, though he would be a wealthy one.

Yes, Logan loved to read.

Logan loved the authority it afforded him.

What he failed to appreciate was sharing such a casual conversation about something that had once been the bane of his existence with the one person who had taken great pains to persecute him.

Speaking to Sybil about this particular topic made Logan itch to punch the nearest wall. Instead, he took another hefty gulp, allowing the potent liquid to trace a fiery path down his throat.

“Despite the raging fire, I have gotten a distinct chill since entering this most impressive room,” the Dowager Viscountess announced with a flair of the dramatic as she waved her jewel-encrusted cane in the air. Gems in a rainbow of colors caught the light, reflecting prisms of purple, blue, green and orange onto the walls. “I shall retire for the evening.”

Sybil bid Fiona a good night.

“I shall see you tomorrow, dear.” The Dowager Viscountess tapped her cane against the hardwood floor, snapping Logan to attention. Only after he met Fiona’s gaze did she arch her brow. “What amusement we shall have. After some issues resolve themselves, of course.”

The Dowager Viscountess was not famous for her subtlety. Quite the opposite, she spoke her mind and tackled issues with a direct, take no prisoners approach.

She had just issued a rebuff to Logan, one that he understood with crystal clarity …

He must treat his guest with more civility.

Crossing the room in two brusque strides, Logan kissed the beloved woman on her cheek. “Point taken,” he whispered so only the Dowager Viscountess would hear.

Fiona patted his arm. “She seems nice, darling, regardless of whether or not she possesses her memory. Dare I ask whether Miss Sutton might have changed? It is possible, is it not? After all, you are proof that people can change.”

True, Logan was living proof.

Was it possible for Sybil to have evolved, as well? If so, it would be a metamorphosis of epic proportions.

Much like his.

Meeting Fiona’s cherub-like expression, Logan raised the corners of his lips in a grin. It was all the acknowledgment the Dowager Viscountess required.

“Well, done, my boy,” she patted him on the shoulder before turning to take her leave.

“I’ll escort you, Grandmamma,” Eve linked arms with the Dowager Viscountess as Colin clapped Logan on the back.

“We shall be departing after breakfast so we must retire, as well.” Jerking his head towards Sybil, who remained enamored with the books on the shelves, Colin leaned into his friend, “Is it safe for me to leave you here alone with her?”

“Yes, mate. Fiona made a very good point, one which I have conceded or, at the very least, am willing to consider.” Logan shook hands with his friend.

Husband and wife bid their goodnights with Fiona, leaving Logan and Sybil surrounded by a thick silence broken only by the crackling of the fire and faint
tick
of the large clock positioned in the center of the far wall.

Sybil studied him over her shoulder. “Isn’t it scandalous? Your friends and my chaperone leaving us to ourselves like this?”

“I have already seen you in your shift,” Logan offered her a wry grin as he headed towards the sideboard. “Besides, if you think that is scandalous, just wait until I hand you the glass of whiskey I am presently pouring for you.”

“Your servants are frightened of you, you know. Or, perhaps they are intimidated. Perhaps you want them to be,” she remarked, her quizzing tone interlaced with … with what?

Could it be skepticism?

“Fear, intimidation … is there a difference?” Logan’s hand stilled in the process of filling two crystal tumblers with the amber liquid.

“I suppose not,” she sighed.

Logan could feel her heated gaze boring into his back.

After a long pause, Sybil continued. “I suspect you like for people to feel intimidated. It buffers you from getting close to them.”

Bloody hell.

Sybil Sutton was now lecturing him on how he feels and what he likes.

This would not stand.

Logan turned towards her, narrowing his eyes in what he was certain to be his most menacing glare. “They should be frightened of me. As should you.”

Shrugging, Sybil turned, skimming the books stacked upon a shelf directly within her line of sight.

“I beg to differ,” her cadence was clear, as was her intention when she turned her back to him.

She intended to make a point.

That she was not intimidated by him.

Running her forefinger along the spines of a packed row of antique tomes, Sybil added, “Your friends speak quite highly of you … Eve and the Dowager Viscountess both. I may not know much about myself, but I do know that what one’s friends say about them offers a great deal of insight into one’s character. It is something I realized this morning. It is number three on my mental list of what I know.”

“What are numbers one and two?” he asked, tucking the crystal decanter under the crook of his arm, while carrying the two glasses as he headed towards the large table with intricate carvings of leaves and vines in front of the sofa.

“My name, though I learned that from you. I did ascertain that I possess intuition of my own accord. Said intuition advises me that you aren’t as dangerous as you wish me to believe.” Her fingers ceased their motion when she reached an older book with cracks in the leather and a frayed spine.

Upon reaching for it with great care and removing the delicate book from the shelf, Sybil studied the worn spine and faded paint as she added, “You were kind to me by offering me shelter, when you tried to calm me, when you didn’t hurt me though I was ready to slit your throat.”

Placing Sybil’s glass and the decanter on the table, Logan settled in an overstuffed soft leather sofa then took a hefty swig of the amber liquid from his own tumbler. “It is a decision I am currently reconsidering. Especially after witnessing you playing outside with my hound today. What were you thinking?”

“That he is a most amusing companion,” Sybil turned to face him.

Narrowing his gaze, Logan asserted, “It was dangerous, Sybil. You must remain close to the main residence. What you did today was reckless.”

“I had no idea you cared,” her eyes danced with mirth.

“Of course I care,” Logan threw his free palm in the air. “Adolphus is my dog!”

Sybil laughed as she proceeded towards the sofa, her limp non-existent. As he stood, waiting for her to settle against the soft worn leather beside him, Logan wondered if Dr. Forsythe bungled the diagnosis of her ankle.