Page 37 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

“Get them while they are young and fresh!”

“May her cunny—”

Sybil did not hear the rest of the remark, as it ended in choked laughter and slaps on the back. She took note of it, though, and of every single man who shouted disrespectful comments. For later.

The Spinster Society kept a very detailed list.

For now, she passed Chiswick another bottle of brandy. This one had a pear suspended inside and glittered with gold leaf. “A toast to your lady!”

“To the delights of my marriage bed!”

He drank deep.

And still he kept to his feet.

Honestly, he ought to be studied by scientific academies. This very night, preferably.

This was not the way it was supposed to go. That much brandy was supposed to fell him, at which point Sybil would drag him into a distant closet and lock him inside. But Chiswick only accepted his beavery-crowned hat, his gold walking stick. Made another crude jest.

Plan B, then.

The earl’s file indicated that he loved porkpies, brandy, and snuff. And that he was constitutionally unable to resist a horse race. And Sybil noticed that he did not seem to enjoy some of the comments about his lady, for vastly different reasons than Sybil disliked them. Chiswick glared far more pointedly at the younger men, the handsome, wealthy ones who were not old enough to be Miss Maddox’s grandfather.

Sybil could use that.

The mark of a good Spinster was pivoting under pressure. Plan A gave way to Plan B, and often, Plan C. Sometimes D, E, and F.

She considered a duel, which would be fun, but it might be put off until the next day, and she did not fancy being shot at by an arthritic, syphilitic earl. She had much more experience with swords. He was old enough to prefer them.

She paused.

Too many variables.

A hit to the ego it was. At least she was unlikely to be locked in a cellar this time.

Sybil stood up and slammed her glass down in a great, loud display of dramatics. “I’m more interested in your actual filly, Chiswick!”

Chiswick frowned at her, though his curiosity was piqued. “Eh, lad?”

“I’ve heard she won at Newmarket.”

“She did,” he said, preening. “Twice.”

“Wager that was blind luck,” Sybil scoffed. “That was two years ago.”

“Rode her myself to victory just last year at Prinny’s party.”

She snorted. “You couldn’t keep your seat on him anymore.”

Chiswick’s eyes narrowed.

She had him.

“I wager I could beat you, insolent pup.”

Someone whistled. A hand slapped on the table, the bet already taking life. They were drunk and bored, and horse racing was the ubiquitous Achilles heel of an English lord.

“It’s a wager,” Sybil said, smirking. “Let’s have at it, then.”