Page 6 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

Chapter Two

It was still raining.

Sybil didn’t mind. She felt squirmy and breathless and so overheated that she half expected steam to rise off her as Keir set her down on her feet. The cold wind snaking around lampposts and between buildings was soothing.

“Mind explaining what that was about?” Keir asked, gravelly voice deceptively mild. His eyes pinned her in place, demanding. A tiny bit menacing. Rain misted on his kilt, making him more suited to standing over a fire in craggy mountains purple with heather.

She liked it.

Oh no. That would not do. Not here. Not now.

“Terribly sorry!” She sent him a sunny, carefree smile. “No time to chat!”

And then she turned tail and ran.

She did not consider retreat cowardly. Not in this case. It was merely sensible. Tactical, even. She could be cautious when the occasion warranted it, despite what her fellow Spinsters said. Keir outweighed her by several stones. His arms were thick enough to toss trees about like kindling. Certainly strong enough to keep her still while he pilfered the betting book back from her.

It was hers now. She’d pilfered it first.

The rain, cursed by so many, was exceedingly helpful tonight. It silvered the air, blurred the edges as she darted out of reach and slipped between two carriages. A coachman yelled something unflattering at her when he was forced to pull on the reins. “Apologies!” she yelled back, mostly to the horse. Water splashed around her shoes.

She could feel Keir’s presence at her back, even as she knew she had lost him. There were too many wheels and hooves and buildings between them now. She knew the laneways better than anyone, even though she had not depended on them for her survival in a great many years. Her nan had walked her through the rookeries every day, her thick gray shawl full of holes young Sybil had loved digging her fingers through, like a fishing net. Fishing nets were her favorite—they made her think of her father, who was away sailing the seas.

It was not far to run to Spinster House on the edge of Hyde Park, and running was so much more enjoyable than strolling. The betting book was safely tucked into her cape, in one of the many large pockets she had sewn into all of her clothing. Some attached at the waist, under her dresses, some hung from her stays. Most of her capes were riddled with them. They were very useful for pilfered books, but also weapons of every kind, from hatpins to daggers to the pouches of mysterious herbs Priya handed out to the Spinsters. A spinster, a wallflower who could not find a husband, was the perfect person to offer you an innocuous, harmless cup of tea.

More fool you, if you accepted it.

Spinster House had been home for some months now. The society operated from a grand house Priya had bought, located right next to hers. She had been more interested in having a second greenhouse at the time, but it wasn’t long before she filled the place with women, from Emmeline and Matilda, who lived together in the master suite of rooms, and Peony, to ladies who found themselves hiding from fortune hunters and bored aristocrats looking for a plaything.

And Sybil, who was perfectly welcome at home, but was also twenty-nine years old and preferred not to have to come up with excuses every time she came home in the middle of the night.

Which was frequently.

Perfectly normal for a debutante or fashionable lady who spent her time dancing until dawn in silk slippers—less ordinary for a spinster who had not been asked to dance in some time.

Pity, as Sybil was quite good at waltzing.

But she had no dowry, even though her father was an earl. And as she was technically a foundling, she did not bring acceptable bloodlines to a prospective husband’s lineage. It had not bothered her in years. She was extraordinarily lucky. Her parents were better than anyone, and she would poison the tea of anyone who suggested otherwise. Her hazy origins did not bother her, and more importantly, nor did they bother her parents.

They did bother every earl, Marquess, or duke she had ever met. If not them, then it bothered their mothers. Grandmothers. Someone was always very bothered.

Keir, who had been her closest companion and accomplice until he turned sixteen, was bothered.

Spinster House glowed warmly with lamps lit at the windows, always ready to welcome a weary traveler. A spinster being chased by a street gang of ruffians. And a drunken duke. Together.

One time, that had happened.

But Priya had taken one look at the state of Sybil and had lamps lit every night hence.

Sybil ducked into the lilac trees, most of the leaves plucked by the cold wind. The garden was a brittle shadow, but still a useful one. Yew bushes and statues of Roman women wearing circlets of roses offered a certain shield from the casual glances of people passing by. Spinster House was starting to become known, whispered about behind fans and over teacups. They straddled that murky line between needing to be secret and needing to be available.

Best that the Spinsters came and went through side entrances and back doors, less able to be accounted for by unfriendly eyes.

Sybil let herself in through the kitchen, laying her cloak over a chair by the fire to drip into the flagstones. She snatched a pear from a bowl as she made her way upstairs. The house was like any other grand Mayfair townhouse: parlors, ballrooms, bedrooms, servant quarters.

But here the ballroom was reserved for throwing daggers and fencing and practicing other such useful skills as climbing and pugilism. There was also a large pool of heated water where Peony spent most of her nights. She popped out of the glass room that had been built around it now, dark hair still damp, wearing a thick dressing gown. “You’re drenched,” she said. “And smug. Where have you been?”

Sybil and Peony had become closer friends due to the fact that they both kept the oddest hours.