Page 90 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

“I have an invitation,” she said.

“Password,” he barked at her.

Passwords. She was embarrassed for them. Secret societies should be more creative by now. She stifled a peevish sigh and lowered her voice. “Ariadne.”

Honestly.

“Go on in.”

That was when she realized she recognized his voice. He was one of the men who had grabbed her off the street.

The urge to drive her elbow into his nose was strong. Very strong.

“Here’s your mask. Put it on,” he added.

She was already wearing a disguise, and his name was Lord Singleton. But she took the half mask and tied it under the brim of her beaver-crowned hat.

The door opened into darkness, and she forced herself through it, reminding herself that she had three daggers on her person, and Peony. She knew her friend was at her back—or, more accurately, somewhere up high, her rifle trained on the men below. Sybil did not look up.

And Keir.

A single candle burned to show her the way to the main room. It smelled of roasted lamb and incense. The fashion for all things Classical had been indulged, which she supposed she ought not be surprised at, considering they had named themselves for an ancient Cretan myth. The white columns at the front of the Albany were echoed here, holding up the ceiling like a Grecian temple. There was a low table in the center with an oil lamp illuminating bowls of fruit and wine and baskets of bread with hard cheeses.

Around the table were guests wearing the usual fashion of a man-about-town, along with masks and cloaks, but they clearly knew each other. She could spot the other two new recruits from the way they sat quietly, eyes wide behind their masks, without a cloak as she was.

It was like any other gentlemen’s club, if not for the undercurrents, the venue. The things they did.

The man who stepped out of the shadows was also wearing a mask. There was nothing about him to recognize—his coat was like any other, his cravat white, his boots polished. His cloak thick and black. He wore no rings, had no scars.

The others came to attention, although coming to attention in such a group mostly consisted of affected expressions of ennui, leaning against the wall, setting down a terracotta amphora painted with a depiction of the labyrinth and King Minos. It was filled with red wine. It was also well over two thousand years old. Sybil had an antiquarian friend who would have wept at the desecration of such an ancient artifact. Not wept. Raged.

Sybil stood very still, waiting.

The man met her eyes. As he did not immediately shout at her to be removed, she could assume her disguise stood. Two more men joined him, unmasked, massive, armed. Protection. And bullies at a glance.

“Do sit down.” The man half bowed. “I am Minos. We are all Minos. That is how we protect each other.”

That was how they got away with every crime and wrongdoing. Lord Portsmouth had a long list of people from Parliament to the courts to the ballroom whom he blackmailed to cover his tracks. It was how he had gotten away with murdering his wives when they did not produce an heir.

Until the Spinsters.

Kitty, to be exact.

“Three of you have been invited to join us because you know someone like us or you show promise to be someone like us. An asset.”

And yet something nagged at her all the same.

Sybil’s palms started to sweat. It had felt like playacting before, with passwords and bored aristocrats, but a shiver went down her spine. She knew better than to underestimate a bored aristocrat. It only felt like playacting because they could afford for it to feel like playacting. There were already too many women in their lives who knew this was not a game.

“We have been keeping an eye on you.”

The marks in the betting books.

“We know what you’ve done, what you want to do. And that is why we can help each other. Especially now.”

“Why now?” someone asked.

“Because we are plagued by the Spinster Society.”