The Duke's Night of Sin (28 page)

T
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L
ord Grant Sinclair never could abide the ignorant. And though the company of the four thick-brows he’d joined at the card table an hour before had fattened his pockets considerably, their inane conversation prickled his patience.

What addlepates they were. Why, their mugs practically screamed out the exact cards they held in their stubby thieving fingers, while they turned the blame for their own idiocy on being light on luck.

What a ridiculous notion.

Being blessed with good fortune had nothing to do with winning at cards. Nay, it had everything to do with watching for tells, those tiny, almost imperceptible flinches, grimaces, or smiles, that communicate even the most wily of liars’ honest reaction moments before their minds have the good sense to mask true emotion. Tells were Grant’s bread and butter.

His brothers, and aye, his sisters, too, had developed
perception of others to a fine art. That was not to say that this skill always benefited them, for indeed, many times, knowing what another is thinking only boosts one’s supreme self-assuredness to a level that leads him to attempt too great risks, thinking he has a clear advantage. That forged a path to recklessness … and sometimes to a blackened eye.

Or worse.

Much like tonight.

Grant realized his mistake the moment he won the fifth straight hand, chuckling inwardly as he dragged more than fifty gleaming guineas across the card table. A heap of sweet gold glittered before him, and yet he held his countenance impassive. A misstep, it seemed, for his lack of reaction, which would have warranted from anyone else a hoot at the very least, drew the attention of the other players.

“Why, ye’re a bleedin’ cheat.” The player’s words slurred, courtesy of the bottle of fine brandy Grant had paid the waiter to serve to their table time and time again over the past hour.

He couldn’t help himself but redirected the attention from his skill at cards to the brandy. “Hardly. But I am a Scot, as well as a Sinclair, and holding our spirits is something at which we excel.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s it at all, you sotting shark.” This man was a fair bit larger than the first, and Grant felt it was only wise to refrain from baiting him. “Here’s what I reckon. Ye’ve colored the cards or numbered them somehow.” He and the other males—for in that particular gaming hell, Grant was sure he was the only gentleman present—flipped over their cards and held them up before their crimson-threaded, glazed-over eyes. “How else would you always know exactly what we’re all holdin’ in our paws?” The hulk came to his feet … followed by the other players.

As if on cue, they whisked back their coats, revealing knives, guns, and even a small meat hook.

Bollocks.

Now, Grant was a very large man, by any standards, but the four muscle-bound thugs had the advantage of numbers—and weapons.

Blast. Time to quit the premises. Promptly.

Hooking the tips of his fingers beneath the edge of the table, he flipped it over upon them. Not terribly original, but, hell, he didn’t have more than a moment to consider his escape.

The cost would be his bounty, but his life was more precious. His most recent pile of ill-gotten guineas spilled out upon them and clattered across the floor.

The thick-brows scrambled, providing Grant just enough time to whirl around and dash out the door.

The air was icy, and, for a moment, the thought crossed Grant’s slightly inebriated mind that the fogged plume of his breath would lead them straight to him, wherever he ran, like a trail of bread crumbs.

He hastened to the top of St. James’s Street, hoping at that time of night, a hackney would be waiting at the stand. No such luck. He could already hear the gamesters bellowing at him from down the hill.

Despite the hour, he saw candlelight glowing in the windows of a building up ahead. The room appeared crowded, and if he was stealthy enough, he decided he could slip inside and lose himself in their number. He made for it.

The pounding of his footfalls sounded amplified in the still of the night, twisting his nerves tighter. He hurried to the door and, to his relief, found it unlocked, and he was able to enter freely.

A gathering of several people stood at the front of a large, rectangular room. A bench in the front and a number of simple wooden chairs stood cheek by jowl in rows of six with a narrow aisle down the middle. Plainly dressed women filled
the chairs on one side of the aisle, while men and older boys were on the other.

Not a word was spoken, though every soul turned around to peer at Grant as he entered. He nodded in a friendly manner, but he could see from their disapproving eyes that he had intruded upon some sort of meeting. And, while he knew he should leave at once, he simply could not. Not with Mr. Meat Hook prowling about outside. And so, he smiled sheepishly and quietly closed the door behind him.

At the front of the room stood a young, very beautiful woman wearing a sullen expression that contrasted so completely with her snowy white frock. She was all but surrounded by a stern-faced gentleman, a well-dressed man, and a woman, who, between audible sobs, dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes.

The young woman’s green eyes lifted and sought out Grant’s own. He smiled at her and immediately a flash of borrowed relief swept her finely sculpted features.

“Is that he?” The tall, elderly man barked, pointing rudely at Grant.

She lowered her eyes as she nodded. “I told you he would come. He would not leave me to face this alone.”

What in God’s name is she going on about?

“You, there, friend. Come forward. We have been waiting for you.” The tall man beckoned Grant forward.

“Are you referring to me, sir?”

“I am. Come forth.” It was not a request.

On the other side of the wooden door, Grant could hear the muffled voices of the cardplayers as they called out to each other. It was certain they would discover him if he did not find some way to conceal himself in plain sight. And so, he did what any man being pursued by a snarling pack of armed thugs would do—he walked down the aisle toward the young woman.

As Grant neared, the miss’s wide green eyes pleaded desperately with him. It was clear she needed his help, but in doing what? Her face paled as her chest rose and fell in a rapid succession of shallow breaths.

Damn me.
He’d seen this collection of reactions before—just before his sister Ivy lost consciousness the day she was presented to the queen.

Grant hastened to her, and when she reached out her shaking hands to him, he instinctively took them into his own.

Och, aye, she was in a serious tangle, of that he
was certain. But Grant was deep in the stew as well, and so, for the moment, he would accept her plea and become her accomplice in some sort of grand charade.

Squeezing her hands, he gave her a quick nod to impart his agreement with her plan, whatever it might be. After all, better to play along than to be cast back into the street and into the hands of four men desiring to hack him into guinea-sized bits and feed him to the Thames.

What happened next was damned odd.

Nothing.
Not a bloody thing happened. They were led to two chairs set side by side and bade to sit. There they remained for several agonizing minutes in complete silence as Grant’s pursuers stalked past the windows time and time again.

The congregation did not stir. At one point, Grant leaned toward the young woman to whisper to her. He had to admit, he was feeling more than a little done in from the whisky he’d imbibed during the card game, and, perhaps, he missed the stern-faced man’s directions and whether he was supposed to say something.

The moment he parted his lips, the green-eyed beauty flashed a warning glance. He closed his mouth at once.

Finally, she took his hand and drew him to his feet. She turned to him. “In the presence of God and these Friends, I take thee to be my husband, promising with Divine assistance to be unto thee a loving and faithful wife as long as we both shall live.” Then, she squeezed his hand.

Damn me to hell.
Grant’s eyes widened. This was a bleeding wedding!
His.
His keen bachelor’s instincts told him to run. He started to pull away, but she tightened her hold.

“Please,” she mouthed. Her eyes began to flood with tears.

Nay, this was going too far. Grant started to turn, meaning to quit the premises at once, but at that very moment the door opened and one of his pursuers stalked in. Everyone turned to face the newcomer.

Grant turned back around and angled toward the young woman. If he could just remain where he was for a few moments, the wastrel might not see him and leave.

“Please.” The miss peered up at him. “Help me,” she whispered.

Grant stared down at her. How could she possibly ask him to do this? She didn’t even know him.

Then it occurred to him that that was likely
exactly why she wanted his help. They didn’t know each other. His name could not be upon any wedding license, for until a few minutes ago, they’d never even seen each other. The marriage ceremony was not valid in the least. He exhaled. “Very well.”

“Repeat after me, while the Friends are still distracted by the man in the back of the meeting house. I assume he is looking for you?”

Grant nodded. Had a thug not been prowling the perimeter of the room, this whole adventure would be vastly amusing.

“Then, sir, we have an agreement.” A sigh of relief escaped her full, pink lips.

“Aye, we do.”
Why the hell not?
After all, what a chuckle his brothers and sister would have when he told them over breakfast that last eve he married a chit he’d never even met. “Begin.”

She peered up into his eyes and spoke.

Trying not to slur, Grant repeated her words softly, but in a heartfelt manner so as to make the ceremony more believable to all present. “In the presence of God and these Friends, I take thee to be my wife, promising with Divine assistance to be unto thee a loving and faithful husband as long as we both shall live.”

The door slammed closed, and Grant could not help but whirl around.
Thanks be. He is gone.
His breathing came easier now. Another moment, and it would likely be safe enough to leave the building.

The young woman dragged him to a table in the front corner of the room. She took up a quill and dipped it into the ink. “One last thing. Please, sign your name here, and we are finished.”

The entire congregation had left their chairs and were moving toward them, and so, not wanting this farce to continue any longer, he scribbled something. The two older men who had been standing with the young woman took up the quill pen and signed the document as well.

He gave a parting glance at the visibly relieved young woman, as the congregation enveloped her, then he dashed from the room and back into the empty street.

“Excuse me, Lord Grant.”

Grant lifted one eyelid but he was not about to move from his pillow. “What time is it, Poplin?”

The Sinclair family’s elderly manservant stood before Grant’s bed. “Noon, my lord.”

“Too early. Need sleep,” he groaned, pulling the coverlet over his head.

“I must inform you that you have a visitor, my lord.”

“Poplin, my head pains me.” Indeed, Grant’s head throbbed with every word. “I am in no condition to receive a visitor.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but your sister was quite certain you would wish to receive this caller.”

“Who is it?” Grant rolled onto his back and lifted the edge of the coverlet from his face.

“The caller did not provide a name, though I believe Lady Priscilla is correct in her assumption that you would wish to receive this caller.”

Grant opened his eyes. The old man was clearly discomposed. He could not even meet Grant’s gaze. “Why are you and my sister so convinced I would wish to entertain a visitor now?”

“Because, my lord,” Poplin cleared his throat, “she claims to be your wife.”

Grant hadn’t even bothered to dress. He donned a striped dressing gown, tied it at his waist, and stormed from his bedchamber. Hurrying down the stairs, he rushed into the parlor.

And there she was. The green-eyed beauty he’d … well … Christ, did he marry her last eve? Only they weren’t married. Nay. It was a charade, nothing more!

“There you are, Grant,” crooned Priscilla, the youngest of the seven Sinclair siblings. “I realize you must have been in a great hurry to greet your beloved wife, but you might have considered wearing breeches at the very least for my sake.” She grinned over the lip of her teacup.

The young woman rose. “My lord.”

Grant narrowed his eyes and walked toward her, but stilled his step when his brother Lachlan entered the parlor. “Well, who have we here, Priscilla? Care to introduce me to your lovely friend?”

The woman turned to look at Lachlan, then trained her eyes on Grant once more. “I fear I am no longer a Friend, my lord.”

Lachlan chuckled and turned his attention to Grant. He playfully punched his brother in the shoulder. “Och, now, what have you done to deserve that, Grant?”

“He married her. Isn’t that right, Grant?” Priscilla’s lips lifted with the promise of more mischief.

Lachlan burst out laughing, but when no one joined in his merriment, he stopped abruptly. “She is jesting, Grant, isn’t she?”