To Sin With A Scoundrel (24 page)

“Tell him I will be down in a moment.”

As the servant headed for the stairs, Ciara caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the glass-framed botanical prints.
Hardly a pretty picture.
Steam had reddened her cheeks and curled her hair into unruly ringlets. Tucking an errant lock behind her ear, she smoothed
at the folds of her work dress. Not that it mattered what she looked like.

The Sheffields were blinded by their own selfish greed.

“Good morning, Aunt.” With an insolent shrug, Arthur placed the small Roman bronze of Mercury back in the curio case. “What
an odd collection. You seem to have a fondness for pagan deities.”

“I collect classical antiquities,” she replied coolly. “As do a great many educated members of Polite Society.”

He flushed slightly at the subtle barb. “You also appear to collect misfortunes, Lady Ciara. I just heard about the accident
in the park and came to inquire about my young cousin.”

“Peregrine is perfectly fine, thanks to Lord Hadley’s quickness.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed to a razored squint. “Perhaps if you had been keeping a careful watch on your son rather than making
mooncalf eyes at your lover, the boy would not have been in any danger to begin with.”

Ciara drew in a harsh breath.

“Perhaps he would be better off with more attentive guardians, Aunt. You seem more concerned with brewing up black magic than
in looking after your child.”

She couldn’t contain her indignation. “How dare you accuse me of neglect.”

“Oh, I assure you, it’s not just me.” A casual flick of his finger knocked over the statue of Juno. “The drawing rooms are
all abuzz with talk about the Wicked Widow.” He paused. “And have you seen the morning headlines?”

Though a frisson of fear ran down her spine, Ciara lifted her chin. “You may not find it quite so easy to turn all of Society
against me. I am not without… friends.”

Arthur’s face darkened for an instant, and then his lips parted to reveal a flash of teeth. “You dance through a few balls
and so think that you are a match for us? Trust me, my family knows the
ton
far better than you do. They know who wields the power here in Town—and who does not.”

She didn’t trust her voice to answer.

“So you see, it really would be best for everyone involved if you would agree to our earlier suggestions and cede legal guardianship
of the boy to us, his father’s family,” continued Arthur. “That way, Master Peregrine would get the attention he deserves,
and you, dear Aunt, would be free to pursue your unnatural interests.”

“Over my dead body,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“Oh, that can be arranged. Perhaps sooner rather than later.” He gave a nasty laugh. “You do know, don’t you, that the magistrate
is considering our petition to reopen the inquest into my uncle’s untimely demise. If we were to withdraw it, the case would
remain closed…” The unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

Ciara took a moment to master her outrage. “Are you threatening me, Sir Arthur?”

“Think it over, Aunt.” His sneer became more pronounced. “You really think Hadley will protect you? Ha—what a farce! God knows
what secret wager has him playing the besotted swain. But he’ll tire of the game soon enough.”

“Get out, sir,” she whispered.

Arthur shrugged and sauntered for the door. “Suit yourself,” he called. “But then be prepared to call Newgate prison your
new home.”

Ciara waited until the click of his boot heels died away before allowing herself to sink into one of the parlor chairs. Only
then did she realize her hands were trembling so badly that the fringe of her shawl was tied in knots. As were her insides.

Arthur was a despicable dullard, but his words were not idle boasts. The Sheffield family did indeed have power and influence.
Was it enough to poison Society against her and make good on their threats to convene a second inquest?

She stared down at tiny loops of silk and felt her throat constrict.
As if she needed any reminder that murder was a hanging offense.

The soft rap on the door caused her head to jerk up. Looking around in a blind panic, she sought for some means of escape.
If only she could slip away to somewhere safe—Italy… India… a remote South Sea island far, far from the lies of London.

“Your pardon, milady, but you have another caller. The gentleman says he will take up only a moment of your time.”

Standing in the shadow was Lord James Jacquehart Pierson.

Coming to voice his own disapproval?
Try as she might, Ciara couldn’t muster the strength to stand.

“Forgive me for calling at such an early hour, but I found this in my curricle”—he held out a small gold earbob—“and thought
you might be worried about it.”

“Thank you,” she said numbly, making no move to take the piece of jewelry. “I assumed I had lost it in the park.”

“Er. Well.” Jack shifted his feet. After waiting a moment longer, he took a few steps and placed it atop the curio cabinet.
“I’ll just leave it here.” However, his hand remained hovering over the burled walnut. “By Jove,” he murmured. “That is a
remarkably fine example of Octavian bronzework. It is by Flavius, is it not?”

“Yes,” she replied without looking up.

He looked up abruptly. “Are you all right, Lady Sheffield?”

“Yes,” she whispered, stifling the urge to break out in hysterical laughter.

“You look a little faint,” he insisted. “Please allow me to pour you a glass of sherry.”

“Tippling from the bottle is not one of my bad habits, sir,” replied Ciara a trifle sharply. “We witches and warlocks usually
wait until midnight to drink our black-magic libations.”

To his credit, Jack accepted the sarcasm with a show of good grace. “I suppose I deserved that. Would it help matters any
if I apologized once again for putting my foot in my mouth? I am not usually so clumsy, or so rude.” He hesitated. “I am sincere
in saying that I was mistaken in jumping to conclusions based on hearsay and innuendo.”

“It is I who ought to be making an apology, sir,” she assured him. “I—I am a bit overset at the moment, but that does not
excuse my taking it out on you.”

He nodded. “I saw Battersham leaving just now. I assume he has something to do with your current state of mind.”

“You could say that,” she said softly.

“Hadley says the fellow is threatening you.” It was half statement, half question.

“You did not come here to listen to a litany of my woes, Lord James.” She rose, unwilling to unburden herself any further.
“I imagine every family has its skeletons in the closet.”

“True.” Jack moved away from the curio cabinet, though his gaze seemed to linger for a moment on the display of Roman art.
“Don’t let him rattle you. He’s a toad, and all of the
ton
knows it.”

“I agree that Sir Arthur is a reptile, but I see him as more of a serpent. And unfortunately, the Sheffield species have poisonous
fangs.”

“Hadley seems intent on pulling out their teeth,” he replied after a hint of hesitation.

“I cannot blame you for sounding unhappy about the fact that your friend is putting himself at risk, sir. I am aware that
Hadley’s association with me is… dangerous.”

“As you may have noticed, Lucas isn’t afraid of taking a risk,” murmured Jack. Averting his eyes, he quickly changed the subject.
“Speaking of risk, I was admiring your Turner watercolor yesterday. The artist is not afraid of defying convention by using
a bold palette, is he?”

“Or a bold imagination.” She studied his profile as he approached the painting and subjected it to a closer scrutiny. Strange,
but at first blush, Jack had not struck her as a man who would care for art. Like Lucas, he was quite handsome, but his features
were a little harder, his gaze a little darker. His olive complexion and long black hair only added to the aura of brooding
introspection.

Intimidating.
Ciara stared a moment longer. An occasional
ondit
in the newspaper hinted that he was almost as rakish as his friend, but the particulars were never mentioned. Whatever his
escapades, “Black Jack” Pierson kept them very private.

“Have you seen the current exhibit at the Society of Painters in Water-Colours?” he asked abruptly.

She shook her head. “I don’t go out much in public.”

“You ought not miss it. I shall tell Lucas to take you. You should also see the latest works that Mr. Turner has on display
at his gallery in Harley Street.”

“I doubt Hadley would know a Turner from a turnip.” Ciara made a face. “I’ve inflicted enough punishment on the poor man,
I’ll not ask him to spend hours in an art gallery.”

“He might surprise you,” replied Jack. “Have you ever had a look at his sketchbooks?”

“Hadley draws?” she asked.

“Quite well, actually.” He paused a fraction. “Perhaps because he had such a devil of a time learning his letters. We used
to laugh ourselves sick over the pages of his copybook.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wrote the letters in reverse—E’s and F’s facing left instead of right. It seemed funny to us; however, the teachers were
not so amused. They used to birch him until he was black and blue. The trouble was, he didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Yes, I have heard of such a thing,” said Ciara.

“I believe he eventually outgrew it.”

“Still, it must have been very hard on him,” she mused.

“Who enjoys being the butt of ridicule, Lady Sheffield?” replied Jack slowly. “Lucas was not stupid. Quite the contrary. So
he quickly figured out how to deflect the jeers and catcalls of ‘imbecile.’” He paused for a fraction. “A devil-may-care recklessness
tends to draw whistles of admiration.”

“I see.” Her eyes had certainly been opened to a whole new facet of Hadley.

“Well, I had best be on my way.” Jack inclined a polite bow. “Good day, Lady Sheffield.”

“Where are you going?”

“For a ride,” replied Lucas.

Jack leaned against the adjoining stall. Hearing a shrill whinny, he peered inside. “What is
that?
”

“
That
is a pony.”

“Let me rephrase the question. What is
that
pony doing in
your
stable?”

“Eating hay.” He cocked an ear. “And making a pile of shite.”

“You’re an arse. You know that, don’t you?” grumbled his friend.

“What has you in such a sour mood?” Gathering the reins of his stallion in one hand, Lucas tightened the saddle’s girth.

Jack didn’t miss the wince. Ignoring the question, he countered with one of his own. “Should you be riding today?”

“Probably not. But when have you ever known me to do the sensible thing?”

“At least you are not trying to prance through the park on half a horse,” retorted Jack. “What prank are you planning for
the poor beast?”

“If you must know, the pony is for Peregrine.”

“Lucas—” began his friend.

“Hell, the lad is lonely, Jack. What’s the harm in taking him out to the park for a few basic lessons in horsemanship?”

“Harm?” echoed Jack. “I would say that the risk is very great indeed. I have been making a few inquiries, and it sounds to
me as if the incident yesterday was no accident.”

Lucas checked his stirrups. “I’m not so bacon-brained as to think that it was merely coincidence that a strange stallion burst
from out of the blue and tried to trample Lady Sheffield’s son.” His hand tightened on the leather. “I’ve done a little asking
around myself. Were you aware that Arthur Battersham is heir to the Sheffield title and lands if anything should happen to
the boy?”

Jack swore under his breath. “Did you get a look at the rider’s face?”

“No, he had a broad-brimmed hat and a muffler wrapped around his face. But my questions also uncovered information on where
one may hire that sort of ruffian.” Repressing a grunt, Lucas swung himself into the saddle. “Make my apologies to Gentleman
Jackson. I won’t be joining you for the weekly sparring session this afternoon.”

“Wait.” Jack signaled for the stable boy to bring out the chestnut hunter. “I’m coming with you.”

“It’s not your concern,” replied Lucas gruffly. “You warned me about Sheffield’s family, so consider your duty done.”

“Bloody hell, as if I’d stroll off and leave a friend in the lurch.”

“Damn it, I can fend for myself.”

“Nonetheless, I am not letting you go on alone.”

Lucas muttered several rude words but held his mount in check as the stableboy saddled another horse.

“Where are we headed?” asked Jack.

Lucas patted his pocket, checking that the scribbled directions were there. “Several livery stables in Southwark. My informant
has heard some whispers in the stews about a band of thugs for hire.”

“By the by, Battersham paid a call on your betrothed this morning. Judging from the look on her face as he left, I assume
it was not to offer his felicitations for a long and happy marriage.”

A jerk on the reins drew a whinnied protest from his stallion. Hooves thudded against the cobbles, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“How the devil do you know that?” demanded Lucas.