A Season for Sin (7 page)

He huffed, thinking it was the brandy that had made him maudlin tonight.

Yes, it was the brandy. And three young bucks who undoubtedly believed that nothing bad could ever happen to them.

L
aura was at her wit’s end as she paced the green drawing room. Every hour that passed increased her concern. She had rung the bell for the butler four times to inquire if Justin had returned. Eventually, she’d forced herself to stop troubling the servants when clearly they would inform her the moment he arrived home.

Once again, she glanced at the mantel clock and fisted her hands. It was one thirty in the morning. When Justin returned home, she would blister his ears for running amuck like one of those irresponsible rakes. If he didn’t explain his whereabouts and apologize for making her worry herself sick, she would take him home on the morrow.

Oh, she never, ever should have brought him to London.

The worst part was that there was nothing she could do. London was a sprawling city, and any attempt to hunt for him would prove impossible. But she couldn’t stop worrying. Some horrid thief might accost him. Her sweet Justin could die on the streets without her ever knowing what had happened to him.

Stop it.
She was allowing her imagination to run away with her, and that would do her no good at all. She needed to be calm and collected when Justin returned. Then she would be firm about the consequences of disobeying her. He would spend the next week secluded in their town house as punishment for arriving home long after midnight.

For now, she must try to rein in her agitation. She made herself pick up a book and sit in a chair to read. When she settled on the cushion, she realized that she’d managed to choose a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. With a sigh, she remembered the sound of her late husband Phillip’s voice as he’d read to her during their brief courtship. The Earl of Chesfield had been twenty-seven years her senior when she’d met him, but he’d been kind to her, even though she was far beneath him. Although she’d been only twenty, she and Phillip had shared a love of walks and poetry. Despite the great age difference, she’d loved him.

When Phillip had proposed, her father had been aghast, but Laura had known her prospects of marrying were frankly below sea level. Her papa had tried hard, but with ten children, he couldn’t provide the sort of dowry that would attract husbands for his four daughters. Her mother had said it was a practical decision and was proud that Laura had married so well. Laura had been very grateful to Phillip for providing financial assistance to her family, but more than anything, she’d loved being his wife. When he’d confessed he worried she’d made a bad bargain with an old man, she had told him never to speak the words again.

Her biggest regret was that she’d never been able to provide him with more children, because he’d grown ill early in their marriage. Phillip had felt guilty, but she’d always shushed him. Four years after his death, she still missed him on a daily basis, but she kept busy with her charitable projects, reading, and looking after Justin.

Justin was the light of her life, the only son of her late husband. For the past eight years she’d been the only mother he’d ever really known. Phillip had gotten married late in life to his first wife, Eleanor, who had produced Justin and died in childbirth along with the infant one year later. A succession of nannies had looked after the boy, until Laura had agreed to marry Phillip.

It was times like this that she missed her late husband the most. When she’d married Phillip, she’d adored his son, and Justin had loved her as well. Back then, she’d not anticipated the difficulties that lay ahead with parenting a seventeen-year-old who thought himself invincible, but she would manage. As with most things, there were always bumps in the road. Long ago, she’d learned to tackle one problem at a time. It was the only thing that had saved her sanity while nursing her severely ailing spouse. She’d hated watching him suffer, but at least he had not been alone.

Those thoughts dampened her spirits considerably. She always tried to focus on the positive, but tonight, she found it more of a trial than ever. The clock chimed twice, and Laura massaged her temples. If only she knew where to look for her stepson, she would scour the city. Laura was grateful to have one friend here, because it made the homesickness for Hampshire more bearable.

The sound of masculine voices alerted her. Laura gathered up her skirts and rushed out onto the landing. She pressed her hand to her chest upon seeing Justin with his two friends George and Paul.

Relief replaced her anger, but only momentarily. She descended the stairs, focusing primarily on Justin. She noticed that his friends wouldn’t look her in the eyes, and that bothered her more than anything. Only someone with something to hide would look away.

“Laura, we had an accident,” Justin said. He looked at his friends as if seeking corroboration.

“Right,” George said. “One of the horses threw a shoe, and there we were, stuck on the dark street, looking for a hackney.”

“It took a long time before we found one,” Paul said.

“You’ll need a ride home, I suppose,” Laura said.

Paul gave her a blank look. “The hackney is waiting for us.”

“We’d better be off,” George said.

After the two young men left, Justin started to walk away, but Laura put her hand on his arm. When he turned to her, he lurched a little. That was the moment she smelled the spirits on his breath.

Her lips thinned. “Come with me to the drawing room.”

“Aw, not now,” Justin said.

“Yes, now,” Laura said.

When they reached the drawing room, he sprawled in a chair with a sullen expression.

“Justin, I know you’ve been imbibing strong drink.”

He rolled his eyes. “I only had one drink.”

“You cannot fool me,” she said. “We spoke about the dangers of London before we left Hampshire. You promised me that you would use caution.”

“We were stuck, and it was deuced cold,” Justin said. “The driver had a flask.”

“A likely tale.” She paused and added, “I don’t trust your friends. George wouldn’t even look me in the eye.”

“Stop treating me like an infant,” Justin said.

“I worried about you,” she said. “It is after two o’clock in the morning. If something happened to you, I wouldn’t even know where to look.”

“You worry too much. I told you we got stuck,” he said, resting his chin in his palm.

“I promised your father that I would look after you.”

He shoved out of the chair. “I can look after myself.”

She went after him. “Justin, do not walk out on me.”

“Let go, Laura. I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“Justin, I’ve half a mind to take you back to Hampshire on the morrow.”

He ignored her and strode out of the drawing room.

When the door closed, she looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, Phillip, I wish you were here to set him straight.” But he wasn’t, and it was up to her to ensure her stepson didn’t land in a situation that might prove disastrous. She straightened her spine, determined to have another talk with Justin in the morning. If he wasn’t cooperative, she would remove him from the city faster than he could blink.

Like it or not, he’d find out soon that she was made of stern stuff and wouldn’t tolerate rebelliousness.

The next morning, Bell attended his fencing practice at Angelo’s. Perspiration dotted his forehead as he attacked, but he’d learned the art of reserving his strength. The fencing master was familiar with his technique. For several minutes, they parried as usual. Then something rose up inside Bell. He surprised the fencing master by lunging earlier than usual. A surge of energy rolled through his veins as he went on the attack, moving quickly and ruthlessly. He was vaguely aware of a gathering crowd as he pushed harder and faster.

The master parried, but Bell went on the attack again and again, gritting his teeth and giving his opponent no quarry. Some long-buried need to fight, win, and capture rose up within him. He didn’t think; he just gave into the primitive instincts coursing through him. Voices rumbled as their blades clanged, and then he rushed forward, forcing the master backward.

When the assault ended, rousing applause rang out. Bell ignored it and shook the master’s hand. He wasn’t all that surprised by the aggressive feelings that had coursed through him. He had the blood of medieval warriors running in his veins, and despite his polite, albeit cynical, veneer, he figured he was only one step removed from his savage ancestors.

He set aside the rapier and accepted a towel. After patting his forehead and chest, he looked up to find the trio of youngbloods he’d seen twice before. He probably wouldn’t have recollected them, if not for the lean one with the unusual wheat-colored hair. The other two were unremarkable in looks, but shared the same surly expression as their friend. The only other distinctive trait all three shared was bloodshot eyes. Bell walked past, determined to dismiss them altogether. But when he pulled his damp shirt over his head, their voices reached him.

“Damn my eyes, did you see the muscles in his chest and upper arms?” one of the dark-haired boys said.

“Looks as if he’s been chopping firewood,” the one with the wheat-colored hair said.

Bell heard the sarcasm in the young man’s voice and looked at him with an intense expression.

The young man pretended not to notice.

Bell snorted and walked off. Oh, ho. He didn’t envy the father of this unruly young fellow.

His thoughts turned elsewhere as he dried off and dressed. He had several matters to review before the sessions in Parliament this afternoon. Then he remembered the ball he’d agreed to attend with Harry and Colin. With a huff, he figured the widow was either fictitious or unattractive. There was, however, a slight chance she would turn out to be beautiful and willing. He snorted. Harry’s female cousins had probably fabricated the story in jest.

Bell returned home that afternoon and went to his study to attend to the mail. His secretary’s pen scratched as he recorded Bell’s instructions to bankers, solicitors, and his steward in Devonshire. Next, he tackled the mountain of invitations for the following week and only accepted a few where he knew he would meet up with some of his political allies.

When his secretary handed him a personal letter, Bell broke the seal. It was from his old friend Will. He dismissed the secretary and unfolded the letter.

Bell folded the letter, remembering the four years he and Will had spent journeying on the Continent. Lord, they’d had some wild adventures, but they were over now. Nothing would ever be the same.

He ran his thumb over the seal, thinking perhaps he would pay his old friend a visit this summer, but he reconsidered. After all, he wasn’t keen on domestic bliss. Lord, dogs, cats, and soon an infant. Will had certainly turned over the proverbial new leaf, and now Fordham would follow in his footsteps.

Bell sighed, knowing he should have foreseen it all, but somehow he’d just never thought of it.

He stowed the letter in a drawer, stood, and walked out of the study. Tonight he would attend the ball, and if luck were with him, he’d find a new mistress.