To Sin With A Scoundrel (16 page)

“Yes, sir!”

The boy reminded him of an awkward young puppy, so willing and eager to please. Lucas felt an odd constriction in his chest,
remembering how lonely it could be for a child living with a single adult. The widow’s notoriety no doubt limited her son’s
contact with the outside world even more. No wonder the boy was trying so desperately hard.

“Well done, lad. Well done!” he called, twisting to field the throw before it hit the grass. “A bit more practice and you’ll
be a corking good bowler.”

The simple praise drew a grin from Peregrine. Ducking his head, he darted a sidelong look at his mother, who answered with
an encouraging smile. “I have not Lord Hadley’s experience in sports, but your skills certainly seem greatly improved to me,
lambkin.”

“Mama!” Peregrine rolled his eyes in embarrassment. “I’m no longer in leading strings.”

Ciara’s smothered cough sounded suspiciously close to a laugh. “My abject apologies, Perry.”

Lucas masked his mirth, as well. “Sporting champions must become accustomed to adoring female spectators,” he said gravely.

Her gaze narrowed ever so slightly in warning not to tread on dangerous ground with any risqué innuendos.

Much as he enjoyed seeing her cheeks flare with crimson fire, Lucas decided to back off. He was having too much fun. Lud,
it had been an age since he had played cricket.

Grabbing up the bat, Lucas took a few cuts through the air. “How are your hitting skills?” he asked.

“Awful,” admitted Peregrine with a rueful grimace.

“It’s all a matter of timing and proper vision. The stance is very important. Here, let me show you…”

For the next quarter hour, he worked with Peregrine on the rudiments of play. The boy was a quick study, and the
thwack
of wood against leather was soon echoing through the garden, along with whoops of exuberant laughter.

Lucas rubbed the ball between his palms. “Oh ho, showing me up in front of your mother, eh? What a blow to my manly pride.”
He winked at Ciara. “Let’s see if you can hit this one.”

Cocking his wrists, just as he had been shown, Peregrine took a mighty swing at the pitch. The bat connected with a resounding
crack, but the angle was a little off and the ball flew off in an errant arc. Ricocheting off the brick wall, it shattered
a terra-cotta flower urn, which in turn knocked a pot of garden fertilizer—a mixture of watered manure and fishmeal—onto Lucas’s
expensive coat. Drenched in slimy muck, the garment slithered from the bench and fell into a small reflecting pool.

The boy dropped the bat and ran to retrieve it.

Lucas joined him at the water’s edge and reached out, only to see Peregrine flinch and cover his head.

“I’m s-so s-sorry, sir,” stammered the boy. “I swear I didn’t mean to ruin your coat. I was clumsy—it won’t ever happen again.
I promise.”

Ruffling the boy’s hair, Lucas gave a hearty chuckle. “Think nothing of it, lad.”

Ciara had shot up, but she sat down without a word.

He nodded in silent approval and went on, “You’re not a real player until you have destroyed at least a dozen innocent bystanders.
I shattered six of my uncle’s windows in one afternoon.”

“D-did he birch you?” asked Peregrine.

“No, he hired the star player from Lord’s to teach me to hit it straight. Said it was far cheaper than to be constantly repairing
the glass panes.” Suddenly aware that the boy was still rigid with apprehension, Lucas scooped him up and tossed him in the
air. “Actually, I owe you a debt of thanks. I have always disliked that particular shade of green but have been too cowed
by my valet to get rid of it.”

Peregrine relaxed enough to giggle as Lucas set him down.

“Now fetch your missile and let’s continue to play,” he added.

However, a moment later the cook appeared in the doorway and summoned the boy for his tea.

Peregrine looked loath to end the session, but a gentle chiding from his mother reminded him of his manners. “Thank you for
the pointers, sir. It was awfully sporting of you to take the time to work with me.”

Lucas dusted his hands on the seat of his trousers. “Next time we’ll practice some basic batting drills to improve your timing.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “You mean we can do it again sometime?”

“If your mother agrees.” He lowered his voice a notch. “So you had best obey her, so she doesn’t decide I’m a bad influence
on you.”

As her son marched dutifully toward the door, Ciara turned.

“Th-thank you,” she said in a halting voice. “Our bargain did not include playing games with an eight-year-old.”

“He’s a nice lad,” said Lucas.

“I’m surprised…” Her voice trailed off as she tugged at her shawl.

“Surprised that he is nice?” he said dryly.

Her mouth quirked. “Surprised that you are so good with children, sir.”

Lucas shrugged. “It’s hard not to enjoy their exuberance.”

“No, it’s more than that,” she insisted. “Some people have a natural rapport with adolescents. Peregrine’s father got very
angry when he made a youthful mistake.”

“Did Sheffield strike him?”

There was a perceptible pause. “Only when I couldn’t move fast enough to intervene.”

“So that he could beat you?” said Lucas, somehow managing to keep his voice calm, though a surge of hot bile rose in his throat.
Only a craven cad would mistreat his own wife and child. He found himself wishing that the lout were still alive—so he could
thrash him to a pulp.

Ciara looked aghast at her slip of the tongue. She tried to cover up by quickly adding, “No, of course not! As for Peregrine,
his father did on occasion use a firm hand for discipline, but I am told that all boys feel a birch on their backsides from
time to time.”

“True.” Forcing his jaw to unclench, Lucas leaned down to scoop up the soggy remains of his coat. “Shall we call it a day?”

“Yes,” she agreed with obvious relief. “It makes sense to wait until the next lesson to start on our program of study—” Her
gaze suddenly seemed to focus on his shirtsleeves. “Oh dear, how on earth are you going to walk through Mayfair like that!
Shall I call my carriage for you?”

He waved off the suggestion. “No need. If anyone asks, I’ll simply say I was taking my daily swim.”

“But you will catch your death of cold.”

“Lady Sheffield, I hate to distress you, but I have gallivanted through the streets of London clad in far less than this.”

“You are sure you don’t want a carriage?”

“Quite.” Lucas retied his cravat and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Speaking of studies, I nearly forgot.” Fishing
a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, he handed it to her.

She smoothed at the wrinkles, looking a little uncertain of whether to unfold it.

“Don’t worry, it’s not some passionate billet-doux or erotic poem. My uncle jotted down some questions he had regarding your
research,” he explained. “Sorry if the writing looks a little rushed. Henry is quite excited about this project.” He paused.
“The truth is, it’s brought a gleam to his eye that’s been missing for ages.”

“Please assure Sir Henry that I will study his queries and send him a prompt reply.”

“I fear you have been stuck with the harder part of the bargain. So, if anyone should be giving thanks, it is I.”

“Let us call it even,” said Ciara softly.

“Sportsmen don’t really like a draw. It’s considered something akin to kissing your sister—there is no pain, but no pleasure,
either.”

She fixed him with a thoughtful stare. “Must there always be a winner and loser?”

“That is usually how the game is played.”

Interestingly enough, she did not inquire as to which game he was referring. Holding his coat by its dripping collar, Lucas
took his leave with a polite bow. But rather than flag down a hackney, he decided to walk for a bit, despite the stares.

The outdoor interlude had left him in a pensive mood. He had seen Ciara’s pinched expression as she watched her son at play.
She was obviously a doting mother, and did her best to put on a cheerful face. Yet beneath the surface smiles, she looked
worn and worried.

Damn.
The thought of what they must have suffered stirred a new wave of anger at her late husband. A lady of her youthful years
ought not have so many responsibilities weighing on her shoulders. Her eyes should be lit with laughter, not clouded with
fears for her future.

Slowing his steps, Lucas turned abruptly and entered a store on the corner of Albemarle Street. It took only a few minutes
to have his purchases wrapped and sent on to his townhouse—along with his still damp coat. Then it was on to Hatchards. A
glance at his pocket watch showed there was plenty of time to stop off at Henry’s with the promised books before returning
home to dress for the evening.

D
espite being the last full gathering for several months, the meeting of the Circle seemed to move a little faster than usual.

“So,” said Charlotte, rapping her teaspoon for silence. “Now to the most important matter of business. We expect a full report
on how things are proceeding with Hadley.”

“So far, the earl has refrained from acting like Lucifer Incarnate,” admitted Ciara. “No smoke, no brimstone has filled the
laboratory with sulphurous smells.” The only hellfire was from her own heated reactions to the man’s devilish charm.

Dreading any discussion of her feelings, Ciara quickly changed the subject to her work with Henry’s manuscript.

“I would rather talk about the manuscript. I have reason to believe that the parchment is all about some sort of plant with
miraculous healing powers,” she began. “As you all know, the ancient Greeks were engaged in the spice trade with India and
the Far East long before the Europeans.”

“True,” murmured Kate. “I’ve seen an early
periplus,
or navigator’s guide, which describes in great detail the trade routes through the Eastern oceans. The journeys were timed
to the monsoon winds. In fact, it was a Greek by the name of Hippalus who first recorded the phenomenon—”

“Such nautical history is fascinating,” said Charlotte dryly. “But let’s not stray from the main topic.”

Ciara tried to keep the topic on the current course. “Kate is right. The merchant ships made great use of the strong prevailing
winds. A major port of call was Malabar, where the Greeks exchanged tin, glass and Mediterranean coral for ivory, silks, pearls,
and exotic spices and plants unknown to the West—”

“Charlotte is right,” interrupted Ariel. “Tell us more about Hadley.”

“There really isn’t much to tell,” she replied evasively. “So I don’t know what to say.”

“You could start with how you feel about him,” suggested Alessandra dryly. “Now that you’ve spent a little time with him.”

“He is handsome as sin, and there is no denying he has a certain devilish charm…” Her voice trailed off.

“And,”
pressed Kate.

Ciara felt herself color under the scrutiny of pairs of eyes. “And… and the truth is, I’m not sure how to feel. One moment
I’m hot, the next moment I’m cold.” She made a face. “As if that makes any sense.”

Alessandra gave a sympathetic murmur.

“Has he tried to kiss you?” asked Kate.

Her cheeks were now on fire. “Please, if you don’t mind, I really don’t care to talk about Hadley. We are supposed to be discussing
science,
not sex.”

“Sex is science,” quipped Kate. “It’s a core element of biology.”

“Oh, very well, we’ll stop teasing you.” Charlotte pursed her lips. “Getting back to the manuscript, if the plant in question
has remarkable healing powers, why was it kept such a secret?”

Grateful for the respite, Ciara hurriedly explained, “During medieval times, the Christian Church tended to view science as
heresy. So many scribes recorded their texts in secret codes, in hope that they would survive.”

“Secrets,” muttered Kate darkly. “Hell, society is always so ready to savage anyone who dares to challenge convention.”

Secrets.
Ciara gave an inward sigh. She was certain that she was not the only ‘Sinner’ plagued by private demons…

“We, of all people, are aware of that,” observed Alessandra dryly. “But do go on, Ciara. This is sounding interesting.”

She shook off her musings and returned to the subject of science. “Yes, well, I’ve read through only the first few pages;
however, I have a feeling that it is going to be something truly special.”

All shared her excitement, but Ariel seemed especially intrigued. Botany was her special field of interest.

Ciara went on to mention Henry’s list of questions.

Kate broke off a bit of biscuit. “You know, I recently read one of Sir Henry’s essays for reference, and I must say, I like
his style. It’s clever, lucid, and witty. He seems to have a sense of humor—”

“He must, to have raised such a hellion as Hadley without murdering either himself or his ward,” said Ciara under her breath.

Kate ignored the interruption. “Only one thing puzzles me. Why have we never encountered the gentleman at any of the Scientific
Society lectures?”

Ciara bit her lip, unsure if Lucas had meant for the information about his uncle’s infirmity to be kept in confidence.

“Perhaps he dislikes a crowd,” pointed out Alessandra.

“A good point. Many deep thinkers dislike disturbing their routine.” Ariel tapped her chin. “I know—we could consider calling
on him.”

“That’s an excellent suggestion,” said Charlotte. “A meeting with the baronet might help solve the mystery of the manuscript
sooner.”

Ciara decided to agree. If Sir Henry did not want visitors, his servants would know how to turn them away.

Ariel thumbed through an ink-smudged notebook. “Excellent, excellent,” she murmured, echoing Kate’s sentiment. “The fact is,
I should very much like to ask Sir Henry his opinion on Kingston’s essay on Indian orchids.” She pushed her spectacles back
up to the bridge of her nose. “Shall we go tomorrow afternoon?”

Ciara saw no reason to defer the trip. “Oh, very well.”