To Sin With A Scoundrel (17 page)

“My, my, aren’t you the clever fellow.”

Lucas looked up from the pages of the sporting journal. The florid face was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t connect a name
to it. Cocking a quizzical brow, he replied, “I beg your pardon?”

The reek of spirits grew more pronounced as the man leaned down over the leather armchair. “I’m no fool, Hadley. I know what
you have in mind, but I’m telling you that we won’t tolerate any meddling in my family’s affairs.”

“Apparently your wits are more slurred than you think. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He returned to reading about
the upcoming races at Newcastle. “Toddle off and annoy someone else.”

Rather than retreat, the man grew more belligerent. “It’s you who had better back off.”

A hush fell over the club’s reading room.

“We’ve heard word that you have interest in making my aunt a respectable offer—though God knows why you, of all people, would
have any need for her fortune. You’re rich as Croesus.”

So, the obnoxious oaf was Arthur Battersham, Lady Sheffield’s nephew.
It took a concerted effort for Lucas to keep his temper in check.

“You are welcome to toss up the she-bitch’s skirts any time you like,” continued Battersham. Although it was early in the
evening, it was clear that he had been drinking heavily, and the brandy had made him bold—and unsteady on his feet. His beefy
bulk was now perched on the arm of the chair. “However, be advised that we won’t let anyone steal her fortune from our family.
It rightfully belongs to us, and we mean to see that the witch pays for the perfidy of poisoning my uncle.”

Lucas slowly set aside the journal. “Thank you for the warning. Have you anything else to add?”

Battersham smirked and shook his head. “No, I think I’ve made my points perfectly clear.”

“Indeed you have. Now allow me to return the favor.” His hand shot up and caught the man’s cravat in a stranglehold. “First
of all, if you ever utter a disrespectful word about Lady Sheffield in public again, I shall thrash you to a bloody pulp.”
He tightened his hold. “Secondly, if you ever imply that she is guilty of any crime, save to misjudge the character of your
slimy uncle, I shall kick your arse from here to Hades.”

Battersham’s face was now turning a mottled shade of purple.

“Thirdly, if you ever presume to threaten me again, I shall meet you at dawn—and it won’t be me who eats grass for breakfast,
you miserable spawn of a slug—”

“Enough, Lucas, enough.” Black Jack Pierson shot up from his chair by the hearth and hastened to intervene. “Come, let him
go,” he added in a low voice.

Lucas gave Ciara’s nephew a last shake before loosening his grip. “Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

A squeak slipped from Battersham’s lips.

“Good. Now get out of my sight.”

As Battersham slunk off, Lucas flexed his fist and sought to get a hold of his raging emotions. He had come damn near to murdering
the man on the spot.

“Here, have some wine to cool your temper.” Jack signaled to the porter for a bottle of claret. “Bloody hell, what’s got into
you of late? I’m beginning to have serious worries about your state of mind.”

“No need for concern.” Lucas saw his hand was still shaking as he reached for his glass. “I simply dislike cowardly, craven,
contemptible cheats. Lady Sheffield is being threatened by her late husband’s family.”

“It’s not your responsibility to defend her,” said Jack. “She has kin, doesn’t she?”

“Her own family won’t lift a finger to help her.”

Jack took a long swallow of his wine. “So the task falls to you?”

Lucas found that he couldn’t compose a coherent answer. “Damn it, Jack,” he grumbled. “It’s hard to explain.”

“And even harder to comprehend.” His friend sighed and shook his head. “I hope you know what you are getting into. The Battershams
are a despicable bunch of characters, but we both know that doesn’t matter. Their blood connection to the Sheffield title
gives them prestige and power, along with a certain degree of influence within the highest circles of Society. So if I were
you, I would not go out of my way to make enemies of them.”

“So you, too, feel compelled to offer me a warning?” said Lucas rather acidly. “Thank you, but despite what you and that worm
seem to think, I’m perfectly capable of making up my own mind concerning Lady Sheffield and her situation.”

Jack frowned. “Well, I would think twice about getting too involved, if I were you.” He looked around and lowered his voice.
“Before you came in, I happened to overhear Battersham talking with his cousin. The family is putting pressure on certain
people to have the inquest reopened. I got the impression they won’t rest until they have seen her arrested and formally charged
with murder.”

“Look, I’ve asked around about the proceedings myself. The first inquest uncovered no tangible evidence of a crime,” replied
Lucas. “The case is closed.”

“That does not mean some new bit of proof won’t come to light,” said his friend slowly.

Lucas felt his jaw tighten. “Let them try. They will not find it so easy to slander Lady Sheffield this time around. Now that
she is reentering Society, she is making her own set of friends.”

“Lucas—”

He held up a hand. “Thank you for the warning, Jack. But as I said, I’ll make up my own mind on this.”

“In that case, I shall refrain from further comment.” Jack lit up a cheroot, inhaled deeply, and then puffed out a perfect
ring of smoke. “Save for one last suggestion.”

“Which is?”

“If you mean to continue your pursuit of the Wicked Widow, take a shovel with you.” Another exhale sent a plume of ghostly
gray floating up toward the ceiling. “Just in case you have to dig your own grave.”

The butler cleared his throat and squinted in the afternoon sun. “I fear you have mistaken the gateway, madam. Lady Jervis
lives next door—”

“We are not looking for Lady Jervis,” replied Ciara. She and Ariel were standing on the steps of an elegant townhouse on the
north edge of Grosvenor Square. Handing the man her calling card, she added, “We’ve come to see Sir Henry. Is he in?”

The question seemed to throw him into a state of confusion. “Er, um, I—shall have to inquire.”

“Might we wait in the entrance hall while you do so, rather than out here on the steps?” she asked politely, seeing he was
about to shut the door in her face.

Now thoroughly flustered, the butler yanked his arm back and bowed them inside. “The baronet is not in the habit of receiving
visitors.”

“So it seems,” murmured Ariel.

The man crabbed toward the staircase. “Please excuse me.”

As they waited, Ciara took the opportunity to have a look around. For some reason, she was curious to see where Hadley had
grown up. Stepping around the massive bearskin rug, she started a slow circle of the room. The entrance hall had an eccentric
charm—a sculpted marble head of Julius Caesar sported an Oriental turban, while Caligula wore a lacy Spanish mantilla. The
paintings were an eclectic mix of style and periods. She guessed they had been chosen more for personal enjoyment rather than
for show.

“Oh, look.” Ariel ventured a peek into the side parlor. “Isn’t this delightful?” A tall Chinese tea chest, lacquered in a
brilliant vermilion hue, was topped by an ornate brass dragon with a jade ring through its nose. “Sir Henry seems to possess
a whimsical side to his character,” she added.

“That, or his nephew has a schoolboy sense of humor,” observed Ciara.

“Arrhumph.” The butler cleared his throat with a brusque cough. “Ladies, if you will be so kind as to follow me.”

The Oriental runner muffled their steps on the stairs, but at the top of the landing, the floor was bare wood.

“This way,” said the butler, beckoning them down a corridor. At its end was a set of polished oak doors. “Sir Phelps is waiting
inside.” He knocked and then stepped aside.

“Come in, come in.” The voice was faint, like the flutter of old parchment.

Ciara exchanged a look with Ariel before taking hold of the handles and passing through the portals.

“What an honor, Lady Sheffield.”

It took Ciara a moment to make out the baronet. His Bath chair was sitting directly in front of the mullioned windows, and
in the slanting sunlight, his wraithlike figure was nearly indistinguishable from the shadows.

“Please forgive me if I don’t get up and greet you,” he added.

“I never stand on ceremony, sir,” she replied quickly. “As you see by our barging in unannounced on your privacy.”

Her words drew a hearty chuckle. “To be visited by two lovely ladies is hardly call for complaint. In fact, maybe I ought
to check my pulse—for all I know, I may have died and gone to Heaven.”

“We are not angels, sir, only scholars,” piped up Ariel. “I trust that does not mean you wish us to Hades.”

His chuckle turned into a laugh. “Even better.”

“Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, Lady Ariel Gracechurch,” murmured Ciara.

“The author of ‘Variations in the Poppies of Punjab’?” asked Henry.

Ariel blushed like a schoolgirl. “Why, yes. But in comparison to your work, it’s hardly worth mentioning.”

“Not at all, not at all. I was fascinated to read about your comparisons to the tropical species of India…” He stopped short
and made a rueful face. “Lud, here I am forgetting any semblance of civilized manners. Please sit down and let me ring for
tea before we plunge into scholarly talk.”

Ciara liked the baronet immediately. And so, by all appearances, did Ariel. The quieter of the two Gracechurch sisters—which
of course was not saying much—she usually allowed others to carry the conversation. However, as the scientific talk resumed,
her manner seemed different. And oddly enough, so did her appearance. Her cheeks were pink as rose petals.

The touch of color was quite becoming, decided Ciara.

“Ah, that must be our refreshments,” said Henry in answer to the knock. “Come in, Jenkins,” he called. “I do hope you have
brought some of Cook’s excellent walnut tarts.”

Still engrossed in reading over a passage of the scientific journal he had just purchased, Lucas entered the room without
looking up. “Sorry, no tarts. But I could order a few delectable trollops from Madame D’s bordello if you like.” Turning the
page in midstride, he went on without a pause. “Henry, don’t laugh, but I have a question on—”

“Slow down, my boy,” cautioned his uncle. “Our guests already have reason to question my manners. I would rather they didn’t
think I have raised a household of heathens.”

Guests?

Lucas stopped short, surprised at how the sight of Ciara sent a frisson of heat through his limbs.

“Forgive me.” Masking his reaction with a droll twitch of his brows, he quickly added, “Had I known you were entertaining
a ménage à trois, I should never have been so indiscreet as to interrupt.”

Henry grinned. “We are having a
very
stimulating discussion on poppies.”

“Poppies,” repeated Lucas. “Well, I shall leave you and the ladies to your pleasure.” He bowed a polite greeting to Ciara
and Ariel, taking care to obscure the printed pages of the journal in a tight roll. “I just stopped to see if you needed anything
picked up at the apothecary.”