To Sin With A Scoundrel (2 page)

Lucas shifted his stance, trying to shake off such dark musings. The fall into the fountain must have coshed his wits as well
as his whirligigs. He didn’t usually subject himself to such soul-searching introspection…

“You aren’t in any condition to travel,” called Greeley. His friend fixed him with a bleary-eyed squint. “Fact is, you look
like shite.”

“Nonetheless, I mean to leave for London within the hour,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on,” coaxed Farnam. “It’s not like you to leave your friends in the lurch.”

“At the very least, have one more round of drinks with us,” added Ingalls.

“Well…” It was, after all, still early in the morning, thought Lucas. “Maybe just
one
more.”

Marguerite smiled and ran a caress up the inside of his thigh.

Oh, what the hell.

Her workroom—her sanctuary—afforded a place of refuge from the poison pens and other painful realities of the outside world.
Tall, mullioned windows filled the space with a clean-edged light. The leather bindings of her books glowed with the mellow
warmth of aged sherry, a rich complement to the gleam of polished glass. The orderly rows of vials and beakers mirrored the
precise arrangement of her scientific instruments. Microscopes, calipers, and magnifying lenses…

Here the truth was not distorted to suit personal desires. Empirical data could be measured. Rational thought ruled over raw
emotion.

And yet, pressing her palms to her cheeks, Ciara was dismayed to find them still burning with indignation.

And perhaps a touch of fear.

“Damn,” she muttered, angry with herself for allowing the latest headlines to threaten her peace of mind. What did it matter
if her name was splashed across the gossip pages? The inquest into her husband’s death was closed, and Sheffield’s family
would have to live with that fact. “The danger is over,” she added, as if saying it aloud gave the words an extra ring of
truth.

Don’t dwell on the past.
With her young son away in the country, this fortnight was supposed to be a pleasant interlude for her, as well. A time to
catch up on her scholarly research, not stew over the most recent efforts of her late husband’s relatives to blacken her reputation.

As she opened her notebook and began to write, the scent of the simmering herbs and spices filled the room. The original recipe—a
potion for relieving the pain of gouty joints—had come from a medieval manuscript she had discovered in the attics of Sheffield
Manor. But based on her own knowledge, she was making a few changes.

Rosemary, essence of juniper, sumac
… Ticking off the list, Ciara made a note to mix in myrrh at the next chime of the hour. That would give her just enough time
to organize her notes for the weekly meeting of the Circle of Scientific Sibyls.

Her lips quirked in a rueful smile. That was the group’s official name, but among themselves they had taken to calling it
the ‘Circle of Sin.’ After all, intellectual pursuits were not considered proper conduct for a lady. But undaunted by public
opinion, the five female members were serious scholars who shared a common interest in the natural sciences. And despite their
differences in age and background, they had also come to share a special bond of friendship.

Ciara smoothed her papers into a neat pile. Lud, she was not quite sure how she would have survived the last half year without
their stalwart support. By her own admission, she had shunned the social swirl of London. Still, the viciousness of the personal
attacks after her husband’s sudden death had staggered her.

Drawing in a gulp of air, she forced herself to swallow the memory of terror, of confusion.

Sheffield’s relatives had been quick to start the whispers of ugly speculations. As the rumbling of suspicion grew more ominous
and the tone of the inquest turned more threatening, her own family had taken cover from the growing storm of scandal, leaving
her to stand up to the sharp-tongued magistrates and hatchet-faced coroner on her own.

The law required that the circumstances surrounding a sudden death be looked into. No matter that her husband was a dissolute
man who had probably drunk himself into an early grave. By all accounts, he had downed a half-dozen bottles of brandy during
the night of his collapse. And yet she had been forced to listen to his family and their cronies offer testimony about her
shrewish temper, reclusive habits, and secret lair full of strange potions.

Ciara closed her eyes, trying not to picture the faces of the jury as they listened to the witnesses. She had seen the fear
and loathing when their eyes met hers. Indeed, right up until the end, she had been sure they would find her guilty of her
husband’s death and order her turned over to the authorities for a criminal trial.

Yet somehow she had found the strength to survive the terrible ordeal. Not for herself, but for Peregrine. She would have
died a thousand deaths before she let Sheffield’s grasping family gain custody of her son. Oh, they had tried, even after
the coroner had grudgingly announced that there was not enough evidence to indict her for murder. Even now they continued
to spread stories about how her unnatural interests and unstable mind made her unfit to be a mother.

More lies, more innuendos.

Her hands clenched. She had done her best to protect Peregrine—first from the fickle moods of his father, then from the sordid
details of the inquest, and now from the swirl of scandal that still surrounded her name.

But was her best good enough?

Forcing her chin up, Ciara refused to surrender to despair. While there was still a breath left in her body, she would not
let Sheffield’s family beat her down. So far, they had not been able to offer a shred of proof to support their allegations.
No doubt they would keep trying, but surely, as time went on, it would become more and more difficult to claim they had actual
evidence of a crime.

Let them continue their campaign of evil whispers. Let them plant nasty lies in the newspapers. Words were their only weapons—and
words could not hurt her. And yet Ciara felt her throat constrict. The same could not be said for Peregrine. He was so young
and impressionable…

Thank God for friends like Alessandra della Giamatti.

A fellow member of the Circle of Sin, the marchesa was also a widow and had a daughter the same age as her son. Having experienced
her own share of personal travails in Italy, Alessandra had gone out of her way to include Peregrine in the everyday activities
that made life seem… normal for a child.

At the moment, the three of them were spending a fortnight in Bath, where some ancient Roman ruins had recently been unearthed.
Ciara allowed a small smile. An expert in archeology as well as chemistry, Alessandra had been eager to observe up close the
initial digging. And so had the children.

The fresh air and open fields would do Peregrine a world of good.

As for herself…

The chime of the clock roused her from such unsettling reveries. Shoving the past aside, Ciara hurried to mix the last ingredient
into the bubbling potion before leaving for the meeting. As she reached for her shawl, her glove grazed a small blood-red
notebook lying beneath the fringed silk.

She quickly added it to her reticule.

After all, hadn’t Hippocrates written that humor was one of the most potent medicines known to man—or woman? Following the
regular agenda of the meeting, her friends might find her latest additions to their other on-going scholarly research amusing.

It was far more than an hour later when Lucas finally staggered to his feet and refastened his breeches. “I really must be
off,” he muttered, gathering up his rumpled coat and cravat. Turning for the terrace, he cocked a last salute to his friends.
“Enjoy the country. I fear that London is going to be a bore without your company.”

“Then stay,” called Greeley.

He shook his head. “No, I must atone for all my recent sins of neglect by visiting my uncle today.”

Farnam caught up to him on the stairs. “Er, see here, Lucas, are you sure that you have no objection if I step in to fill
the void with Mathilde… so to speak?”

“None whatsoever. Nature abhors a vacuum,” replied Lucas with some cynicism.

“Er…” Farnam cast him a puzzled look.

“Never mind. It’s merely one of the many scientific observations my uncle is fond of pointing out.” Lucas quickened his step,
anxious to order his valise packed and his team of grays harnessed. “You are welcome to avail yourself of Mademoiselle M’s
company.”

“That’s awfully sporting of you.” Farnam grinned and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Admit it— all this talk
about your uncle is pishposh. I take it you are running back to an even more delectable morsel.”

Lucas was loath to confess the truth. “What do you think?” he drawled.

His friend let out an admiring whistle. “You have the devil’s own luck with women.”

Or was it a curse? Sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder if everything came just a little
too
easily for him. The truth was, the lack of a challenge had left him feeling bored of late.

Brushing off such unsettling thoughts, he flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “Care for a bit of advice?”

“Hell, yes!”

“The secret is in not giving a damn.”

“Er, about what?”

“About anything at all.”

S
till upset by the ugly snippet of gossip, Ciara decided to vent her agitation by walking through the park rather than taking
a hackney to her meeting. It was still unfashionably early, and the day was cool, with scudding clouds, so the chances of
encountering anyone who might recognize her were slim.

And what did it matter if someone made a snide comment?
One more nasty word could hardly do any further damage.

Turning down one of the side carriage paths, Ciara quickened her pace, edging onto the grassy verge to stay deep in the leafy
shadows of the trees. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she wasn’t aware of having company until a trilling laugh brought her
up short.

“Come now, Annabelle, now that you’ve dragged us to this secluded spot, you simply
must
tell us all about that magnificent beast you’ve taken into your bed.”

Ciara looked up with a start. Through the netting of her veil, she recognized Lady Annabelle Merton, a renowned beauty of
the
ton,
strolling along the graveled path, arm in arm with Lady Caroline Guilford and Lady Mary Hurlbutt.

She froze, praying that her dark clothing would blend into the shade and allow her to go unseen.

Dear God, don’t let them look around
.

But the trio were too busy talking to notice they weren’t alone.

“Yes, do give us all the delicious details.” Another loud titter. “Is Hadley as good a lover as all the rumors say?”

Hadley.
Ciara grimaced. The man seemed to be on everyone’s tongue this morning.

Lady Merton fingered the curling plume of her stylish bonnet. “He’s absolutely divine, Caro,” she replied with a cat-in-the-creampot
purr. “You’ve seen for yourself those broad shoulders and sculpted thighs. I assure you, every other part of his body is equally
impressive.”

“Is it true that he’s hung like a stallion and has the stamina of a racehorse?” asked Lady Hurlbutt eagerly.

“Let us just say that the earl takes a lady on quite a wild ride.”

As the trio dissolved into knowing laughter, Ciara was about to retreat and take another route. But they suddenly stopped
and formed a more intimate circle, so she dared not move.

“His performance is perfectly splendid, even after several times around the track,” went on Lady Merton. “I vow, the man can
go on from dusk to dawn without a hitch in his stride.” Her gloved hand gave a little flutter. “But, my dears, it is not just
his own pleasure that Hadley cares about. The earl believes that both mount and rider should enjoy the gallop.”

Enjoy?
Ciara was sure she must have misunderstood. In her experience, sex was naught but a hurried humping—an awkward, painful process
that a female was expected to endure but certainly not enjoy.