To Sin With A Stranger (2 page)

The Sinclair sisters had taken what would have been the family bedchambers a floor below, but theirs were no better outfitted than their brothers’ rooms. There simply was not enough money to properly furnish any but the most public of rooms.

“Grant, tell him that he cannot do this.” Siusan poked her finger toward Sterling. “Look at his hands. Go on. Do you see?
Pulp.
They’re little more than haggis stuffing.”

“Och, they don’t look as bad as all that.” Grant sat down on the narrow pallet that served as Sterling’s bed. “Give it up, Su. There’s no way you can persuade him from fighting this eve. Once he’s got his mind set there is no changing it.”

Siusan dabbed a dry cloth over Sterling’s hand once more, watching for the bleeding to stop. “We have enough to get by. You don’t need to subject yourself to this brutal pummeling. Father gave us enough.”

“Enough to
exist
…perhaps.” Sterling stood from the pallet and examined his hand. “I can change that tonight.”

Siusan growled as she dried her hands and tossed the cloth onto the table. “You knock some sense into him, Grant, since a punch is all he seems to understand.” She caught up a handful of her blue satin skirt, then pushed up from the wooden chair and stalked across the bare floor. She whirled when she reached the doorway. “When you’ve changed his mind, you may find me in the parlor with Ivy and Priscilla.”

“In the parlor, eh? What’s the occasion?” Grant slapped his hands to his knees and stood shoulder to shoulder with Sterling.

“And is that Ivy’s gown from the Fraser gala…last year?”

Siusan shrugged. “What if it is?”

“Quite grand, isn’t it? In fact, I believe it might have been Ivy’s last new gown.” Sterling cast a wry glance at his brother. “Why, Grant, I think our sisters have got some grand guest coming to call.”

Siusan lifted her chin and flicked her long sable hair over her shoulder. “As a matter of fact we do…er…may…possibly. Ivy and I made the acquaintance of the grand Miss Irene Hillobean this afternoon and invited her to call this eve.”

“And you think she’ll come, do you?” Sterling tossed a doubtful gaze at Grant, who passed it along to Siusan.

She settled her hands upon her hips and scowled. “Doubt me if you like, but my sisters and I have the right of things. We will earn the respectability Father demands of us by establishing ourselves in London Society.”

“You do that, sister.” Sterling turned and gestured for Grant to wrap his neck cloth so that he would not mar it with blood. “But until Father forgives us all and finally deems us respectable,
I
will earn the bread that fills your bellies.”

“Sterling, why not set this fighting notion aside and stay to greet Miss Hillobean?” Siusan moved a little closer to wait for his reply. “Who knows, a proper impression could be all that stands between the Sinclair family and entrée into London Society.”

“It’s not quite as easy as that, Su.” Grant assisted Sterling with his waistcoat, then plucked up his coat from the bed and eased it over Sterling’s shoulders. “Besides which, Sterling cannot forfeit the battle. We’ve got too much invested in the outcome.”

Sterling’s eyes widened as Siusan turned back toward them and prowled closer.

She approached Grant and turned her head up to glare into his eyes. “What did you say?”

Grant’s gaze shot to Sterling.

“All right,” Sterling admitted. “So I had Lachlan bet a few bob at White’s. But it’s for the good of us all. Why, when I take the battle, our winnings could be as much as ten times my victor’s portion.”

Siusan staggered back a step. “How much did you wager? How much of
our
precious allowance are you gambling away?”

“Not so much that you need to worry over it.” Sterling reached out to calm her, but she stepped away.

Siusan shook her head. “God save you from your opponent’s fist this night, Sterling. Because if you lose our money,
I
will kill you!” She whirled on her toes and stalked from the garret.

Grant chuckled. “Think she means it?”

“Och, I don’t doubt it at all.” Sterling rolled his shoulders, then tipped his neck to the right, then the left to loosen his muscles. “Are we ready then?”

“Aye, Killian has a hackney waiting on the square.”

“A hackney? That’s a bit rich, especially when we could be wagering the cost of the conveyance instead.” Sterling bent and blew out the flame of the lone candle, then followed his brother from the tiny garret and down two flights of stairs into the parlor.

Sterling squinted his eyes against the brilliant light reflecting off the glistening crystal chandeliers as he peered at his sisters collected in the parlor. “Just how many candles have you lit in here?”

Lady Priscilla, the youngest of the Sinclair siblings, flashed him a gleaming, practiced smile as she settled herself upon the silk settee beside Siusan. “Enough to show the Sinclair family hasn’t a care about money.”

Siusan looked away from Sterling and slunk back against the tufted backrest, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

Grant set his hand on Sterling’s shoulder and peered at him most seriously. “Dear brother, you know full well our sisters cannot be expected to wait for their esteemed guest by the light of a single lamp. Why, Miss Hillobean might see the dark windows and then leave, thinking no one is at home.” A grin began to twitch at his lips. “And then where will we be without a connection to proper London Society?”

Sterling chuckled softly, but could not help glancing upward, then around the room to tally the number of candles being wasted. There were four flickering atop the carved marble chimneypiece, two upon the tea table, a dozen tapers in the chandelier—

“Sterling! Stop.” With a grimace pinching her perfect features, Ivy leaped to her feet and raced toward her brothers, her wavy red hair streaming behind her. “Don’t be so miserly, Sterling. We aren’t paupers…yet.” She slapped a hand to her heart. “But I know how wastefulness vexes you, and so I vow to extinguish every candle in the parlor within five minutes of our guest’s departure.” Suddenly she became distracted. Her gaze drifted down his coat sleeve and fixed upon his bare hand. She snatched it up and then jerked her head around toward Grant. “Siusan said you promised to convince Sterling not to fight.”

“I didn’t promise anything,” Grant protested, “especially the impossible.” He nodded to the tea brewing in a gleaming sterling pot. “Besides, someone has to pay for
that
.”

“Hyson tea gives the right impression,” Priscilla interjected. “It, indeed everything in this lushly resplendent parlor, is part of the grand illusion that the Sinclairs are a family of means and respectability.”

“As long as no one ventures upstairs and learns what we’ve truly been reduced to.” Siusan shot a pointed look at Sterling and pursed her pink lips, then averted her gaze from him once more.

The front door slammed open, sending the brass knocker tapping, and Killian stomped into the parlor. In the bright light of the chandeliers, his raven hair reflected with the same dark blue as his angry eyes. “How long will you keep me waiting on the pavers? The hackney will leave if you delay any longer—unless you wish to pay him to wait.”

“Don’t be absurd. We’re leaving now.” Sterling bent and kissed each of his sisters on her cheek. “Wish us luck, dear ones, for if we are successful, we shall dine on roast beef on the morrow.”

He turned to leave, just catching notice of a roll of eyes bouncing from one sister to another.

The Pugilistic Club
No. 13 New Bond Street

Though polished and cultured, Sterling Sinclair was a Viking of a man. And he’d prove it to all this very night. But by then it would be too late for the Fancy, who even now pushed and shoved, waving their guinea-filled purses for a chance to wager against the naïve Scottish marquess.

The corner of his lip twitched with anticipation as he stepped to the square crudely chalked on the floor. His opponent, the Irish champion, already glistened with the sweat of eagerness. Poor soul. He hadn’t the faintest of notions what was about to happen.

No one did.

The seconds aligned their men across from each other on opposite sides of the square, and then took their own places as Gentleman John Jackson stepped onto the stage and signaled for the men to be stripped of their shirts. The seconds stepped away as Gentleman Jackson ensured that both men were fairly in position at the lines.

Sterling stared into the Irishman’s eyes, then grinned and waggled his ebony eyebrows, earning a confused scowl. But this, of course, was exactly what he wanted, to break his opponent’s concentration.

The Irishman bellowed a feral growl and then lunged for him. Sterling simply stepped aside. The Irishman was huge, a sweating, two-toothed boar of a man whose heft made him slow on his feet.

Sterling sighed.
Too bad
. This was hardly sport at all. He could sidestep the giant brute all night.

But he wouldn’t.

Soon enough, at the moment of his choosing, he’d let one or two punches land. It wouldn’t do to make his own victory appear too easy.

The Irishman spun, the leather of his shoe sole smudging the chalk line. His face, already as scarlet as beet-root soup, contorted in a mask of concentration as he drew back his fist.

Sterling raised his fists, then bent his knees and braced for the blow. It was time. He didn’t care for what he must do, but it was part of the betting game. He would take a punch, falter, and side wagers would mount.

The Irishman’s massive fist hurled toward him. Sterling girded himself, turning his head at the last moment. He meant only to allow a graze this time, but the Irishman’s solid fist met his jaw with a jarring thud.

Dizziness assailed Sterling’s senses as copper-tasting warmth surged into his mouth. He shook his head, sending a fan of red droplets toward the crowd, then spat a mouthful of blood on the floor.

He raised his head and glared at the Irishman.
Bugger it. That’s all
. One blow was more than enough this night. The Season had just begun, after all, and they’d not yet received invitation to any esteemed events, but he knew that a bruised and battered face would not draw the ladies.

It was Sterling’s turn now, one he would choose carefully. He listed a bit, for effect, and the crowd groaned as if worried its entertainment was already at an end.

But it wasn’t.

It was just about to begin.

The Irishman was grinning at Sterling, gloating over the ease of thrashing the fine lord.

Now was the time.

He staggered forward like a drunken sot, then dropped his head to his chest. Even with his pale gray eyes cast toward the floor, he could see the Irishman lower his fists momentarily, already chewing on the fat of victory.

Somehow he thought he heard Grant calling out, “Leave the stage. Leave!” But that didn’t make sense at all.

Now was the time.

Now
.

Sterling snapped his head up and drew back his fist. Suddenly a trim-waisted miss was standing between him and his barrel-chested opponent.

Bluidy hell!
He jerked his fist back, somehow his stitched knuckles missing her delicate nose. The draw of air from the swift recoil of his punch sucked a few fine tendrils of her golden hair across her face for a moment.

He hadn’t seen her approach. She just suddenly appeared, madly waving a fanned bundle of print pamphlets above her head.

The woman’s startled cinnamon-hued eyes blinked rapidly and she gasped, slapping the handful of pamphlets to her chest.

A trickle of blood dripped from the corner of Sterling’s swollen lip and splashed upon his chest as he stared down at the insane beauty. What could be so damned important that she would throw herself in harm’s way by lunging between two modern gladiators in the midst of a prizefight?

“Your wife, my lord?” His Irish sparring mate grinned and snorted. The crowd cinching around them roared.

Sterling stepped closer, unfolded his fist, and swept the tips of his fingers gently across the young beauty’s soft cheek. “Nay.” He lifted the corner of his busted lip, breaking the skin anew. “Well, not
yet
anyway.” The gathering of gentlemen laughed even louder.

“How dare you, sirrah!” The miss gave his hand a stinging slap, then jerked around and faced the raucous gathering of gentlemen.

Sterling set his hands on his lean hips and waited with interest for what she would say to the Englishmen, who were already grumbling about her interruption of their evening’s sport and wager.

The woman glanced warily over her shoulder at Sterling. Her breath came fast, shallow. Aye, she feared him, though she was taking great pains to conceal it. At least that showed she had some common sense.

Sterling’s ebony-topped head and muscled shoulders rose above every other gentleman in the room.

As did his three brothers’.

In truth, as he compared his brothers to the delicately polished members of the
ton
, the Sinclairs almost appeared another race entirely. They were a far larger, stronger version of the pale gentlemen standing in a heaving, clamoring ring with guineas poking out from between their untested hands.

But Sterling and his brothers and, aye, his sisters too,
were
different, and soon everyone would know it.

They were Scots, after all.

And more importantly still—they were
Sinclairs
.

The miss shook her pamphlets high above her pretty little head again. “How is it that you fine citizens see fit to throw away your hard-earned coin on a contest between ruffians, when your money could do so much good elsewhere?”

“It’s quite simple, miss,” replied a lean, knobby-kneed gentleman standing no more than a yard from her. “My money wasn’t
hard-earned
. I’ve never worked a day in all my years.” The crowd chuckled at that.

She straightened her spine and appeared, to Sterling, to grow in height by nearly a hand’s width. She now stood nearly as tall as his sisters. “Then perhaps you do not know what it means to go hungry. To see your children die because you haven’t the money to summon a physician.”