To Sin With A Stranger (21 page)

At the moment, the carriage arrived as Leicester Square, and the hackney opened the door for Isobel. “Please, do not see me to the door, Sterling.”

“Why should I not?” He lifted his hand and caressed her cheek.

“Because an agent for an
on dit
columnist, at least that is what our maid Bluebell has said, has been crouched behind the hemlock for two days.” She stepped out of the cab, then leaned back to touch his lips one last time. “I will see you this night,” she whispered.

“Tonight,” he replied.

Then she turned and raced on the toes of her slippers to the house. Her mind was giddy as she hurried inside to tell her father that Lord Blackburn was coming to make an offer for her…this very night.

Indeed, this day had been a dream. A dream of the very best sort.

Once inside, she flung her mantle and fichu to their hooks, then peered inside her father’s library. He wasn’t there. Probably still at the House of Commons, she thought, as she dashed up the staircase to her bedchamber.

She flung open her wardrobe, then sat down on her tester bed staring at the contents, wondering what she should wear on this grand occasion of her engagement. Tipping her head sideways, she considered her blue gown, but Father claimed she wore it too often.

Something suddenly started to unsettle Isobel, but she couldn’t quite identify it.

She pushed up from the bed and walked up to the wardrobe and fingered the five dresses inside.

It couldn’t be fear that her father would refuse the match. While she would greatly appreciate his consent, she was not a maid in her first Season. She did not truly require his permission at all to marry Lord Blackburn.

Lifting out her red walking dress, she carried it to her bed and spread it out. It was a lovely crimson, and its necklace was flattering—at least Christiana often told her so. It was suitable for the event. Not perfect, or grand by any means, but adequate.

Rather like her.

A moment of stillness crowded around her, as her mind circled her discontent on what should be the most glorious day of her life. Until it occurred to her exactly what bothered her so deeply that she sought to bury it.

Sterling had never told her that he loved her.

The tighter you squeeze, the less you have.

Thomas Merton

The Sinclair residence
Grosvenor Square

I am asking for her hand tonight.” Sterling waved at his trunk. “Go on, Grant. Choose something for me to wear. I haven’t a valet any longer, and my mind is not in a place that would allow me to make a decision of such magnitude.” He grinned at his brother, fully aware that Grant would not comprehend the jest.

“I think it’s too soon.” Grant pulled out a lawn shirt and tossed it on the bed. “Oh, do
not
let Mrs. Wimpole press this for you. She has scorched two of mine already, and we cannot spare what few garments we have to an overhot iron.”

“So you will press it and my neck cloth then?” Sterling asked, concealing the smile itching at his lips.

Grant was too consumed by his search for the perfect mix of garments for Sterling to pay his brother’s comment any notice. He gazed admiringly at a fine blue silk waistcoat he had just withdrawn from the wooden cabinet that served, not quite adequately, as Sterling’s armoire. “
Ah
, this is the one.” He flung a waistcoat on Sterling’s pallet. “I always liked the way the sterling-silver threads in this waistcoat bring out the sheen of the blue silk. I tell you, Sterling, this should be your signature garment.”

“Hold on now.” Sterling disregarded his brother’s comment on the waistcoat. “What do you mean it’s
too soon
, Grant?”

“Too soon to make an offer for her—you’ll punch a hole in the bet and sink us all.” He looked up at Sterling. “We’re still exposed with the second ten thousand. Your tactic right now should be to appear completely lovelorn; make people believe you haven’t a chance with Miss Carington though you wish nothing more.”

“And that is precisely what I did at the musicale,” Sterling huffed.

“What, one night? Do you think that will suffice?” Grant gave an exaggerated sigh. “The two of you have presented yourselves to anyone watching closely, and brother, there are many, that you are already lovers and that an offer for marriage is only a matter of time.”

Sterling grumbled at Grant’s depiction of him and Isobel, but he knew too that he could not deny it. “To what extent are we exposed—today?”

“Three thousand pounds on the margin of the first bet.”

Sterling began to stalk the small garret in ever-widening circles. Why had he ever suggested such a wager—and then extended it? “What do you suggest?”

“A bluidy disaster, mate. One that makes it look like she will never marry you. But, certainly, one you can recover from before the end of the Season.”

“Nay, I cannot do that to her. Damn it. Why did I ever even conceive of this wager?” He rubbed his temples hard.

Grant settled his hand on Sterling’s shoulder. “Likely because…you never thought you would truly love her.”

Sterling looked over his shoulder. If his feelings had been so visible to everyone for so long, why hadn’t anyone thought to mention it to him? Had he realized it was love that set her in his mind day and night, made him yearn to be near her, made him race across crowded ballrooms to ask her to dance—maybe this wager would not have gotten so out of control. “I promised her I would speak with her father tonight and ask for her hand.” He turned his pale eyes up at Grant. “I promised her.”

“And suddenly you are a man of your word?” Grant said sarcastically.

“I have always been true to my word. That’s why the hells and bettors always took my mark.” Sterling snatched up the simple waistcoat he’d been wearing that day and withdrew from it a folded paper. “A special license. I bought a special license today if you can believe it.”

“She’s got you by the heartstrings, brother.”

“Aye, she does. I love her, I only wish it had not taken me so long to know it.” Sterling straightened his shoulders and exhaled. “I
will
marry her.”

“Well, Christ, marry her then. A license like that gives you the freedom to choose when and where.” Grant rubbed his chin in contemplation, but, seeming to come up with nothing, he looked back across at Sterling. “But…can’t you wait a few days and make the bettors wonder if something went wrong between you and Miss Carington?”

“I promised her—
tonight
.”

“But we need this money, Sterling. You know how much we need it. The bills are mounting, and Father’s allowance is far from enough to cover them.”

Sterling shook his head. “We can make up the deficit with the winnings from our bet on my fight at Fives Court. There is still that.”

“Aye,
if
you are the victor. But brother, your competitor has killed two men in the ring already. There is a resolution being discussed to prevent him from fighting any more death battles.”

“Death battles? Is that what the newspapers are calling them? Bluidy hell.”

“None would fault you if you withdrew now, Sterling.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I owe someone my portion of the money.”

“Well, I can’t help you either if you don’t listen to my advice, Sterling. You need a disaster and you need to drop the fight. It truly is simple.”

“It’s not quite as simple as you suggest.” Sterling shoved his fingers through his hair. “Believe me.”

Grant spun around to leave, but stopped and pointed at the trunk. “The buff breeches, right there on top. Wear those. They’ll accentuate your thigh and calf muscles…and something else that ladies seem to value.”

Sterling walked to window, leaned his hand on the sill, and peered out into the coming night. If only waiting a few days for the wager to come to a positive fruition were that simple.

But it was all too clear to Sterling that it wasn’t.

The Carington residence
Leicester Square

Isobel heard the front door open and male voices in the passage. The carriage clock on her mantle proclaimed a quarter of an hour until nine of the clock. It was too early for the caller to be Sterling.

Still, she hurriedly finished pinning up the heavy golden locks of her hair, then crept down the stairs to see who had arrived. Whoever it was, his timing could not have been worse. She decided that she would make this clear to the visitor as politely as she could, because she needed this night to be perfect…and her father to be alone.

The door to her father’s library was closed, but that would not dissuade her from entering.

She pinched her cheeks to impart a rosy glow to her countenance, then took in a deep breath and pressed down on the latch. When she saw who was sitting before her father’s desk, the breath shot from her lungs, as surely as if she’d been punched.

Isobel’s father remained seated, but Sir Richard Payne Knight and Mr. Burke Leake rose and dutifully bowed to her in greeting. She bobbed a hasty curtsy, then, utterly confused, directed her attention to her father.

“Sir, we have a special visitor about to arrive and he has requested a private audience with you.” She walked around and stood beside his chair. “You have not forgotten, surely.”

He tilted his head and looked sternly up at her. “I am not addled, Isobel. Nothing has slipped from my mind.” He gestured for the two gentlemen to be seated. “I asked Payne Knight and Leake to join us for this interview with Lord Blackburn.”

Payne Knight produced a smile that made her wonder if he was sucking the lemon from the tea on the desk before him. “We have a question for Lord Blackburn, the answer to which I am sure you would also be interested to hear.”

Dread rose up inside Isobel. Something was wrong. “What is this about, Father? I demand to know. You know how important this night is to me.”

“I do,” he agreed. “But I think this question must be asked of Lord Blackburn before you start planning your wedding trousseau.”

The knocker came down upon the door, and rather than waiting for Alton to answer it, Isobel spun around, raced into the entryway, and flung the door open.

A broad smile spread across Sterling’s lips until he seemed to note the anxious twist of her features. “Isobel,” he whispered, “is all well?”

She took his arm and brought him inside. “I do not know. Father has Sir Richard Payne Knight and Mr. Burke Leake in his library,” she said on a half breath. “They mean to quiz you about…something.” She looked up into his eyes and squeezed his hand briefly, before leading him in to face the British inquisition.

The gentlemen rose and greeted Sterling, before her father offered him a chair.

“I would prefer to stand, if you do not mind, Minister Carington.” Sterling gestured to Isobel. “Miss Carington, please take the seat.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lord Blackburn,” her father announced. “I can have another chair brought in.”

Sterling stood straight and tall. “Not necessary, Minister Carington. I have come hoping to discuss a matter with you privately.” He paused, but it was clear to all that no one was leaving the room. “As you must have guessed, I am here to request permission to marry your daughter, Isobel.”

Isobel’s focus went to her father’s eyes. Instead of meeting her gaze, her father turned and exchanged some sort of secret communication with the pompous Payne Knight.

And then she knew why Payne Knight and Leake were here on the very evening Sterling had requested an audience with her father. This was an attack.

Her father looked back at Sterling. “Lord Blackburn,” he began, speaking in his orator’s tone, the affected way he did in Parliament or when he wanted to impress, “before we discuss a marriage contract, there is a question we would like to ask you. Your answer will determine my own.”

Sterling shifted in his boots and then laced his fingers behind his back. “Very well, then. Ask it of me.”

For the first time since he entered the house, Isobel saw a sudden nervousness in Sterling’s eyes. The fingers of his clasped hands seemed to war with one another behind his back.

Isobel’s corset suddenly felt oppressively tight, and her breaths became short and shallow.
What could Father know that Sterling fears so greatly?

Sterling glanced behind himself, as if belatedly looking for a spare chair in which to sit. But there wasn’t one, and he was forced to stand like a soldier before a firing line. “Please, Minister Carington, ask your question. I am ready.”

It was not her father, but rather Payne Knight who spoke next. He removed a finger that had been covering his pursed lips, but he paused for several long moments before deigning to speak. He did not stand, but eased back into his chair. “Lord Blackburn, you are acquainted with the wager on the books at White’s?” He raised his finger in the air as if to prevent Sterling from interrupting him. “Please, allow me to clarify,” said the former Parliamentarian. “The wager I speak of is the one concerning you and Miss Carington and the question as to whether or not the two of you will marry before the end of the Season.”

“I am aware of it.” Sterling peered down quizzically at Payne Knight. “You’ve asked your question and I have answered it. Now, if you do not mind, I wish to ask Minister Carington my question.”

“Do you not recognize preamble when you hear it?” Payne Knight forced a short chuckle.

Sterling stiffened, but did not reply. Appearing thunderstruck, he looked to Isobel’s father, who simply waved on Payne Knight.

“Did you, or someone of your acquaintance on your behalf—
anonymously,
perhaps—place that particular wager?” Payne Knight excitedly licked his puckered full lips in anticipation of Sterling’s reply.

Sterling stood silently.

“Sterling?” Isobel rose slowly from her chair. “Sterling, dear God, please answer him. Tell him you certainly did not! He is wrong. He only wishes to discredit you because you would have assisted Lord Elgin to save the marbles if you could have. He accuses you out of spite.”

But Sterling said nothing. Finally he turned his head and looked straight at Isobel. The muscles in his throat worked, and she saw him swallow uncomfortably. He bowed his head, as if in shame.