To Sin With A Stranger (7 page)

He swallowed, taking his time, making them suffer ever so slightly for doubting him. When he did look up again, Sterling gazed first upon his ungrateful sisters. “If you can manage to survive only a few more weeks wearing clothing from last year, wearing paste jewels instead of treasures”—he redirected his gaze to his three brothers—“dressing yourselves and condescending to having your neck cloths starched and sloppily ironed by Mrs. Wimpole—my wagers on the Fives Court battle will reverse our financial position dramatically…for a time.”

Damn it
. Didn’t they understand? He was doing this for
them
. He should not have to explain himself. He was the eldest, after all, and had always looked out for them.

Sterling’s ire peaked. He pushed up from the tiny chair so forcefully that had he not reached out and just caught its back, it would have been knocked into the elderly patron sitting behind him.

He steadied the chair, then flipped a single guinea down, sending it spinning across the tea table, knocking into Ivy’s dish of tea before settling beneath the rim of Priscilla’s cake plate.

His voice remained low, but firm. “But if you can trust me, and assist me in winning Miss Carington’s hand by the end of the Season, I promise you all, whether Father forgives us or not, we will be rich.”

He touched his waistcoat pocket, needing to feel the two shillings inside before abandoning the guinea on the table. When he felt them, heard them clink together, he smiled confidently, and turned to leave.

Oh, that he only felt as confident in his Fives Court wager as he pretended to be.

“Wait,” Siusan called out. He heard a chair crunch and roll across the pea gravel paving. “Sterling, please.”

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw sincerity in his sister’s eyes and slowly turned his body around to face her.

“Sterling, you must know that you will always have our support,” she said quietly. She waved her hand to the others and pinned each with her steely gaze until one by one they nodded. “We will do what needs to be done to help you win the wager.
Whatever
it takes.”

“You have my gratitude,” Sterling managed. But his thanks felt as empty as their promise to him.

He started walking for the street, his chest aching, for he knew, in truth, he did have their support. They backed him now, not because they trusted him, as they should, for he’d never let them down. Not because he’d always taken the blows, physical or verbal, for them when he could. Not because they loved him. Not even because they trusted his skill as a gamester.

It was only because he’d left them no other choice.

Nothing makes us more vulnerable than loneliness, except greed.

Thomas Harris

The Carington residence
No. 9 Leicester Square

Isobel untied the ribbon of her poke bonnet as she slinked through the front door. She sighed with exasperation at the thought of the dratted wager that, through no fault of her own, was going to plunge her headfirst into boiling water the moment her father learned of it.

She stalked toward the course of brass cloak hooks in the nook just off the entry hall and pulled off her bonnet.

It was then that she came to a startling realization.

While the wide brim of a poke bonnet was a most stylish way to protect a lady’s face from sun and weather, making it the absolute hat of choice for a modest yet fashionable miss, Isobel belatedly learned it prevented a young lady from noticing the approach of her father from the side.

He set his knuckles on his hips and rocked onto his toes before slamming down loudly on his heels, in the event, she supposed, that she hadn’t already realized his foul disposition.

“Good afternoon, Father,” she said meekly. “I did not expect you at home so soon.”

She decided to smile and say nothing more. Though she could not yet see it on his face, she was sure that his irritation with her over her latest
disappointment
was bubbling up inside and would spill over at any minute like a pot of milk left too long over the cooking fire.

The seam of her father’s mouth stretched thin, and had he had any visible lips, she would have said that he was actually smiling. But this was not possible. He never smiled.

Could it be that he hasn’t yet heard of the wager?

“Isobel.” The nod of his head was spirited, not at all resembling the perfunctory manner he usually reserved for addressing her.

She was certain now. He had
not
heard.

If she didn’t know better, she would say he was almost…jubilant. A hard-won victory in the House of Commons, that was all that could explain his cheer this day.
Yes, that must be it
.

She drew a deep breath in relief as she set her bonnet and mantle to their hooks, then edged past her oddly cheerful father and absently tossed the packet of ribbon she’d purchased during her outing on the small beech wood table in the passage.

Her father raised his hawkish gray eyebrows. “I see you have been shopping.”

Isobel’s fingers scrabbled for the packet. “It is nothing, really. Just a bit of ribbon for my bonnet, nothing extravagant. Only cost a penny or two…truly.”

Her father focused on the packet and then grimaced. He raised his eyes to hers. “I’ll not have my daughter scrimping on clothing or adornments. Tell me what you need and I will see to it that you have it.”

Is he actually telling me to spend more money? Who is this man, and where, pray, is my true father?

A sense of unease coursed through her body. He must be delirious with fever. Nothing else could explain his behavior just now. “Father”—hesitantly she reached out and touched his lapel—“are you…feeling completely well?”

He took her hand and, drawing it from his coat, gave it a quick, insincere squeeze. He cleared his throat, then rubbed his nose as though it itched fiercely. “Why would you ask such a thing, Isobel? Is it so impossible to believe that a father would wish to see his young daughter dressed in a way that accentuates her beauty?” He pulled her into his library, then let go of her hand and hurried around to his desk drawer. “Tell me, Isobel, how much would a new gown cost me? Something grand…silk or satin, perhaps?” He looked up at her as if the answer would be poised on her tongue.

But how was she to know? Since her mother died, she had made do by altering and remaking her mother’s frocks, splurging on a run of lace or ribbon from time to time to fashion a more stylish look. The rest of the small portion her father provided her went to the charity she had founded for the widows of Corunna.

She shrugged her shoulders sheepishly.

His mouth puckered and his brow furrowed, carving four deep creases across his forehead. “Well then”—he snatched up one his cards and handed it to her—“have the dressmaker send the request for payment to me. Probably for the best anyway. Can’t have you giving your clothing allowance away this time, can I?” He shook the card toward her.

When, in her shock, she did not reach for it, he circled back around the desk and pressed it into her hand.

Isobel eyed him speculatively. He’d never acted this way. Never even pretended to be so generous.

“Oh, dear.” He gave a decidedly ingenuous smile again. “Be sure to expedite the creation of the gown, won’t you? You will need it in two days.” He walked around his desk and sat down in a high-backed leather chair. Easing his spectacles to his eyes, he opened a book and began to read.

“In t-two days?” Isobel sputtered. “Whatever for?”

He looked up and, seeming perturbed, plucked off his spectacles and set them on his desk. “We will be attending Lord and Lady Partridge’s spring ball.”

“But…I had planned to wear my blue gown. I always wear it to balls and routs, and you have never discouraged my doing so.”

“It is time you wear something new.”

“I tell you, Father, no dressmaker can create a gown so quickly when the whole of the
ton
will be demanding attention.” She shook his card at him. “I am but a simple miss—the daughter of a politician, not a grand lady of note more deserving of a gown!”

He pushed up from his chair and slammed his hands to the center of his desk, then leaned over it. “You
are
of note, Isobel, and everyone in Society is well aware of it. Did you assume because I frequent the House of Commons that I would not hear of the goings-on at White’s when it concerns my own daughter?”

Isobel double-stepped backward. “I—I had nothing to do with the wager, Father. I swear.”

“Bah! You did. You slapped a marquess,
twice
, at Almack’s. You made a grand spectacle of yourself and drew the notice of all, and started tongues wagging. People began asking questions, guessing that for a miss to overstep so greatly in public, she and the marquess must be closer than anyone knows.”

Isobel gasped at that. “It is not true. I despise him!”

“Do you deny the rumor that you had actually met Sterling Sinclair, the Marquess of Blackburn, before?” He tilted his head, and the edge of mouth twitched.

So he had heard about the incident at the Pugilistic Club. “We were not introduced.”

“You met him. Admit it.”

Isobel lowered the card and her gaze as she nervously fumbled with it. “I encountered him, yes. It is evident to me that you know this already.” She tucked the card beneath her sleeve and hesitantly raised her eyes. “What is that you want from me, Father?”

“To marry him—if he will have you. He asked you to dance, commented on your beauty; therefore I must conclude that he has some interest in you.”

Isobel choked on her reply. How mad this was that her father could be charging her with such a demand! “Sterling Sinclair…
that fighter
has no true interest—other than to toy with me, rile me. Believe me, he does not wish to marry me—and I would rather…rather move to Yorkshire and raise pigs with Great-aunt Gertrude than to marry a beast like him.”

Her father leaned back from the desk and sat down again. Slowly he reset his spectacles on his nose. “If that is your wish, Isobel.”

“Wh-what do you mean by that?” she asked, though she feared hearing the very explanation she requested. Her eyes began to sting.

He did not look up. “I am weary of your unladylike public displays, and will not tolerate it any longer. If you are not married by the end of the Season, I will write to your mother’s aunt to make arrangements for your relocation. At least in Yorkshire, you will have far less opportunity to embarrass me with your behavior.” He turned his head upward at last and peered over the top of his spectacles at her. “I am finished with your antics, Isobel.”

A dread as cold as an icicle plunged into her. “You cannot be serious. You would cast me out if I do not marry by the end of summer?”

“I assure you, Isobel, I do not jest. In fact, your idea is growing on me.” He looked down at his thick book again. “The choice is yours. You haven’t much time, dear. Were I you, I would be headed to Bond Street to have a gown fitted…but if you’d rather, a stop at the perfumers might be in order. Judging from the scent of your great-aunt, the stench of swine does not wash off easily.”

The heat in her eyes threatened to spill onto her cheeks, and she spun and hurried to retrieve her bonnet and mantle. She had no intention of marrying Sinclair. She had no intention of marrying anyone!

She had dedicated herself to aiding the widows of Corunna in memory of her brother…and the family he once had. If her father truly meant to toss her into a pigsty at the end of the Season, then she would simply take up lodging with one of the widows she assisted through her charity.

Grabbing at the ribbons of her poke bonnet, she tugged too hard, and instead of it slipping off the hook, the headband snagged on it and ripped.

A tear that had balanced inside her lashes splashed hotly upon her cheek and ran down her face. Not worrying over the torn band, she mashed the bonnet down upon her head and whirled her mantle around her shoulders.

Her father’s card slipped from her sleeve and fluttered to the entry hall floor. She bent and picked it up. She had no desire to seek out a mantua maker for a gown to attract the attention of that wicked Sinclair, but neither could she remain in the house with her father just now. And so she stashed the card inside her sleeve once more, and jerked open the front door.

A hackney, whose passenger she could not see, abruptly pulled away from the pavers before her house. Its sudden and unexpected movement startled her to such an extent that she did not at once notice the small bag beside her foot.

She crouched and opened it. Two guineas and one shilling were inside, along with a folded card.

She released the card from its creases and read:
So noble a lady. So noble a cause
.

It was written in a gentleman’s heavy hand, this she could tell, but there was no signature.

She rushed to straighten and stand, to call out and stop the hackney so she might thank the occupant for supporting the widows. But the hackney had already turned from Leicester Square for Green Street.

She peered down at the card again, and gulped down the residual sob poised in her throat. Hers was a noble cause, a worthy one. The stranger, her secret benefactor, was right about that.

She threw back her shoulders. No, she should not cower from this unimaginable chain of events that made her the center of interest for all of London Society. It would not last long, the
ton
’s appetite for scandal was fickle, and her humiliation would soon be exchanged for some other poor soul’s misfortune.

No, suddenly she knew just what to do.

A smile lifted the downturned edges of her lips. She raised her skirts from the ground and skipped down the steps for the street. She would hire a hackney to take her to Bond Street, where she would make use of her notoriety to quickly have a gown fashioned for her.

Then, while it was still hers to trade, she would use her fleeting fame at the upcoming ball to garner the
ton
’s support for her charity.

And if smiling prettily at a certain brute of a marquess, or rebuking him for his rudeness, brought her additional attention and extended her influence a little longer, she would do it—to generate as much money as she could for the widows of Corunna.