To Sin With A Stranger (8 page)

For her noble cause.

St. James’s Street

The hackney passed White’s four times before Sterling finally spotted Grant’s tall form heading up the slope of St. James’s Street for Piccadilly Street. “Turn right, here,” Sterling bade the driver, “then stop just around the corner.”

Grant hurried past two shops, then boarded the hackney. “Good news.”

While his brother struggled to catch his breath, Sterling waved the driver onward and back to Grosvenor Square. “How favorable is our position?”

“Very.” Grant was grinning now. “The wager has been accepted.”

“I know that. How much is in the book?”

“You don’t understand, Sterling. The wager has been met—all ten thousand pounds.” He chuckled. “A few other members are starting to duplicate your anonymous bet, since yours has already been accepted.”

Sterling covered his mouth with his hand and thought about what Grant had said. It had been only two days since the bet was made, and the full amount had been met by an astounding number of White’s members. “We cannot allow that. Not when the potential of this wager is great. We’ve got to put up more.”

Grant turned to face Sterling. “But we haven’t got more. Due to your wish to remain anonymous, White’s required us to hold the entire amount of the bet in escrow.”

“We have a bit more.”

“Living expenses, that is all. We need our mutton…and whisky.” Grant narrowed his gaze. “Och, I see that glint in your eyes. We cannot do it. Our sisters will use our heads for stew meat if we wager our last few bob.”

“Now, hear me out, Grant. The wager is extraordinarily popular…both sides of the coin, it seems. Everyone is talking about it, and about White’s.”

Grant nodded. “There wasna an empty seat at the club. Barely any room to stand. Even more extraordinary are the number of contrary wagers showing up in the book—bets that you will
not
marry Miss Carington by Season’s end.”

“So what if we petition White’s, through our proxy, to double the anonymous bettor’s exposure without requiring an additional ten thousand pounds to be held in escrow?”

The day was fine and the windows of the coach were open as the hackney rolled slowly up Piccadilly Street. Ladies and gentlemen, taking advantage of the sunny day to stroll and shop the length of the street, stopped to stare when the Sinclairs’ cab passed them by.

Grant slumped back against the cracked leather squabs, trying to move out of sight. “Gads, they’re pointing.”

Sterling smiled out the window and nodded his head in greeting at anyone who noticed him.

“Och, cease at once, Sterling.” Embarrassed, Grant covered his eyes with his hand. “Who do you think you are, the bluidy Prince Regent?”

“Just trying to stir up a little more interest in the wager.”

Grant dropped his hand from his eyes and grabbed Sterling’s shoulder, crumpling the clean slope of his coat. “We cannot ask to double the wager. What if we lose? What if you can’t win Miss Carington’s favor? Have you thought of that?”

“Nay. Because I will not fail. I saw the way Miss Carington looked at me. She may pretend to despise me, but in truth, I think she fancies me.” Sterling wickedly blew a kiss to two young misses walking behind their chaperone, sending them into a fit of blushes and giggles. “And I ask you, Grant, what miss, especially one slightly older than what is considered in London to be in her marriageable prime, would refuse the troth of a handsome man who will one day become Duke of Sinclair?”

“Maybe one who is daft enough to step between two massive pugilists in the middle of a battle.” Grant raised his dark eyebrows at Sterling. And he wasn’t jesting.

“She is passionate about her charity, and I always have been attracted to women with great
passion
.” He flicked his left eyebrow to clarify his double meaning.

“Aye, but remember that this woman’s passion is giving away money.” Grant lowered one eyebrow, but left the other high and questioning. “If you lose this wager, you and she will have a lot in common, eh?”

Sterling glanced out the window again. His smile dissolved. “I will not let that happen, Grant. Ivy told me this morn that Miss Carington will be in attendance at the Partridge ball. I plan to be there as well…ready to do whatever I must to win.”

“Well then.” Grant sighed amusedly. “I would not miss this particular ball for all the whisky in Scotland.”

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Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind.

Thoreau

[_Partridge House _
Hanover Square

At the exact moment the Whitebeard carriage turned onto George Street, Hanover Square still some distance ahead, Isobel realized that the Partridge spring ball was not the annual intimate affair it had always been in the past.

Gleaming carriages jammed Hanover Square, packing it as tightly as a pricked sausage casing, extruding their gaily dressed passengers through narrow gaps where they might, between horse teams and vehicles, allowing them to flow onto the pavers and into Partridge House.

Sir Rupert Whitebeard, who didn’t give a tail flick for appearances, instructed his footman to dispatch their party where they were on George Street, and he, Christiana, Isobel, and her father would hoof their way to Partridge House rather than spending the entire evening waiting inside a carriage that was not going anywhere.

Though the night was chilly for spring, Isobel saw that every window in Partridge House had been thrown wide. Three young misses were leaning out one of the upper windows, laughing loudly, and gleefully using their splayed fans to draw cool air into the crowded room.

Isobel tightened her hold around Christiana’s arm. “I do not have a good feeling about this. The house has never been this crowded.”

“I am sure the dressmaker simply told a few patrons that yours was the most glorious gown she’d ever stitched, and everyone must come to see it for themselves. No debutante could wear that color…or that daring neckline.” Christiana laughed, but Isobel would have none of her levity this evening.

She knew better. She knew why the house swelled with the upper ranks of Society. They were there to see her. And him. The common miss and the Scottish marquess, whose possible romance had become the most discussed topic in all of London—at least so wrote the
Times
. The idea was ludicrous. The country was at war, for heaven’s sake. Men were dying! Isobel stopped abruptly and stared at Partridge House. A shudder shook her.

Oh God
. Why had she ever believed she could do this? She fought the urge to spin around and run back to the carriage.

Then, inside her head, she heard the answer oh-so-quietly.

For your brother.

For the lost husbands, lovers, and sons.

She sucked down a deep breath of cool air, and listened with her heart.

For the widows of our soldiers.

For their children.

Yes. She could do it. She could. She must. Whom else could they turn to when they were in need? Only her.

Isobel pulled Christiana close so that their two fathers, who walked solemnly and slowly behind them, would not overhear her plan to coax a few guineas from every prosperous family inside the house. “I will need your assistance this night, Christiana.”

“With what, avoiding that handsome Scottish marquess of yours?” Christiana whispered back.

“Not at all. I fully intend to engage Lord Blackburn, while drawing as much attention from the
ton
as I might.” Though she tried to restrain any outward reaction that might call her father’s notice, the right side of her mouth twitched and lifted upward.

Christiana’s eyes grew as round and bright as the full moon above. She stopped walking. “Whatever do you mean?”

Startled her father might see Christiana’s delay, Isobel tugged her along. “The moon does seem to be shining directly upon Partridge House, Christiana. Look at that,” she exclaimed, before lowering her voice to a confidential tone again. “You mayn’t believe it, but I wish for as many people tonight to become interested in the wager as possible.”

“Do you take me for a fool? I do not believe it for one instant. No one would ever wish such a thing upon herself.” Christiana was still staring at Isobel as they walked.

“You have to stop peering at me that way. My father will get the notion that I am meaning to cause mischief—and I am not. What I am about to do this night is for the widows and orphans.”

“Lud, Issy, what is it that you are going to do?”

Christiana pressed her hand to her side. “Your teasing is making my breath come so hard that my corset is creaking. Please, do tell me now and end my suspense.”

Isobel shot a hunted glance over her shoulder to check the distance between the two of them and their fathers. “Very well. I am going to dance with Lord Blackburn, if he asks me. I am going to give him the cut direct if he is rude to me. I am going to flutter my lashes like a young miss in love. I am going to ignore him horribly, and I am going to remain breathlessly poised on his every utterance.”

“You are being nonsensical, Issy.” She frowned at Isobel. “Did you, perhaps, sip some of your father’s brandy before leaving the house?”

As they merged with a crowd thinning to pass through the front door, Christiana stopped again and waited as if to force Isobel’s answer.

“I am not being nonsensical. I vow that I mean to do all of those things…and more. If not tonight, then at some other gala. I mean to keep the
ton
interested in the two of us—and the wager.” Isobel put her mouth to Christiana’s ear. “And while I have the
ton
’s interest, I will use it to voice the plight of war widows and their children. My mission is to collect as much as I can from those who have so much money that they eagerly relish the chance to throw it away on such a meaningless wager.”

Christiana responded with a gasp just as they entered Partridge House. She said nothing as they surrendered their wraps, her face impassive as she seemed to consider Isobel’s request for assistance. But when their fathers belatedly crossed the threshold, ensconced in a crush of humanity, Christiana turned her wide eyes to Isobel’s and nodded. “I will do it. You know I will do anything for you. But Lord help you if your father learns what you are about this night.”

“No,
I
will be helping the Lord, for if my father learns of my strategy, I will surely be dispatched to my great-aunt’s pig farm in Yorkshire.”

“What? Your great-aunt Gertrude—the one whose lingering swine scent of pig makes your eyes water?”

“
Yes
.”

“Well, Issy, you will pardon me, won’t you, if I do not come to visit you in Yorkshire?” Christiana asked. “You know I detest pork.”

Isobel scowled. “So, Christiana, now you understand why I simply cannot fail. If I am forced to leave London, the widows will have no one to assist them, to help find rooms and employment. To give them money when they have none to feed their children.”

“Yes, but
especially
because you do not wish to perpetually smell like pigs,” Christiana added, quite seriously.

“R-right. That too.” Isobel swallowed deeply, girding herself for the evening. As their fathers rejoined Isobel and Christiana, their party moved together up the staircase to the ballroom.

Sterling stood beside his brother Grant at the perimeter of the opulent Partridge ballroom. Or rather, where the perimeter would have been if the grand room had not been filled from the center to each of the four walls with far too many overcurious guests.

He glanced across the room at Killian and Lachlan, who were easily visible over the waves of shorter Englishmen, and saw that they were already making their escape from the crush.

Sterling groaned inwardly. He supposed he couldn’t fault them for leaving; after all, he would do the same had he not been here for the sole purpose of encountering Miss Isobel Carington—without humiliating her or earning a slap this time.

He had the wager…and his family’s financial future to consider.

His sisters were each swathed in a vibrant hue: indigo, saffron, and emerald. They stood out from the misses dressed in “purity” white, and the matrons in dull shades of metal, each seeming to repel attention more efficiently than the last.

Then a wave of silence rippled through the swarming ballroom. Sterling turned his head, his eyes just catching a flash of crimson in the doorway before everyone in the room seemed to move at once.

Suddenly the crowd opened like a loose seam until he alone stood at its apex, and in the doorway stood Miss Carington.

Her crimson gown shimmered in the flickering light of the chandeliers. The color of the gown seemed to heighten the porcelain smoothness of her skin, yet at the same time enhancing the fullness of her exquisite mouth, and heighten the beguiling flush atop her high cheekbones. Her hair, glistening like spun gold, was drawn elegantly atop her head and pinned into place with sparkling ruby brilliants.

She did not move, but all eyes were drawn to her.

Sterling didn’t move either. He couldn’t. He was too dazzled by her beauty and wholly stunned by her passive but entirely visceral command of him.

Grant clapped a hand to Sterling’s back and pressed him forward, just as the crowd closed behind Miss Carington and, like a wave-surge, washed her straight toward him.

Her eyes were wild and wide as revelers rushed her across the dance floor so quickly that she did not even have the forethought to raise her hands to brace herself for the inevitable collision with him.

Sterling opened his arms, and within an instant, she was thrust hard against his chest. He felt her start to fall backward, and instinctively wrapped his arms around her and held her fast.

Her hair smelled faintly of flowers, bringing to his mind the welcoming scent of pink heather on the moors. Without thinking, he closed his eyes for a moment and reveled in the earthy sweetness that so reminded him of Scotland.