To Sin With A Scoundrel Read online

  Things did not always add up so simply, thought Ciara.

  However, she decided there was no harm in humoring her friends. Like the satirical compendium on male behavior they were drafting, this proposed list of gentlemen was merely an exercise in whimsy.

  “Alessandra is invited to a number of Society entertainments on account of her mother’s family,” added Kate. “And though she doesn’t choose to attend many, I’m sure she will have some interesting ideas.”

  “Speaking of Alessandra, will she and the children have returned to Town by our next meeting?” asked Ariel.

  “Yes. If all goes well.” As she gathered her notes from the meeting and rose, Ciara tried not to dwell on the irony of her words. Since when had life gone smoothly for her? But seeing Charlotte’s eyes cloud with concern, she forced a smile. “By the by, whose turn is it to take ‘The Immutable Laws of Male Logic’ for the coming week?”

  “Mine,” piped up Ariel. “Though I fear I am not nearly as creative as the rest of you. I have only Cousin Archibald for inspiration, and that is not quite the same as a husband.”

  “Granted, you haven’t experienced the full range of male behavior,” Charlotte said with a grin. “But don’t worry, I’m sure you get the gist of it.”

  “Yes, but… a scientist should always depend on empirical knowledge rather than hearsay.” Ariel’s cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink. “I cannot help but wonder what I am missing.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat.” Ciara smoothed the sardonic quirk from her lips as she rose and gave her friend a quick hug. “We ought not ignore folk wisdom. Its truths are, after all, based on centuries of experience.”

  “I have another old adage—The apple does not fall far from the tree.” Charlotte polished off the last pastry. “Keep an eye peeled on Sheffield’s sister. She is rotten to the core.”

  No clever quip came in response. Instead, Ciara felt her throat tighten.

  “And murder is a very serious crime to be accused of—”

  Kate’s butter knife slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. Her face seemed a shade paler as she bent to retrieve it. “Let us not speak of murder. We all know Ciara is innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  “Of course we do. But truth is not always clear-cut in the eyes of justice,” said Charlotte. “I am simply cautioning her to take care.”

  Ciara drew in a deep breath. She would not let fear poison her life. “Thank you for the warning. But I assure you, I am prepared for any trouble that might come my way.”

  Cursing the sudden rain shower, Lucas shrugged out of his caped driving coat and slapped his sodden gloves down on the side table.

  “A foul day to be traveling, milord.” With his usual show of quiet efficiency, his uncle’s butler gathered up the discarded garments and blotted the drops of water from the mahogany veneer. “Shall I inform Sir Henry of your arrival?”

  “No, thank you, Higgins. I’ll announce myself.” The earl’s boots left a trail of tiny puddles as he crossed the checkered marble tiles and took the stairs two at a time to the library.

  “Lucas!” His uncle looked up from his manuscript, a fond smile wreathing his gaunt features. “Why, I had heard you left Town. I didn’t expect to see you here for at least another week.” Setting down his pen, the elderly scholar grasped the wheels of his Bath chair and rolled out from behind his desk. “You are looking a trifle damp,” he remarked, a mischievous twinkle dancing in his eyes.

  There was not a hint of reproach in his uncle’s humor, yet the reference to his recent escapade in the fountain made Lucas feel a little juvenile. “Sorry,” he began, angling his gaze to the orderly rows of leatherbound books.

  Henry’s smile faded. “I was not intending any criticism—”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Lucas traced a finger along the gilt spines. “You are far too tactful to tell me how dismayed you are that I have so little interest in intellectual pursuits. The fact that I chase far more tangible pleasures must be… a great disappointment.”

  “What is meat to some men is gristle to others.” His uncle gave a wry grimace. “I am hardly in a position to pass judgment on how you live your life, Lucas. And besides, it doesn’t matter what I think. The only person you have to please is yourself. You must do what makes you happy.”

  “I don’t really give it much thought.” Lucas took care to sound nonchalant.

  “Ah.” Henry fixed him with a pensive stare. “I daresay at some point you will. I have found that having a passion—a true passion and commitment—is a source of great satisfaction in life.”

  “I’ve plenty of passion in my life. And if I achieved any more satisfaction, I might expire from overexertion,” drawled Lucas. “So you see, things are quite perfect for me as they are.”

  “Well, then, enough of curmudgeonly advice,” murmured Henry. “I did not ask you to call on me in order to subject you to a prosy lecture.”

  Relieved to let the matter drop, Lucas was quick to reply, “I have been wondering as to the specific reason. Your request did seem to have a certain note of urgency.”

  “It’s hardly a matter of life or death, but I was hoping that I might ask a small favor of you.”

  “Of course. Anything.”

  A chuckle sounded. “A few last words of wisdom, my dear boy—always look before you leap. It’s ill-advised to commit yourself to action until you know what’s expected.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” The earl grinned. “What do you have in mind—something illegal? Immoral?”

  “Alas, nothing half so interesting.” His uncle heaved a mock sigh. “You had better wheel me down to the library, so that I may show you.”

  As the Bath chair glided over the polished parquet, Lucas could not help noticing how his uncle seemed to weigh no more than the mohair shawl wrapped around his frail shoulders. There were other changes as well. They were subtle, like the whispered creaks of the wood and iron, but spoke all too clearly of the inexorable march of time.

  “… how much do you know of Bishop Raymond of Seville and his work in preserving the wisdom of the ancient Greeks?”

  The earl thought for a moment. The name had a vaguely familiar ring to it, but other than that…

  “The extent of my knowledge on the subject would likely fit on the head of a prick,” he replied dryly.

  As he had hoped, the waggish remark drew a bark of laughter.

  “Yours or mine? The difference, I fear, would be considerable. My brain may not yet be shrinking, but unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the rest of me.” Henry looked up and, without a trace of rancor, added, “It’s damn depressing to grow old, Lucas. Would that there were some draught—other than hemlock—to make the process more palatable.”

  Lucas swallowed hard. Lud, he would miss the self-deprecating wit and pithy wisdom of his guardian when he was gone. “The Scots have a potent brew they call uisge beatha—water of life. I can vouch from experience that it’s highly effective in killing any ill that ails you… at least temporarily.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of encouraging rational thought, not oblivion,” replied his uncle with a bittersweet sigh. “However, while my wits are still alive and kicking, I should like to exercise them.” He motioned to one of the windowed alcoves overlooking the gardens. A thin sheaf of papers, bound with a red ribbon, lay centered on a small worktable.

  “I discovered this manuscript hidden inside the binding of an old Bible I purchased from Lord Fannerton’s estate.” Excitement animated his voice. “My Arabic is rudimentary at best, but I think I make out the name of Hippocrates and the title of the essay. If I am right, it’s a work that has been lost for centuries to Western scholars. Have you any idea what that means?”

  Lucas shrugged. “I can’t say that I stay up late at night to ponder the mysteries of the ancient world. I have other subjects on my mind.”

  Henry smiled, a deceptively mild expression that did not blunt the sharpness of his gaze. But
after a moment or two he turned his attention back to the dog-eared parchment. “Assuming my hunch is correct, its value is incalculable, and not just to serious scholars. I’ve made some notes, but the complexity of the data is beyond my knowledge of the subject. More than that, a good deal of the writing seems to be in code—which was used to hide radical scientific ideas from religious censors. All in all, I suspect it may be a momentous medical discovery.”

  “You don’t say,” murmured Lucas. It was hard for him to get excited over a bit of moldy parchment, but he was happy to see Henry’s enthusiasm had brought a touch of color to his cheeks.

  “Indeed. You see, from what I make out from the scribe’s opening notations, he seems to imply that the manuscript contains some sort of miracle cure for wounds.” Henry looked up. “Intriguing, isn’t it?”

  Lucas nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “So did my friend Lord Lynsley, who as you know is Assistant Minister to the Secretary of State for War,” continued Henry. “When I happened to mention it to him, he was quite interested and agreed that I should have it looked at by the leading expert in the field. After all, such a finding would have special significance for the military.” He slipped the manuscript into a leather portfolio and tied its flap shut. “However, seeing as he would like me to be discreet about the discovery for now, I would rather not entrust transporting such a treasure to anyone but you.”

  “That’s all?” Lucas wasn’t sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed at being asked to do so little. “In truth, I was expecting a more daunting challenge than a quick jaunt to Oxford—”

  “Oh, you needn’t travel any farther than Pont Street. Judging from all I have read in my scientific journals, there isn’t an Oxford don whose knowledge can compare to that of Lady Sheffield.”

  “The witch who poisoned her husband? Surely you are joking.”

  “Scurrilous rumors.” Henry added an extra loop of cording around his precious package. “You, of all people, should know how the newspapers take liberties with facts. I have been assured by unimpeachable sources, including Lord Lynsley, that the widow is a brilliant scientist.”

  So, not only was the lady a murderess, but she was a bluestocking, to boot?

  Lucas wasn’t sure which was the lesser of two evils. Grimacing, he closed his eyes, envisioning skin the color of book paste, mouse-brown hair scraped back in a bun, bony shoulders stooped in a scholarly hunch, and thin lips pinched in perpetual disapproval. Spectacles would no doubt round out the picture. And definitely a squint. Maybe even a wart or two.

  In his wildest nightmare, he couldn’t have imagined a female he would less like to encounter.

  “Indeed, Lynsley was the one who suggested that I ask her for help. He would have done so himself, except he has been called away from Town on an urgent government matter.” Henry hesitated. “However, if you would rather not…”

  “No, no.” It was not as if he were being asked to confront a fire-breathing dragon or a snake-haired Medusa whose stare could turn men to stone. It was a simple errand, a small penance to pay for the sins of neglect.

  He held out his hand for the manuscript.

  Chapter Three

  Bloody hell.

  Of all his recent stunts, this was perhaps the most outrageous. But the reclusive widow had left him no choice.

  Cursing again as his boot slipped on the smooth limestone, Lucas caught at the vines just in time to prevent a nasty fall from the back wall of her townhouse. He paused for a moment and slanted another measured look at the window ledge. He had overcome far more difficult obstacles in the course of arranging an intimate rendezvous. Granted, the ladies in question had been aware of his intentions, but still, the logistics would present no problems.

  It was not as if he had any alternative to stealth. Lady Sheffield’s ancient butler had turned away every proper approach he had made to her residence on Pont Street. The last time around, the old curmudgeon had refused to even open the front door and accept his card. Lucas had slid it under the paneled oak anyway, after scribbling yet another note beneath the engraved script.

  His mouth quirked up at the corners. The widow wished to challenge him to a battle of wills? Well, he had tossed down a gauntlet of his own, so to speak. And whether or not she read between the lines, the bit of stationery announced his intention of accepting the fight.

  His inquiries up and down the street had finally turned up a neighboring bootboy willing to exchange information about “Lady Murder” for a handful of coins. She hardly ever went out—a fact he had ascertained on his own—but according to his source, the widow did have one regular appointment each week that she kept without fail.

  Ha! He would simply make himself at home in her private quarters and wait for her return.

  But as he slipped through the window and ran headlong into a swirl of vapor, Lucas was no longer feeling quite so smug. Perhaps this was not such a good idea, after all. Given the lady’s reputation, he eyed the boiling cauldron with great wariness. However, as he crinkled his nose and gave an experimental sniff, he found that the moist air had a rather pleasant scent to it—a woodsy tang, softened with a floral sweetness. Hardly the sort of poisonous Underworld potion he would expect from the Goddess of Witches.

  Indeed, despite all the odd-looking instruments, the room had a rather comfortable, cozy feel to it that reminded him of his uncle’s study. He peeked inside one of the heavy tomes stacked on the worktable. Ah, yes—the same Latin nomenclature, the same complex equations.

  Letting the cover fall shut, he moved on to her desk.

  The usual assortment of pens and paperknives was arranged at the head of the blotter. The bottle of scarlet ink—at least he assumed it was ink and not the blood of her latest victim—was the only odd touch. Setting down his own packet of papers, he leaned in for a closer look.

  “Damn.”

  Retrieving the little book he had knocked to the carpet, Lucas gave the marbled paper cover a dusting with his sleeve and then turned to put it back in its place. As he did, its ribbon bookmark slipped and the pages fluttered open.

  How interesting. Perching a hip on the desktop, Lucas flipped through the rest of the chapter.

  Naughty girl.

  Not only did Lady Sheffield’s proficiency in arcane languages appear to include a rather racy dialect of Italian, but the pictures showed a more intimate interest in anatomy than he would have expected in a prim bluestocking.

  He turned the book upside down and stifled a laugh. On second thought, perhaps she was studying physics and the laws of gravity. Such a position would require a great deal of leg strength to maintain. Having tried something of a similar nature on the balcony of Lady Wilton’s bedchamber, he could vouch for the fact that—

  “What the devil!” A shout, shrill with shock, interrupted his study.

  Lucas looked up and smiled. “Free feel to call me Lucifer. No need to stand on formalities, seeing as we are in a private—and some might say intimate—setting.”

  The lady was still wearing the same hideous headcovering as when she had left the house. Its voluminous clouds of black gauze made her look like a walking storm cloud.

  “Get out!” Her thunderclap of fury did nothing to dispel the impression. “This instant.”

  Strange, but for a heartbeat he had a prickling feeling that they had encountered each other before. He shook it off and replied, “Not until you do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”

  “How dare you accuse me of bad manners! You are hardly entitled to lecture anyone on proper behavior.”

  Lucas tapped his forefinger to the erotic etching. “Neither are you.”

  Her shoulders stiffened, and her head came up a fraction. She was taller than he had imagined, and for some odd reason he had the impression that beneath the crow-black coverings, the arch of her neck was graceful as that of a swan’s.

  “Get out,” she repeated. “I warn you, I don’t mean to tolerate this invasion of my privacy.”
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br />   Lucas crossed his legs and waggled a boot. “What do you intend to do—pull out a pistol and shoot me? I had heard that poison was your preferred weapon.”

  “If I gave you a choice, I should imagine you would choose a blade. Word has it you fancy yourself quite a swordsman.”

  He laughed. “Touché, Lady Sheffield.” Pressing a hand to his chest, he exaggerated a grimace. “I appear to be hoisted on my own petard.”

  The gauzy veil did little to blunt her daggered look. He could feel a thousand little points of steel prick into his flesh.

  “Your petard will not be hoisting itself—much less anything else—in this house,” she retorted.

  The widow had a rapier wit, he gave her that. Which she wielded with surprising dexterity. Lucas rose and smoothed the wrinkles from his trousers. Rather than aggravate him, the idea of matching thrusts and parries with a skilled opponent intrigued him. Demure young ladies bored him to perdition.

  “It’s rather warm in here,” he drawled. “If we are to engage in a verbal duel, you might be more comfortable taking off your cloak and bonnet. As I said, I am not going anywhere until I have my say.”

  “You are not used to being told no, are you?”

  “No.”

  There was a pause, and a flutter of black wool, as she moved to her worktable and spooned out a measure of white powder. Steam shot up as she emptied it into the cauldron.

  “Come now,” he murmured. “It’s only sporting that I be allowed to see the face of my opponent.” Deliberately toying with the top button of his coat, Lucas added, “It strips the combat down to the bare essentials, so to speak, when you look at each other, eye to eye.”

  She edged back. “I’m not interested in playing your game.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Her hands betrayed a tiny tremor. “Q-quite sure.”

  “As a gentleman, I cannot force you to listen,” he said softly. “But I’m getting rather desperate, and desperate men cannot be counted on to mind the rules.”