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Synopsis
A reclusive widow known for her scientific scholarship, Lady Ciara Sheffield is shadowed by rumors that she poisoned her husband . . . A rakehell rogue notorious for his devil-may-care antics, Lucas Bingham--the Earl of Hadley--is not accused of murdering anything--save for the rules of Polite Society. The only thing they have in common is seeing their names featured in the lurid gossip columns of London's newspapers. Until an ancient manuscript draws them together. Ciara needs a titled fiance to quell the slanderous speculations which may send her to the gallows. Lucas needs brilliant scholar to help his elderly uncle decipher the secrets of the mysterious manuscript. So when her friends urge her to accept the earl's proposal of a temporary alliance, Ciara decides that she has no choice but to make a deal with the Devil. And so begins a seductive dance of sinful pleasures and hidden desires as the two of them waltz through the mansions of Mayfair. Lies, intrigue, treachery, sex. They find themselves facing slanderous whispers, unscrupulous relatives-not to speak of their own simmering passions, which quickly ignite into dangerous flames. It's a potent mix and the result may be explosive-and perhaps deadly-if they don't watch their step.
Release date: March 1, 2010
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 384
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To Sin with a Scoundrel
Cara Elliott
Murder.
The word looked rather ghoulish on the printed page.
Closing her eyes for an instant, Lady Ciara Sheffield reminded herself that it sounded even worse.
“Murder.” Though she said it with barely a breath, the echo seemed to shatter the stillness of the room. Seeing that the inquest
was officially closed, she had thought the past had finally been laid to rest. But apparently she was gravely mistaken.
She set aside the Morning Gazette, yet the flutter of newsprint was a disquieting reminder of the malicious whispers. For months following her husband’s sudden
collapse, the drawing rooms of Mayfair had been aswirl in ondits, each one more outrageous than the last.
At least this morning’s article had not called her a witch but instead accorded her the dignity of referring to her work as
“scientific.”
Her breakfast was now cold, and as the taste of the teaturned bitter on her tongue, Ciara crumbled a bit of toast between
her fingers. Would the ton never tire of gnawing on the bones of old scandal? Sighing, she angled another peek at the column of newsprint. By now the
rumors and innuendo should have died a natural death.
Oh, how she hated being fodder for gossip. But perhaps, with any luck, her story would soon fade from the front pages.
Especially if the infamous Lord Hadley kept up his escapades.
Much as she despised wastrels in general, Ciara found herself almost liking the man for being so utterly, so outrageously
debauched. His latest antics could not help but distract the tattlemongers from her own quiet life. When it came to selling
newspapers, a reclusive widow was no match for a rakehell earl.
Not that she had any interest in learning the sordid details of this particular incident. Determined to turn a blind eye to
the columnist’s lurid prose, Ciara reached for her notebooks. And yet she could not quite help catching sight of the next
few lines…
Dear God, surely the writer was grossly exaggerating.
Despite herself, she read on. She was acquainted with the fountain in question—though not with the cyprian who had apparently
consented to play Leda to Lord Hadley’s Zeus-as-Swan. According to the account, the naked female was a good deal more statuesque
than the sculpted marble. And a good deal more vocal. Apparently half of Berkeley Square had been woken by her shrieks when
the earl’s slip landed both of them chest deep in the frigid water.
That ought to have cooled their ardor, thought Ciara grimly. Not to speak of inflicting more permanent damage. It was hinted
that the earl had suffered several good-sized bruises to a rather sensitive section of his anatomy.
No doubt he was wishing that “brass balls” was not merely a metaphor.
The newsprint suddenly crackled. The coals hissed, and flames licked up to consume the crumpled wad of paper. To hell with Lord Hadley. And the rest of London Society, for that matter. Let them play their wicked games. She had witnessed enough malicious intrigue
and mindless debauchery to last her a lifetime. It was no longer shocking, just dreadfully dull.
Pushing aside her plate, Ciara gathered up her notebooks and hurried from the breakfast room.
“Bloody hell! Another hit, dead center through the card!”
Bloody luck. Lucas Bingham, the Earl of Hadley, squinted in the glare of morning sunlight. He was a damn good shot, but after the three—or
was it four?—bottles of port he’d consumed over the last several hours, even the sharpest aim could go astray.
“La, sir.” One of the luscious lightskirts he and his friends had hired for the trip slipped her hand beneath his shirt. “Your
touch on the trigger is unerring. What say you to reloading and taking a shot at another sort of target?”
Before the earl could answer, Lord Farnam let out a low whistle. “Damnation, Lucas. I swear, you could shoot a farthing off
the tip of a man’s cock without doing any damage.”
“Especially yours, Freddy,” called Baron Greeley. “Even Hadley can’t hit what he can’t see.”
Farnam joined in the bawdy laughter before replying, “I, on the other hand, have no trouble spotting your fat arse, Georgie—especially
as it’s exposed in a rather precarious position right now. So keep a civil tongue in your head unless you wish to feel the
full force of my boot.”
Greeley’s ladybird lay draped over one of the garden statues, and her embrace had angled the baron and his naked posterior
into full view. “Come, come, gentlemen,” she called. “Let’s have no talk of violence, only fun.” Her hands inched lower, drawing
Greeley’s breeches along with them. “After all, we’re all here to have a good time.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Farnam uncorked another bottle of champagne. “A toast to Lucas—our own Mad, Bad Had-ley—for giving us
such a swimmingly good reason to quit Town for a while. The Season was becoming a bloody bore. Nothing like a country house party to keep us
all in good spirits until the prigs have time to forget about your moonlight swan dive.”
Forget.
Lucas winced as the word cut through the haze of wine.
Damn. Up until that moment, his promise to his uncle had completely slipped his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time he had left
Henry in the lurch. Not by far. Of late, his negligence was becoming such a habit that his failure to show up at the appointed
hour was no doubt expected.
A fact that only made the prickling of guilt dig in a little deeper. And not even Marie—or was her name Marguerite?—could
caress it away.
The feeling was bloody uncomfortable. Not to speak of inconvenient, seeing as they had arrived at Farnam’s estate only at
dawn, after carousing half the night in one of the seamier gambling hells in St. Giles. Tossing aside the pistol, Lucas grabbed
a fresh bottle and gulped down a swallow, hoping to drown the host of tiny daggers jabbing against his flesh.
Instead, the ruthless little buggers intensified their attack.
“Blast,” he muttered, pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples. “You’ve just reminded me of a pressing engagement,
Freddy. I’m afraid I’m going to have to return to town immediately.”
“Put it off, chéri.” Mademoiselle M began to toy with the fastenings of his breeches. “Along with your buckskins. Why rush off when we can play
a bit of slap and tickle right here and now?”
“I can’t,” he replied, grimacing as he gingerly removed her hand. That particular portion of his anatomy was not feeling very…
playful at the moment. He vaguely remembered a midnight encounter involving very cold water and very hard stone. “The truth
is, my uncle expected me yesterday.”
“But chéri!” She pursed her lips into a provocative little pout. “If you leave now, it will throw off the numbers.”
“Someone will have to double up.” Lucas watched Farnam take another swig of wine and then thrust himself between his companion’s
thighs. “Freddy looks willing to give his pump handle a few extra turns.”
The lightskirt narrowed her kohl-rimmed eyes. “That leaves me with the short end of the stick, so to speak. I didn’t make
the journey out here to sit around and twiddle my thumbs. The deal was that I got you.”
His headache seemed to be taking a turn for the worse. Fishing a wad of banknotes from his coat, Lucas tossed them over. “Here,
perhaps counting these will keep your clever little fingers busy.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Hadley,” called Ingalls. He was lying spread-eagle on the grass, smoking a cheroot. “Surely another
day or two will make no difference to your uncle. After all, he isn’t likely to be going anywhere.”
His other friends found the quip uproariously funny.
“I say, that’s a good one, Fitz,” said Greeley, wiping the tears of mirth from his cheeks. “Not going anywhere! Ha, ha, ha.”
The casual cruelty concerning his uncle’s infirmity hit him like a slap in the face. Lucas felt a surge of anger well up inside
him, and for an instant he was tempted to lash out and smash the slurred smiles to a pulp. But if anyone deserved to be pummeled,
he realized, it was himself. The other three simply followed his example, as they had since their schoolboy days at Eton.
Mad, Bad Had-ley. Hell-bent on raising the art of outrageous behavior to a science. The pursuit of pleasure, executed with perfect precision.
He found himself frowning. Was he really such a sodden, self-absorbed sot? A reckless reprobate reeking of spirits and sex?
Lucas shifted his stance, trying to shake off such dark musings. The fall into the fountain must have coshed his wits as well
as his whirligigs. He didn’t usually subject himself to such soul-searching introspection…
“You aren’t in any condition to travel,” called Greeley. His friend fixed him with a bleary-eyed squint. “Fact is, you look
like shite.”
“Nonetheless, I mean to leave for London within the hour,” he muttered.
“Oh, come on,” coaxed Farnam. “It’s not like you to leave your friends in the lurch.”
“At the very least, have one more round of drinks with us,” added Ingalls.
“Well…” It was, after all, still early in the morning, thought Lucas. “Maybe just one more.”
Marguerite smiled and ran a caress up the inside of his thigh.
Oh, what the hell.
Her workroom—her sanctuary—afforded a place of refuge from the poison pens and other painful realities of the outside world.
Tall, mullioned windows filled the space with a clean-edged light. The leather bindings of her books glowed with the mellow
warmth of aged sherry, a rich complement to the gleam of polished glass. The orderly rows of vials and beakers mirrored the
precise arrangement of her scientific instruments. Microscopes, calipers, and magnifying lenses…
Here the truth was not distorted to suit personal desires. Empirical data could be measured. Rational thought ruled over raw
emotion.
And yet, pressing her palms to her cheeks, Ciara was dismayed to find them still burning with indignation.
And perhaps a touch of fear.
“Damn,” she muttered, angry with herself for allowing the latest headlines to threaten her peace of mind. What did it matter
if her name was splashed across the gossip pages? The inquest into her husband’s death was closed, and Sheffield’s family
would have to live with that fact. “The danger is over,” she added, as if saying it aloud gave the words an extra ring of
truth.
Don’t dwell on the past. With her young son away in the country, this fortnight was supposed to be a pleasant interlude for her, as well. A time to
catch up on her scholarly research, not stew over the most recent efforts of her late husband’s relatives to blacken her reputation.
As she opened her notebook and began to write, the scent of the simmering herbs and spices filled the room. The original recipe—a
potion for relieving the pain of gouty joints—had come from a medieval manuscript she had discovered in the attics of Sheffield
Manor. But based on her own knowledge, she was making a few changes.
Rosemary, essence of juniper, sumac… Ticking off the list, Ciara made a note to mix in myrrh at the next chime of the hour. That would give her just enough time
to organize her notes for the weekly meeting of the Circle of Scientific Sibyls.
Her lips quirked in a rueful smile. That was the group’s official name, but among themselves they had taken to calling it
the ‘Circle of Sin.’ After all, intellectual pursuits were not considered proper conduct for a lady. But undaunted by public
opinion, the five female members were serious scholars who shared a common interest in the natural sciences. And despite their
differences in age and background, they had also come to share a special bond of friendship.
Ciara smoothed her papers into a neat pile. Lud, she was not quite sure how she would have survived the last half year without
their stalwart support. By her own admission, she had shunned the social swirl of London. Still, the viciousness of the personal
attacks after her husband’s sudden death had staggered her.
Drawing in a gulp of air, she forced herself to swallow the memory of terror, of confusion.
Sheffield’s relatives had been quick to start the whispers of ugly speculations. As the rumbling of suspicion grew more ominous
and the tone of the inquest turned more threatening, her own family had taken cover from the growing storm of scandal, leaving
her to stand up to the sharp-tongued magistrates and hatchet-faced coroner on her own.
The law required that the circumstances surrounding a sudden death be looked into. No matter that her husband was a dissolute
man who had probably drunk himself into an early grave. By all accounts, he had downed a half-dozen bottles of brandy during
the night of his collapse. And yet she had been forced to listen to his family and their cronies offer testimony about her
shrewish temper, reclusive habits, and secret lair full of strange potions.
Ciara closed her eyes, trying not to picture the faces of the jury as they listened to the witnesses. She had seen the fear
and loathing when their eyes met hers. Indeed, right up until the end, she had been sure they would find her guilty of her
husband’s death and order her turned over to the authorities for a criminal trial.
Yet somehow she had found the strength to survive the terrible ordeal. Not for herself, but for Peregrine. She would have
died a thousand deaths before she let Sheffield’s grasping family gain custody of her son. Oh, they had tried, even after
the coroner had grudgingly announced that there was not enough evidence to indict her for murder. Even now they continued
to spread stories about how her unnatural interests and unstable mind made her unfit to be a mother.
More lies, more innuendos.
Her hands clenched. She had done her best to protect Peregrine—first from the fickle moods of his father, then from the sordid
details of the inquest, and now from the swirl of scandal that still surrounded her name.
But was her best good enough?
Forcing her chin up, Ciara refused to surrender to despair. While there was still a breath left in her body, she would not
let Sheffield’s family beat her down. So far, they had not been able to offer a shred of proof to support their allegations.
No doubt they would keep trying, but surely, as time went on, it would become more and more difficult to claim they had actual
evidence of a crime.
Let them continue their campaign of evil whispers. Let them plant nasty lies in the newspapers. Words were their only weapons—and
words could not hurt her. And yet Ciara felt her throat constrict. The same could not be said for Peregrine. He was so young
and impressionable…
Thank God for friends like Alessandra della Giamatti.
A fellow member of the Circle of Sin, the marchesa was also a widow and had a daughter the same age as her son. Having experienced
her own share of personal travails in Italy, Alessandra had gone out of her way to include Peregrine in the everyday activities
that made life seem… normal for a child.
At the moment, the three of them were spending a fortnight in Bath, where some ancient Roman ruins had recently been unearthed.
Ciara allowed a small smile. An expert in archeology as well as chemistry, Alessandra had been eager to observe up close the
initial digging. And so had the children.
The fresh air and open fields would do Peregrine a world of good.
As for herself…
The chime of the clock roused her from such unsettling reveries. Shoving the past aside, Ciara hurried to mix the last ingredient
into the bubbling potion before leaving for the meeting. As she reached for her shawl, her glove grazed a small blood-red
notebook lying beneath the fringed silk.
She quickly added it to her reticule.
After all, hadn’t Hippocrates written that humor was one of the most potent medicines known to man—or woman? Following the
regular agenda of the meeting, her friends might find her latest additions to their other on-going scholarly research amusing.
It was far more than an hour later when Lucas finally staggered to his feet and refastened his breeches. “I really must be
off,” he muttered, gathering up his rumpled coat and cravat. Turning for the terrace, he cocked a last salute to his friends.
“Enjoy the country. I fear that London is going to be a bore without your company.”
“Then stay,” called Greeley.
He shook his head. “No, I must atone for all my recent sins of neglect by visiting my uncle today.”
Farnam caught up to him on the stairs. “Er, see here, Lucas, are you sure that you have no objection if I step in to fill
the void with Mathilde… so to speak?”
“None whatsoever. Nature abhors a vacuum,” replied Lucas with some cynicism.
“Er…” Farnam cast him a puzzled look.
“Never mind. It’s merely one of the many scientific observations my uncle is fond of pointing out.” Lucas quickened his step,
anxious to order his valise packed and his team of grays harnessed. “You are welcome to avail yourself of Mademoiselle M’s
company.”
“That’s awfully sporting of you.” Farnam grinned and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Admit it— all this talk
about your uncle is pishposh. I take it you are running back to an even more delectable morsel.”
Lucas was loath to confess the truth. “What do you think?” he drawled.
His friend let out an admiring whistle. “You have the devil’s own luck with women.”
Or was it a curse? Sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder if everything came just a little too easily for him. The truth was, the lack of a challenge had left him feeling bored of late.
Brushing off such unsettling thoughts, he flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “Care for a bit of advice?”
“Hell, yes!”
“The secret is in not giving a damn.”
“Er, about what?”
“About anything at all.”
Still upset by the ugly snippet of gossip, Ciara decided to vent her agitation by walking through the park rather than taking
a hackney to her meeting. It was still unfashionably early, and the day was cool, with scudding clouds, so the chances of
encountering anyone who might recognize her were slim.
And what did it matter if someone made a snide comment? One more nasty word could hardly do any further damage.
Turning down one of the side carriage paths, Ciara quickened her pace, edging onto the grassy verge to stay deep in the leafy
shadows of the trees. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she wasn’t aware of having company until a trilling laugh brought her
up short.
“Come now, Annabelle, now that you’ve dragged us to this secluded spot, you simply must tell us all about that magnificent beast you’ve taken into your bed.”
Ciara looked up with a start. Through the netting of her veil, she recognized Lady Annabelle Merton, a renowned beauty of
the ton, strolling along the graveled path, arm in arm with Lady Caroline Guilford and Lady Mary Hurlbutt.
She froze, praying that her dark clothing would blend into the shade and allow her to go unseen.
Dear God, don’t let them look around.
But the trio were too busy talking to notice they weren’t alone.
“Yes, do give us all the delicious details.” Another loud titter. “Is Hadley as good a lover as all the rumors say?”
Hadley. Ciara grimaced. The man seemed to be on everyone’s tongue this morning.
Lady Merton fingered the curling plume of her stylish bonnet. “He’s absolutely divine, Caro,” she replied with a cat-in-the-creampot
purr. “You’ve seen for yourself those broad shoulders and sculpted thighs. I assure you, every other part of his body is equally
impressive.”
“Is it true that he’s hung like a stallion and has the stamina of a racehorse?” asked Lady Hurlbutt eagerly.
“Let us just say that the earl takes a lady on quite a wild ride.”
As the trio dissolved into knowing laughter, Ciara was about to retreat and take another route. But they suddenly stopped
and formed a more intimate circle, so she dared not move.
“His performance is perfectly splendid, even after several times around the track,” went on Lady Merton. “I vow, the man can
go on from dusk to dawn without a hitch in his stride.” Her gloved hand gave a little flutter. “But, my dears, it is not just
his own pleasure that Hadley cares about. The earl believes that both mount and rider should enjoy the gallop.”
Enjoy? Ciara was sure she must have misunderstood. In her experience, sex was naught but a hurried humping—an awkward, painful process
that a female was expected to endure but certainly not enjoy.
And yet, Lady Guilford heaved a breathy sigh. “You are the luckiest lady in London.”
“I have heard that some rakes are very skilled with their fingers,” pressed Lady Hurlbutt.
“Mmm, Hadley has very clever hands,” replied Lady Merton. “But it’s his sinfully sensuous mouth that does such delicious things
to a lady’s most intimate places.”
“You mean to say… the Grotto of Venus?” asked Lady Hurlbutt.
Lady Guilford let out a gasp. “He doesn’t. Not down there.”
“Oh, but he does. Lush little licks, tiny teasing nibbles…”
Ciara had never in her life heard such shockingly explicit talk. Her ears were burning, but in spite of her loathing for gossip,
she found herself straining to hear more. It was merely out of scientific curiosity, she reasoned.
However, the details were cut off by the sound of an approaching carriage.
“Well, speak of the devil,” murmured Lady Guilford.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” The deep, masculine voice sounded a little rough around the edges. Its raffish tone was echoed by
the gentleman’s appearance. Beneath a high-crown beaver hat, his long black hair fell in wind-tangled disarray around the
collar of his driving coat. A dark stubbling shaded the strong line of his jaw, and his eyes—
Ciara quickly took shelter between two oak trees.
Set off by his sun-bronzed skin, his eyes were a mesmerizing shade of sapphire blue. The infamous earl in the flesh. As he smiled, she felt her breath catch in her throat. He might be a scoundrel, but there was no denying that he was handsome
as sin.
A dark, dangerous devil.
“La, Hadley,” called Lady Merton. “What a surprise. I read in this morning’s newspaper that you had left Town.”
“I had,” he answered. “But a pressing matter required my return.”
“I hope you haven’t taken a chill, sir,” said Lady Merton with a saucy laugh. “Bathing outdoors in the damp night air can
be very unhealthy.”
“So I have been told.” His lips curled up at the corners. “Luckily I’ve suffered no lasting ill effects. But in the future
I shall be more discerning. Cold water leaves much to be desired.” His lidded gaze slowly fixed on Lady Merton. “As I recall
from a certain summer afternoon in Kent, submerging in a tub of sparkling champagne is a far more pleasant experience.”
Her two friends giggled.
“Its effervescence arouses a delightful tickling sensation in”—the earl winked—“in places which I shouldn’t mention in polite
company.”
“Naughty man!” Lady Merton laughed. “Now that you are back, I expect you to call on me soon.”
“I shall try not to disappoint you, madam,” replied the earl. “Do forgive me, ladies, but I must be off. I’m already a trifle
late.” With a jaunty salute, he flicked his whip.
As Hadley passed, his eyes seemed to linger for an instant on the shadowed spot between the trees. Ciara flinched as if touched
by an open flame, even though she knew he could not possibly see her.
“You are never a disappointment, Hadley,” murmured Lady Merton, watching him until he disappeared around the bend. Sighing,
she looked back to her friends. “Shall we stop at Guenter’s for lemon ices before returning to my townhouse?”
Ciara waited for them to move on and then slipped from her hiding place and hurried on her way.
Lady Charlotte Gracechurch Fenimore repressed an unladylike snort.
Having finished with their formal agenda, The ‘Sinners’ had circled their chairs around the tea table and were engaged in
reading Ciara’s latest additions to the Little Red Book.
“Perhaps we should consider shortening the title of our magnum opus,” continued Charlotte. “Instead of ‘The Immutable Laws
of Male Logic—A Scientific Study Based on Empirical Observations,’ we could call it ‘Men—An Essential Compendium to Managing
the Brutes.’”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Lady Ariel Gracechurch, who at age sixty-five was the younger of the two Gracechurch sisters, peered over Charlotte’s
shoulder. Unlike her sibling, she had never been married. “Oh, I like your touch of using scarlet ink for the headings, Ciara.
Was it meant to emphasize the self-indulgence of their behavior?”
“More like their sheer bloody-mindedness.” Charlotte snapped the journal shut. Arthritic knees were beginning to slow her
step, but her wit was as quick as ever. “I take it Sheffield’s nephew paid you another visit this past week.”
Ciara gave a tiny nod.
Kate Woodbridge grimaced. “Don’t tell me he’s trying to bleed more money out of you.” Although she was, at age twenty-two,
the youngest of the five ‘Sinners,’ Kate more than made up for her tender years in worldly experience. “The slimy little gilipollas.”
“Language, my dear,” reminded Ariel.
“Oh, I know a lot worse words than that,” said Kate darkly. The daughter of an American sea captain—some high sticklers were
more apt to call him a pirate—and an English mother, she had spent much of her youth in exotic ports around the globe, acquiring
an expertise in botany. Not to speak of a multilingual fluency in cursing that would put a sailor to blush.
“Er, yes, I am sure you do. Just remember that saying them aloud in Polite Society will get you in hot water.”
“Not you, too.” Kate made a face. “His Grace has already lectured me on the subject of proper English manners.”
Ciara sighed in sympathy. She was not the only one having trouble with a family member. A deathbed promise to her fever-stricken
parents had forced Kate to seek reconciliation with her maternal grandfather. But things were not sailing along very smoothly.
“But let’s not worry about my family travails,” added Kate after a slight pause. “It’s Ciara we are concerned about.”
“Oh, Arthur is harmless enough,” murmured Ciara. “He reminds me of a sulky child.”
“Don’t they all,” muttered Charlotte. Mild-mannered about most things, she tended to turn a tad sardonic when financial matters
were discussed. Her own late husband had hidden a ruinous weakness for gambling, which had nearly landed her on the street.
In spite of her worries, Ciara found herself smiling. She counted the decision to attend a lecture at the Royal Botanical
Society two years ago as one of the most fortunate choices of her life. A chance encounter with the sisters had blossomed
into a deep-rooted friendship. Their tart humor made her laugh, which had been a godsend during the bleak months after Sheffield’s
death. But they a. . .
The word looked rather ghoulish on the printed page.
Closing her eyes for an instant, Lady Ciara Sheffield reminded herself that it sounded even worse.
“Murder.” Though she said it with barely a breath, the echo seemed to shatter the stillness of the room. Seeing that the inquest
was officially closed, she had thought the past had finally been laid to rest. But apparently she was gravely mistaken.
She set aside the Morning Gazette, yet the flutter of newsprint was a disquieting reminder of the malicious whispers. For months following her husband’s sudden
collapse, the drawing rooms of Mayfair had been aswirl in ondits, each one more outrageous than the last.
At least this morning’s article had not called her a witch but instead accorded her the dignity of referring to her work as
“scientific.”
Her breakfast was now cold, and as the taste of the teaturned bitter on her tongue, Ciara crumbled a bit of toast between
her fingers. Would the ton never tire of gnawing on the bones of old scandal? Sighing, she angled another peek at the column of newsprint. By now the
rumors and innuendo should have died a natural death.
Oh, how she hated being fodder for gossip. But perhaps, with any luck, her story would soon fade from the front pages.
Especially if the infamous Lord Hadley kept up his escapades.
Much as she despised wastrels in general, Ciara found herself almost liking the man for being so utterly, so outrageously
debauched. His latest antics could not help but distract the tattlemongers from her own quiet life. When it came to selling
newspapers, a reclusive widow was no match for a rakehell earl.
Not that she had any interest in learning the sordid details of this particular incident. Determined to turn a blind eye to
the columnist’s lurid prose, Ciara reached for her notebooks. And yet she could not quite help catching sight of the next
few lines…
Dear God, surely the writer was grossly exaggerating.
Despite herself, she read on. She was acquainted with the fountain in question—though not with the cyprian who had apparently
consented to play Leda to Lord Hadley’s Zeus-as-Swan. According to the account, the naked female was a good deal more statuesque
than the sculpted marble. And a good deal more vocal. Apparently half of Berkeley Square had been woken by her shrieks when
the earl’s slip landed both of them chest deep in the frigid water.
That ought to have cooled their ardor, thought Ciara grimly. Not to speak of inflicting more permanent damage. It was hinted
that the earl had suffered several good-sized bruises to a rather sensitive section of his anatomy.
No doubt he was wishing that “brass balls” was not merely a metaphor.
The newsprint suddenly crackled. The coals hissed, and flames licked up to consume the crumpled wad of paper. To hell with Lord Hadley. And the rest of London Society, for that matter. Let them play their wicked games. She had witnessed enough malicious intrigue
and mindless debauchery to last her a lifetime. It was no longer shocking, just dreadfully dull.
Pushing aside her plate, Ciara gathered up her notebooks and hurried from the breakfast room.
“Bloody hell! Another hit, dead center through the card!”
Bloody luck. Lucas Bingham, the Earl of Hadley, squinted in the glare of morning sunlight. He was a damn good shot, but after the three—or
was it four?—bottles of port he’d consumed over the last several hours, even the sharpest aim could go astray.
“La, sir.” One of the luscious lightskirts he and his friends had hired for the trip slipped her hand beneath his shirt. “Your
touch on the trigger is unerring. What say you to reloading and taking a shot at another sort of target?”
Before the earl could answer, Lord Farnam let out a low whistle. “Damnation, Lucas. I swear, you could shoot a farthing off
the tip of a man’s cock without doing any damage.”
“Especially yours, Freddy,” called Baron Greeley. “Even Hadley can’t hit what he can’t see.”
Farnam joined in the bawdy laughter before replying, “I, on the other hand, have no trouble spotting your fat arse, Georgie—especially
as it’s exposed in a rather precarious position right now. So keep a civil tongue in your head unless you wish to feel the
full force of my boot.”
Greeley’s ladybird lay draped over one of the garden statues, and her embrace had angled the baron and his naked posterior
into full view. “Come, come, gentlemen,” she called. “Let’s have no talk of violence, only fun.” Her hands inched lower, drawing
Greeley’s breeches along with them. “After all, we’re all here to have a good time.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Farnam uncorked another bottle of champagne. “A toast to Lucas—our own Mad, Bad Had-ley—for giving us
such a swimmingly good reason to quit Town for a while. The Season was becoming a bloody bore. Nothing like a country house party to keep us
all in good spirits until the prigs have time to forget about your moonlight swan dive.”
Forget.
Lucas winced as the word cut through the haze of wine.
Damn. Up until that moment, his promise to his uncle had completely slipped his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time he had left
Henry in the lurch. Not by far. Of late, his negligence was becoming such a habit that his failure to show up at the appointed
hour was no doubt expected.
A fact that only made the prickling of guilt dig in a little deeper. And not even Marie—or was her name Marguerite?—could
caress it away.
The feeling was bloody uncomfortable. Not to speak of inconvenient, seeing as they had arrived at Farnam’s estate only at
dawn, after carousing half the night in one of the seamier gambling hells in St. Giles. Tossing aside the pistol, Lucas grabbed
a fresh bottle and gulped down a swallow, hoping to drown the host of tiny daggers jabbing against his flesh.
Instead, the ruthless little buggers intensified their attack.
“Blast,” he muttered, pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples. “You’ve just reminded me of a pressing engagement,
Freddy. I’m afraid I’m going to have to return to town immediately.”
“Put it off, chéri.” Mademoiselle M began to toy with the fastenings of his breeches. “Along with your buckskins. Why rush off when we can play
a bit of slap and tickle right here and now?”
“I can’t,” he replied, grimacing as he gingerly removed her hand. That particular portion of his anatomy was not feeling very…
playful at the moment. He vaguely remembered a midnight encounter involving very cold water and very hard stone. “The truth
is, my uncle expected me yesterday.”
“But chéri!” She pursed her lips into a provocative little pout. “If you leave now, it will throw off the numbers.”
“Someone will have to double up.” Lucas watched Farnam take another swig of wine and then thrust himself between his companion’s
thighs. “Freddy looks willing to give his pump handle a few extra turns.”
The lightskirt narrowed her kohl-rimmed eyes. “That leaves me with the short end of the stick, so to speak. I didn’t make
the journey out here to sit around and twiddle my thumbs. The deal was that I got you.”
His headache seemed to be taking a turn for the worse. Fishing a wad of banknotes from his coat, Lucas tossed them over. “Here,
perhaps counting these will keep your clever little fingers busy.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Hadley,” called Ingalls. He was lying spread-eagle on the grass, smoking a cheroot. “Surely another
day or two will make no difference to your uncle. After all, he isn’t likely to be going anywhere.”
His other friends found the quip uproariously funny.
“I say, that’s a good one, Fitz,” said Greeley, wiping the tears of mirth from his cheeks. “Not going anywhere! Ha, ha, ha.”
The casual cruelty concerning his uncle’s infirmity hit him like a slap in the face. Lucas felt a surge of anger well up inside
him, and for an instant he was tempted to lash out and smash the slurred smiles to a pulp. But if anyone deserved to be pummeled,
he realized, it was himself. The other three simply followed his example, as they had since their schoolboy days at Eton.
Mad, Bad Had-ley. Hell-bent on raising the art of outrageous behavior to a science. The pursuit of pleasure, executed with perfect precision.
He found himself frowning. Was he really such a sodden, self-absorbed sot? A reckless reprobate reeking of spirits and sex?
Lucas shifted his stance, trying to shake off such dark musings. The fall into the fountain must have coshed his wits as well
as his whirligigs. He didn’t usually subject himself to such soul-searching introspection…
“You aren’t in any condition to travel,” called Greeley. His friend fixed him with a bleary-eyed squint. “Fact is, you look
like shite.”
“Nonetheless, I mean to leave for London within the hour,” he muttered.
“Oh, come on,” coaxed Farnam. “It’s not like you to leave your friends in the lurch.”
“At the very least, have one more round of drinks with us,” added Ingalls.
“Well…” It was, after all, still early in the morning, thought Lucas. “Maybe just one more.”
Marguerite smiled and ran a caress up the inside of his thigh.
Oh, what the hell.
Her workroom—her sanctuary—afforded a place of refuge from the poison pens and other painful realities of the outside world.
Tall, mullioned windows filled the space with a clean-edged light. The leather bindings of her books glowed with the mellow
warmth of aged sherry, a rich complement to the gleam of polished glass. The orderly rows of vials and beakers mirrored the
precise arrangement of her scientific instruments. Microscopes, calipers, and magnifying lenses…
Here the truth was not distorted to suit personal desires. Empirical data could be measured. Rational thought ruled over raw
emotion.
And yet, pressing her palms to her cheeks, Ciara was dismayed to find them still burning with indignation.
And perhaps a touch of fear.
“Damn,” she muttered, angry with herself for allowing the latest headlines to threaten her peace of mind. What did it matter
if her name was splashed across the gossip pages? The inquest into her husband’s death was closed, and Sheffield’s family
would have to live with that fact. “The danger is over,” she added, as if saying it aloud gave the words an extra ring of
truth.
Don’t dwell on the past. With her young son away in the country, this fortnight was supposed to be a pleasant interlude for her, as well. A time to
catch up on her scholarly research, not stew over the most recent efforts of her late husband’s relatives to blacken her reputation.
As she opened her notebook and began to write, the scent of the simmering herbs and spices filled the room. The original recipe—a
potion for relieving the pain of gouty joints—had come from a medieval manuscript she had discovered in the attics of Sheffield
Manor. But based on her own knowledge, she was making a few changes.
Rosemary, essence of juniper, sumac… Ticking off the list, Ciara made a note to mix in myrrh at the next chime of the hour. That would give her just enough time
to organize her notes for the weekly meeting of the Circle of Scientific Sibyls.
Her lips quirked in a rueful smile. That was the group’s official name, but among themselves they had taken to calling it
the ‘Circle of Sin.’ After all, intellectual pursuits were not considered proper conduct for a lady. But undaunted by public
opinion, the five female members were serious scholars who shared a common interest in the natural sciences. And despite their
differences in age and background, they had also come to share a special bond of friendship.
Ciara smoothed her papers into a neat pile. Lud, she was not quite sure how she would have survived the last half year without
their stalwart support. By her own admission, she had shunned the social swirl of London. Still, the viciousness of the personal
attacks after her husband’s sudden death had staggered her.
Drawing in a gulp of air, she forced herself to swallow the memory of terror, of confusion.
Sheffield’s relatives had been quick to start the whispers of ugly speculations. As the rumbling of suspicion grew more ominous
and the tone of the inquest turned more threatening, her own family had taken cover from the growing storm of scandal, leaving
her to stand up to the sharp-tongued magistrates and hatchet-faced coroner on her own.
The law required that the circumstances surrounding a sudden death be looked into. No matter that her husband was a dissolute
man who had probably drunk himself into an early grave. By all accounts, he had downed a half-dozen bottles of brandy during
the night of his collapse. And yet she had been forced to listen to his family and their cronies offer testimony about her
shrewish temper, reclusive habits, and secret lair full of strange potions.
Ciara closed her eyes, trying not to picture the faces of the jury as they listened to the witnesses. She had seen the fear
and loathing when their eyes met hers. Indeed, right up until the end, she had been sure they would find her guilty of her
husband’s death and order her turned over to the authorities for a criminal trial.
Yet somehow she had found the strength to survive the terrible ordeal. Not for herself, but for Peregrine. She would have
died a thousand deaths before she let Sheffield’s grasping family gain custody of her son. Oh, they had tried, even after
the coroner had grudgingly announced that there was not enough evidence to indict her for murder. Even now they continued
to spread stories about how her unnatural interests and unstable mind made her unfit to be a mother.
More lies, more innuendos.
Her hands clenched. She had done her best to protect Peregrine—first from the fickle moods of his father, then from the sordid
details of the inquest, and now from the swirl of scandal that still surrounded her name.
But was her best good enough?
Forcing her chin up, Ciara refused to surrender to despair. While there was still a breath left in her body, she would not
let Sheffield’s family beat her down. So far, they had not been able to offer a shred of proof to support their allegations.
No doubt they would keep trying, but surely, as time went on, it would become more and more difficult to claim they had actual
evidence of a crime.
Let them continue their campaign of evil whispers. Let them plant nasty lies in the newspapers. Words were their only weapons—and
words could not hurt her. And yet Ciara felt her throat constrict. The same could not be said for Peregrine. He was so young
and impressionable…
Thank God for friends like Alessandra della Giamatti.
A fellow member of the Circle of Sin, the marchesa was also a widow and had a daughter the same age as her son. Having experienced
her own share of personal travails in Italy, Alessandra had gone out of her way to include Peregrine in the everyday activities
that made life seem… normal for a child.
At the moment, the three of them were spending a fortnight in Bath, where some ancient Roman ruins had recently been unearthed.
Ciara allowed a small smile. An expert in archeology as well as chemistry, Alessandra had been eager to observe up close the
initial digging. And so had the children.
The fresh air and open fields would do Peregrine a world of good.
As for herself…
The chime of the clock roused her from such unsettling reveries. Shoving the past aside, Ciara hurried to mix the last ingredient
into the bubbling potion before leaving for the meeting. As she reached for her shawl, her glove grazed a small blood-red
notebook lying beneath the fringed silk.
She quickly added it to her reticule.
After all, hadn’t Hippocrates written that humor was one of the most potent medicines known to man—or woman? Following the
regular agenda of the meeting, her friends might find her latest additions to their other on-going scholarly research amusing.
It was far more than an hour later when Lucas finally staggered to his feet and refastened his breeches. “I really must be
off,” he muttered, gathering up his rumpled coat and cravat. Turning for the terrace, he cocked a last salute to his friends.
“Enjoy the country. I fear that London is going to be a bore without your company.”
“Then stay,” called Greeley.
He shook his head. “No, I must atone for all my recent sins of neglect by visiting my uncle today.”
Farnam caught up to him on the stairs. “Er, see here, Lucas, are you sure that you have no objection if I step in to fill
the void with Mathilde… so to speak?”
“None whatsoever. Nature abhors a vacuum,” replied Lucas with some cynicism.
“Er…” Farnam cast him a puzzled look.
“Never mind. It’s merely one of the many scientific observations my uncle is fond of pointing out.” Lucas quickened his step,
anxious to order his valise packed and his team of grays harnessed. “You are welcome to avail yourself of Mademoiselle M’s
company.”
“That’s awfully sporting of you.” Farnam grinned and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Admit it— all this talk
about your uncle is pishposh. I take it you are running back to an even more delectable morsel.”
Lucas was loath to confess the truth. “What do you think?” he drawled.
His friend let out an admiring whistle. “You have the devil’s own luck with women.”
Or was it a curse? Sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder if everything came just a little too easily for him. The truth was, the lack of a challenge had left him feeling bored of late.
Brushing off such unsettling thoughts, he flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “Care for a bit of advice?”
“Hell, yes!”
“The secret is in not giving a damn.”
“Er, about what?”
“About anything at all.”
Still upset by the ugly snippet of gossip, Ciara decided to vent her agitation by walking through the park rather than taking
a hackney to her meeting. It was still unfashionably early, and the day was cool, with scudding clouds, so the chances of
encountering anyone who might recognize her were slim.
And what did it matter if someone made a snide comment? One more nasty word could hardly do any further damage.
Turning down one of the side carriage paths, Ciara quickened her pace, edging onto the grassy verge to stay deep in the leafy
shadows of the trees. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she wasn’t aware of having company until a trilling laugh brought her
up short.
“Come now, Annabelle, now that you’ve dragged us to this secluded spot, you simply must tell us all about that magnificent beast you’ve taken into your bed.”
Ciara looked up with a start. Through the netting of her veil, she recognized Lady Annabelle Merton, a renowned beauty of
the ton, strolling along the graveled path, arm in arm with Lady Caroline Guilford and Lady Mary Hurlbutt.
She froze, praying that her dark clothing would blend into the shade and allow her to go unseen.
Dear God, don’t let them look around.
But the trio were too busy talking to notice they weren’t alone.
“Yes, do give us all the delicious details.” Another loud titter. “Is Hadley as good a lover as all the rumors say?”
Hadley. Ciara grimaced. The man seemed to be on everyone’s tongue this morning.
Lady Merton fingered the curling plume of her stylish bonnet. “He’s absolutely divine, Caro,” she replied with a cat-in-the-creampot
purr. “You’ve seen for yourself those broad shoulders and sculpted thighs. I assure you, every other part of his body is equally
impressive.”
“Is it true that he’s hung like a stallion and has the stamina of a racehorse?” asked Lady Hurlbutt eagerly.
“Let us just say that the earl takes a lady on quite a wild ride.”
As the trio dissolved into knowing laughter, Ciara was about to retreat and take another route. But they suddenly stopped
and formed a more intimate circle, so she dared not move.
“His performance is perfectly splendid, even after several times around the track,” went on Lady Merton. “I vow, the man can
go on from dusk to dawn without a hitch in his stride.” Her gloved hand gave a little flutter. “But, my dears, it is not just
his own pleasure that Hadley cares about. The earl believes that both mount and rider should enjoy the gallop.”
Enjoy? Ciara was sure she must have misunderstood. In her experience, sex was naught but a hurried humping—an awkward, painful process
that a female was expected to endure but certainly not enjoy.
And yet, Lady Guilford heaved a breathy sigh. “You are the luckiest lady in London.”
“I have heard that some rakes are very skilled with their fingers,” pressed Lady Hurlbutt.
“Mmm, Hadley has very clever hands,” replied Lady Merton. “But it’s his sinfully sensuous mouth that does such delicious things
to a lady’s most intimate places.”
“You mean to say… the Grotto of Venus?” asked Lady Hurlbutt.
Lady Guilford let out a gasp. “He doesn’t. Not down there.”
“Oh, but he does. Lush little licks, tiny teasing nibbles…”
Ciara had never in her life heard such shockingly explicit talk. Her ears were burning, but in spite of her loathing for gossip,
she found herself straining to hear more. It was merely out of scientific curiosity, she reasoned.
However, the details were cut off by the sound of an approaching carriage.
“Well, speak of the devil,” murmured Lady Guilford.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” The deep, masculine voice sounded a little rough around the edges. Its raffish tone was echoed by
the gentleman’s appearance. Beneath a high-crown beaver hat, his long black hair fell in wind-tangled disarray around the
collar of his driving coat. A dark stubbling shaded the strong line of his jaw, and his eyes—
Ciara quickly took shelter between two oak trees.
Set off by his sun-bronzed skin, his eyes were a mesmerizing shade of sapphire blue. The infamous earl in the flesh. As he smiled, she felt her breath catch in her throat. He might be a scoundrel, but there was no denying that he was handsome
as sin.
A dark, dangerous devil.
“La, Hadley,” called Lady Merton. “What a surprise. I read in this morning’s newspaper that you had left Town.”
“I had,” he answered. “But a pressing matter required my return.”
“I hope you haven’t taken a chill, sir,” said Lady Merton with a saucy laugh. “Bathing outdoors in the damp night air can
be very unhealthy.”
“So I have been told.” His lips curled up at the corners. “Luckily I’ve suffered no lasting ill effects. But in the future
I shall be more discerning. Cold water leaves much to be desired.” His lidded gaze slowly fixed on Lady Merton. “As I recall
from a certain summer afternoon in Kent, submerging in a tub of sparkling champagne is a far more pleasant experience.”
Her two friends giggled.
“Its effervescence arouses a delightful tickling sensation in”—the earl winked—“in places which I shouldn’t mention in polite
company.”
“Naughty man!” Lady Merton laughed. “Now that you are back, I expect you to call on me soon.”
“I shall try not to disappoint you, madam,” replied the earl. “Do forgive me, ladies, but I must be off. I’m already a trifle
late.” With a jaunty salute, he flicked his whip.
As Hadley passed, his eyes seemed to linger for an instant on the shadowed spot between the trees. Ciara flinched as if touched
by an open flame, even though she knew he could not possibly see her.
“You are never a disappointment, Hadley,” murmured Lady Merton, watching him until he disappeared around the bend. Sighing,
she looked back to her friends. “Shall we stop at Guenter’s for lemon ices before returning to my townhouse?”
Ciara waited for them to move on and then slipped from her hiding place and hurried on her way.
Lady Charlotte Gracechurch Fenimore repressed an unladylike snort.
Having finished with their formal agenda, The ‘Sinners’ had circled their chairs around the tea table and were engaged in
reading Ciara’s latest additions to the Little Red Book.
“Perhaps we should consider shortening the title of our magnum opus,” continued Charlotte. “Instead of ‘The Immutable Laws
of Male Logic—A Scientific Study Based on Empirical Observations,’ we could call it ‘Men—An Essential Compendium to Managing
the Brutes.’”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Lady Ariel Gracechurch, who at age sixty-five was the younger of the two Gracechurch sisters, peered over Charlotte’s
shoulder. Unlike her sibling, she had never been married. “Oh, I like your touch of using scarlet ink for the headings, Ciara.
Was it meant to emphasize the self-indulgence of their behavior?”
“More like their sheer bloody-mindedness.” Charlotte snapped the journal shut. Arthritic knees were beginning to slow her
step, but her wit was as quick as ever. “I take it Sheffield’s nephew paid you another visit this past week.”
Ciara gave a tiny nod.
Kate Woodbridge grimaced. “Don’t tell me he’s trying to bleed more money out of you.” Although she was, at age twenty-two,
the youngest of the five ‘Sinners,’ Kate more than made up for her tender years in worldly experience. “The slimy little gilipollas.”
“Language, my dear,” reminded Ariel.
“Oh, I know a lot worse words than that,” said Kate darkly. The daughter of an American sea captain—some high sticklers were
more apt to call him a pirate—and an English mother, she had spent much of her youth in exotic ports around the globe, acquiring
an expertise in botany. Not to speak of a multilingual fluency in cursing that would put a sailor to blush.
“Er, yes, I am sure you do. Just remember that saying them aloud in Polite Society will get you in hot water.”
“Not you, too.” Kate made a face. “His Grace has already lectured me on the subject of proper English manners.”
Ciara sighed in sympathy. She was not the only one having trouble with a family member. A deathbed promise to her fever-stricken
parents had forced Kate to seek reconciliation with her maternal grandfather. But things were not sailing along very smoothly.
“But let’s not worry about my family travails,” added Kate after a slight pause. “It’s Ciara we are concerned about.”
“Oh, Arthur is harmless enough,” murmured Ciara. “He reminds me of a sulky child.”
“Don’t they all,” muttered Charlotte. Mild-mannered about most things, she tended to turn a tad sardonic when financial matters
were discussed. Her own late husband had hidden a ruinous weakness for gambling, which had nearly landed her on the street.
In spite of her worries, Ciara found herself smiling. She counted the decision to attend a lecture at the Royal Botanical
Society two years ago as one of the most fortunate choices of her life. A chance encounter with the sisters had blossomed
into a deep-rooted friendship. Their tart humor made her laugh, which had been a godsend during the bleak months after Sheffield’s
death. But they a. . .
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To Sin with a Scoundrel
Cara Elliott
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