Sin Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 1)

by Isobel Carr

  He glanced about, gorge rising. His night was going from bad to worse. The air crackled with anger. The emotion radiated off his grandfather like heat off coals and positively oozed off the Bagshott ladies. His mother looked like she was about to faint. He wouldn’t blame her if she took the coward’s way out.

  Miss Bagshott was staring off into space, lips pressed so tightly together they disappeared entirely. Her mother looked equally offended, her colour high even under the veil of heavy cosmetics. The beauty mark she’d placed at the corner of her mouth disappeared into the wrinkle of her frown.

  There was not a doubt in Ivo’s mind that they knew exactly who George was, and what their relationship was rumoured to be. His godmother’s mischievous expression didn’t reassure him a jot, and it could only serve to further infuriate the marquess.

  He held his own flute out to George, consigning his nearest relations to perdition. In a perfect world, he could just drag her out into the hall and find a private place behind a potted fern…Sadly, his world was far from perfect.

  The ladies’ perfumes mingled in the air, but George’s overrode them all. Jasmine filled his nostrils, swirling through his head, heady as brandy on a warm night.

  ‘I didn’t know we’d have visitors. I should have thought…’

  George took the glass, her expression closed, almost haughty. She sipped, her eyes never meeting his. In fact, he was almost sure she and his grandfather were staring each other down like two beasts fighting over a kill. She took another sip and his grandfather moved past him to hand glasses to the Bagshotts.

  ‘I hope you found the colonel’s daughter well?’ Ivo grasped at straws as everything around him seemed to slow down. His cravat became tighter and tighter by the second, as though someone were twisting it, strangling him. Sweat poured down his back, making his shirt stick to his skin.

  It had been impossible to escape this outing. He had been endeavouring to behave as formally as possible during the past week. To give the Bagshotts and his family nothing to latch on to. But the old man had arranged this evening behind his back, explicitly including his name when the invitation was issued. Everything had been going off rather well until George had suddenly appeared.

  ‘She’s very well, thank you,’ George replied, sounding nonchalant and slightly jaded. He’d heard that tone before, and it boded ill for whomever she directed it at. ‘I’ll tell the colonel you asked; I’m sure he’ll be pleased. But for now, do come in and finish the introductions. I had no idea you knew Lady Beverly. She was just introducing me to her guests.’

  George smiled in a brittle way, eyes cold enough to give them all a case of frostbite. Ivo swallowed, deep foreboding flooding through him, making his heart thump unevenly. Her sword was drawn, the point circled, ready to parry and then attack.

  ‘Let me do the honours correctly, Mrs Exley.’ His grandfather’s voice cut through the chatter that filled the theatre. ‘Miss Bagshott is betrothed to my grandson. She’s come up to town with her mother and Somercote’s mother to buy her trousseau.’

  George’s expression hardened. Ivo’s stomach tried to turn itself inside out.

  ‘Then I really must welcome you to London, Miss Bagshott. I trust we shall be seeing quite a lot of you.’

  ‘I doubt that, Mrs Exley. I don’t find that I have much of a taste for your circle, or their amusements.’

  Silence reigned for the length of five heartbeats. Ivo was sure of that fact. He counted them. Miss Spence’s high-pitched titter broke it, releasing them all.

  ‘Then that shall surely be our loss, Miss Bagshott; we shall miss you at Almack’s.’ George tossed back the rest of the champagne in her flute and held the empty glass out to him. Her hand was steady, the small slice of forearm visible between glove and engageantes called to him. Ivo took the glass, horrified by the farce taking place around him. It was like sinking into a peat bog—A slow, strangling death.

  ‘Alençon,’ she turned to the duke, smiling, a cat with all her claws extended, ‘aren’t we due in the Duchess of Devonshire’s box before the curtain goes back up?’

  ‘Quite right, my dear.’ The duke rose, sketched a shallow bow to the assembled ladies, and led George off without a backward glance.

  ‘Eleanor,’ Lady Bagshott hissed. ‘That was foolish in the extreme. To make an enemy of such a woman—’

  Ivo took a deep breath, waiting for the fireworks to erupt. It needed only this. He was a hairsbreadth away from pitching his grandfather over the railing.

  ‘I don’t care.’ Miss Bagshott’s hands fluttered, smoothing her skirts over her hoops as though that would fix everything.

  ‘Well, you certainly ought to,’ Lady Beverly interjected.

  His grandfather stood there fuming, like Zeus displeased, ready to singe them all if they so much as said a word.

  ‘The gossip columns have had more than enough to say about Mrs E and the dashing new Earl of S. It is all t-too-too mortifying. How dare she come here? Speak to me like that? Look at me like-like-like I’m some bug crawled out from under a rock. Take me home!’

  Leaving his mother to enjoy what was left of her evening, Ivo escorted the Bagshotts out of his godmother’s box. The marquess stalked down the hall before them, back ramrod straight, his wig seeming to bristle like a small dog looking for a fight. They passed George on the duke’s arm. Ivo grimaced. His eyes met hers briefly, begging her to understand what had just transpired.

  She stared back with shuttered eyes. Beautiful. Perfect. Remote as marble.

  The ride back to Grillion’s was not enlivened by anything that could remotely be considered conversation. Eleanor sat huddled in one corner, face turned away, while her mother gave her a regular bear garden jaw, and the marquess raged at them all in turns.

  Ivo leaned back into the squabs and counted the minutes until the evening was over.

  One of London’s eerie yellow fogs had descended, shrouding the city in a heavy, muffling cloak. Ivo had been riding up and down the same deserted stretch of Rotten Row for nearly an hour. The sun had barely risen, a pale hint of light leaking over the rooftops of Mayfair, little more than a flambeau in the fog.

  This might be his only chance. George sometimes rode there in the wee hours of the morning. He had no doubt that he’d be refused admittance should he dare to attempt to call on her at home.

  Eventually, the distinct jangle of harness sounded in the distance. The soft rhythm of hooves on sand—two horses, trotting. At first all he could make out was an orange spot bobbing towards him through the fog, then George slowly emerged, her persimmon habit glowing like a lantern.

  When she spotted him, clearly waiting for her, she drew up short, allowing her groom to catch up with her. Her mount’s breath coalesced with the fog. It stamped impatiently, shaking its head. George eyed him as though he were a day-old eel pie.

  She was obviously not inclined to accord him the private moment he so desired.

  Ivo blew out a resigned breath. The lady was put out; no doubt about it. There would be no teasing his way back into her good graces. He’d have to wait her out, but all the same, it would chafe too much not to even attempt to clear himself.

  ‘George, about last night, Miss Bagshott’s behaviour—’

  ‘Was atrocious.’ She straightened in the saddle, chin tilted up in an almost unnatural position. ‘But not unprovoked. The papers and gossips have found plenty of fodder in us, my lord.’ Her mount crow-hopped, expressing his rider’s agitation.

  He was in trouble.

  If they’d reverted so far that she was coldly addressing him as ‘my lord,’ she was determined to make this far harder than he’d imagined, than he’d hoped. He’d rather she railed at him. Cursed him. Hit him with her crop, even. Anger could be fought, defended against, turned on its head. Anger would give him a way in.

  ‘I’ll not repeat Miss Bagshott’s socialism, but you should warn her that it would be wiser not to pull caps with me a second time.’ She nodded dismissal and rode of
f into the fog at a smart trot. Catton turned about in his saddle as he rode past, giving Ivo a warning glance before disappearing in her wake.

  Ivo sucked in a frustrated sigh and turned his horse back towards Mayfair. There was no point in pursuing George, not in the current mood she was in.

  Things were bad when the servants warned you off.

  He had every hope of clearing things up. Of explaining. Regardless of his grandfather’s claims and his mother’s wishes, he had never been engaged to Miss Bagshott. And he never would be.

  And, as her parting words as he’d assisted her out of his grandfather’s carriage had been something to the effect of never having been so humiliated, and being sure that she could place her dependence on his not thrusting his presence upon her ever again, there was clearly no expectation in that quarter of a forthcoming offer.

  He was sorry that expectations had been raised, but he hadn’t been the one to raise them. As for George, she owed him four more nights, and if he had to use her promise to blackmail her into listening to him, then so be it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mrs E— appears to have conquered yet another lordling, if reports of wild rides in Hyde Park and late-night revels in her home are to be believed…and believe them we do.

  Tête-à-Tête, 4 November 1788

  George flexed her hand around her crop, savouring the weight of it. A gallop that had brought out a foaming sweat on her mount had done nothing to calm her. She was still shaking with the urge to beat Dauntry senseless and give him another scar to remember her by.

  Running lightly up the steps of the Morpeths’ town house, she found herself still fuming. An afternoon surrounded by men was about as appealing as overcooked turbot. And the idea of being anywhere Dauntry might be able to find her was insupportable. Victoria’s salon offered a safe haven. Possibly the only one in London.

  The humiliation of the sensation of heartbreak that had welled up inside her when his grandfather had introduced his future bride was still fresh. It shouldn’t have mattered, and that’s what stung the most.

  He’d teased her into breaking her most sacrosanct rule, and this was the price she paid for it.

  Damn him.

  And damn her for letting this happen. She knew better.

  She was greeted at the door by her godson, Hayden, who slid across the marble hall as though it were ice, his cries of ‘Aunt George!’ causing their long-suffering butler to wince, squeezing one eye shut as though it would somehow make the boy quieter.

  George braced herself for the inevitable collision. Hay threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly.

  The Morpeths’ youngest son was still in the nursery, while the eldest was at Eton, but nine-year-old Hayden had yet to be sent away to school. Next year…

  ‘Hello, Hay.’ Something about Hayden just forced one to adore him. She hugged him back, then brushed his hair back into place with her fingers.

  He smiled up at her, pale grey eyes full of mischief. He hugged her again for good measure before releasing her. ‘I wanted to ask you something particularly. Before Mother arrives.’

  ‘And what might that be, imp?’ She repressed the urge to respond with a conspiratorial smile. The last thing Hay needed was encouragement.

  ‘Julius’s godfather is taking him to see a review of the troops in Hyde Park when he comes home,’ he began, staring up at her earnestly, his small frame aquiver.

  ‘And you want me to take you, too?’ It was all too easy to picture the trouble he was likely to get them both into at such an event.

  ‘No! I want you take me to Astley’s! They have zebras now,’ he threw in as his clincher.

  Zebras. An inducement indeed. ‘And wherever did you hear about this new addition?’

  ‘Oh, Ned Arden was telling me all about it yesterday.’

  ‘Well then, that seals it. We must go. It would be insupportable for such a slow top as Ned Arden to steal a march on us.’

  Hayden gave her a beatific smile and assured her that he’d been sure she’d understand the necessity of the thing once it was properly explained to her.

  ‘We could take Aubrey, too,’ he added, generously including his baby brother in the treat. George smiled, and conceded that they could indeed take Aubrey. She was still chuckling when she entered the drawing room, Hayden having run off to find his father, who had promised to take him out for a fencing lesson that morning.

  He was such a charming little monster. Zebras, indeed.

  Victoria, upon George’s entering the drawing room, inquired immediately what her son had wheedled out of her. ‘For I know that look,’ she said, ‘all of Hayden’s victims wear it.’

  George could do nothing but laugh for a moment. Victoria was really far too knowing. Though with three extremely lively boys and a husband that encouraged their most outrageous antics, she clearly needed to be.

  ‘Hay just wants to go to Astley’s,’ she assured her friend, taking a seat next to her, petticoats spilling over the settee. ‘I think we’ll take Aubrey along as well, if you’ll entrust two of your offspring to me at once.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Victoria inquired. ‘After what happened last time?’

  ‘But last time it was to see a traveling circus, and how was I to know Morpeth gives Hay such exorbitant amounts of pocket money? And really, can you blame him? It was—after all—an equestrian monkey.’ George’s lips quivered, but she managed not to laugh.

  ‘That’s all very well for you,’ Victoria retorted acerbically, eyes snapping with wrath. ‘You didn’t have the little beast rip apart two of your best hats, bite quite the best cook you’d ever employed, and then crown his iniquities by urinating upon the poor Prince of Wales during a morning call.’

  ‘It didn’t.’

  ‘I assure you, it did,’ Victoria insisted, sternly repressing a smile. ‘You should have seen his distress. A new coat, too.’

  ‘So that’s why Hay’s pet was sent into exile. But you needn’t worry. I doubt even Hay could induce Mr Astley to sell him a zebra.’

  ‘A zebra?’ Victoria echoed warily.

  ‘Yes, a zebra. That’s what makes an outing to Astley’s imperative. Or possibly, the imperative arises from the fact that your neighbour’s son has been bragging about having seen the zebras already.’

  An outing with the children suited George’s needs perfectly at the moment. It would keep her out of her house, and make it impossible for Dauntry to corner her. The busier she kept herself, and the less she was home, the better.

  Eventually this feeling would pass. The urge to kill him would fade. The desire she felt for him would disappear. Eventually…

  So, it was with determination that she set off with them two nights later, accompanied by both Alençon and Aubrey’s godfather, Bennett. Bennett had given her a sympathetic look when he’d joined her in the Morpeths’ drawing room, but he’d held his tongue. If he’d pleaded his friend’s case she wasn’t sure what she might have done, but odds were it wouldn’t have been suitable in front of the children.

  Upon entering Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre, they were met by the proprietor himself, Mr Philip Astley, and ushered to a prime box. The duke clapped his old friend on the shoulder in greeting, and was assured by him that he would be back at the end of the evening’s entertainment to lead them backstage for a special treat. Alençon winked at George as he took his seat, and they all settled in for the show.

  The night began with a much reduced Romeo and Juliet performed entirely by poodles that had Bennett in stitches. By the end of the performance he—along with a large number of others—was howling right along with the dogs.

  Across the dog-filled arena, a sudden movement caught George’s eye as the dogs were herded out to be replaced by a troop of ponies that danced the gavotte. While the ponies circled and pranced, George stared blindly past them at the Marquess of Tregaron entertaining the Bagshotts.

  The curtain at the back of the box moved aside and George wrenched her gaze away. She d
idn’t need to see Dauntry playing the doting bridegroom. Her stomach—not to mention her temper—wouldn’t be able to handle it.

  Down in the arena trick riders, little more than boys themselves, were leaping on and off cantering horses, standing on their backs while they galloped round the ring, doing backflips off them to thundering applause. Beside her Hay shook with excitement, while his little brother stood in his seat, only Bennett’s restraining hand locked onto his coat keeping the boy from tumbling over the railing.

  The promised zebras finally arrived, accompanied by female trick riders, their forms scandalously displayed in extremely brief costumes with only fleshings to cover their lower limbs. The boys’ eyes widened, and the adult men leered. Throughout the theatre, gentlemen sat up and took notice, perhaps for the first time all evening.

  A titter rose up from the gallery below, and the sound seemed to twist around her throat. George took a deep breath, inhaling the mingled scents of horse, sawdust, and the unwashed masses.

  They weren’t laughing at her, but it felt as though they were. She clenched her hands in her lap and refused to give in to the urge to glance back across the arena, to look for Dauntry.

  The show culminated in a mock Roman chariot race with teams of dogs harnessed to miniature chariots driven by monkeys. They careened around the track, completely out of control, until there was a tremendous crash that caused the grooms to rush out into the arena en masse.

  The spectators erupted into partisan shouts as the grooms struggled to rein in the chaos in the arena. Bets were furiously laid, children shrieked a high-pitched accompaniment to the monkeys. Bennett kept a hand locked on Aubrey’s coat.

  When the chariots had disappeared—two of them being ignominiously dragged from the arena still attached to madly barking dogs and scolding monkeys—the crowd began to clear. George kept her attention solidly on Hayden and Aubrey. The younger boy had begun to wilt in his chair. He rubbed at his eyes with his fist and yawned.