Sin Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 1)

by Isobel Carr

  Tête-à-Tête, 25 December 1788

  Coming down the stairs to breakfast, George was nearly knocked down by the Morpeths’ boys and Caesar. Christmas morning guaranteed an extra-special effort on the part of Mrs Stubbs and the kitchen staff.

  Instead of being served separately in the nursery, the children would be allowed to join the adults in the breakfast parlour. There would be chocolate as well as the usual tea, coffee, and ale. Sticky buns and Mrs Stubb’s special cinnamon bread would round out the breakfast offerings of toast, eggs, cold beef, kedgeree, and her father-in-law’s favourite steak and kidney pie.

  George arrived just after the boys and quickly grabbed a sticky bun for herself. Lady Glendower was presiding over the table with Sydney seated beside her, his own plate loaded high with cold beef and eggs.

  He’d probably already consumed several sticky buns before her arrival. Lady Morpeth wandered in and quirked a repressive brow at her offspring, who immediately settled down to consume their sugary breakfast.

  Victoria accepted a cup of tea from Lady Glendower and took a seat next to George. ‘Morpeth tells me we had some excitement yesterday?’

  George met her gaze silently. The breakfast parlour was not the place for this discussion.

  The countess sipped her tea, eyes wide with interest.

  ‘Yes, we did. My bulldogs have it in hand.’

  ‘Your what?’ Victoria choked, practically spiting tea back into her cup.

  George bit her lip. Why had that term come so readily to her tongue? It was hardly complimentary to her two closet friends. ‘My two devoted cicisbei. Bulldogs is Somercote’s term for them, not mine, but it does seem apt.’

  ‘Very.’ The countess took a careful swallow of tea. ‘Morpeth wants to speak to you later today. Something about putting you under lock and key, I imagine.’

  George chewed a bite of sticky bun, allowing the sweet, tacky dough to soothe her frayed temper. How to respond? All of the boys were likely thinking along the same lines by now…

  ‘I think Brimstone has much the same plan, as does my father-in-law, Alençon, St Audley, and probably anyone else you ask.’ She finished her cup of tea and passed it to Lady Glendower to be refilled. ‘I’m not of a mind to be indefinitely stored away.’

  Victoria gave her the same look she gave her sons when they were being difficult.

  ‘Nor am I likely to allow the boys to fight my battle. But you needn’t worry, Torrie. I promise not to take any undue risks.’

  The countess shook her head, but let the subject drop.

  After breakfast, the family gathered in the main drawing room to exchange gifts. The sideboard was almost completely obscured by carefully labelled bandboxes, brown paper parcels, and tissue-wrapped bundles tied up with string. Mostly they gave each other token gifts, but there was always an abundance of presents, token or not.

  They’d been joined by their closest friends: the Morpeths, Colonel Staunton and Simone, Cardross and Alençon, Lady Beverly, all of Sydney and George’s childhood cohorts, and Dauntry, who’d come in with Lady Bev.

  Dauntry gave her a sly half-smile as he helped his godmother to a chair. George wasn’t yet sure what to make of last night. It hadn’t been merely night four of the promised six. Something had been different. Was it because she’d gone to him? Or was it because her recent brushes with death had made the encounter all the more precious?

  She couldn’t be sure, except that it was different, and it had left her unsettled. On edge. Disturbed. She bit her lip, giving up on trying to puzzle it out, and retreated to the sideboard to begin distributing the gifts. The children were all waiting to assist her. George read the tags, and handed the gifts off to be delivered to their recipient.

  When the mountain had been distributed, and each person was surrounded by his collection, George released her assistants, who promptly fell upon their own piles like soldiers looting a fallen town. The adults turned to their own gifts with slightly more circumspection, but equal glee.

  Sydney was already wearing the new hat she’d bought him as he continued to assault the packages that surrounded him. It was one of the newly fashionable round hats, with a tall crown and flat brim. It was very smart. Very trig.

  In her own pile were tributes from all her friends. A sword stick hidden in a tasselled parasol from Alençon. A lovely silk folding fan from Cardross, along with a note insisting that somebody had to remember that she was a lady. A small pistol with a mother-of-pearl grip from Brimstone. A delicate lady’s watch from St Audley, designed to pin to her bodice, or be worn with a chain. The Morpeths had given her a fur-lined carriage rug, and Charles a ridiculously expensive reticule, with a filigree top showing a stag pursued by two wolfhounds.

  Her in-laws had commissioned a painting of Caesar. He was shown lying sphinx-like at the door of her town house, his usual happy grin replaced by a majestic, far-off gaze. George smiled and inquired how ever they’d managed it.

  ‘We conspired with Smythe to arrange for Stubbs to come over and do the sketches while you were out,’ Lady Glendower answered, clearly pleased with her gift’s reception. ‘We had a little one done of Bella for Simone, too. Dog paintings are suddenly all the rage.’

  The group was happily showing each other their gifts, trying on hats and gloves, fluttering fans and paging through books. George was indulgently involved with Hay as he showed her his presents. He suddenly went mute, looking up past her, eyes wide. A hush had fallen over the room. The sound of her shifting her weight on the chair—the rustle of silk, the creak of wooden joints—was loud even in her own ears.

  She straightened and turned to see Dauntry standing awkwardly behind her. He met her gaze briefly, swallowed hard, glanced back over his shoulder, and returned his attention to her.

  George’s breath caught. Everyone was watching them expectantly. Her pulse raced as she repressed the urge to flee the room. She glanced at Lady Bev, then at Bennett, who nodded encouragingly at her.

  Damn him.

  Her hands clenched into fists and she thrust them down into her skirts to hide them. Her nails bit into her palms, her knuckles cracked.

  Damn them both for putting Dauntry up to this. She had no doubts as to whose door to lay his sudden start. He would never have been so stupid on his own.

  George ground her teeth and tried to remain calm. She was not going to have a scene in front of everyone.

  She was not.

  With the moment upon him, Ivo was suddenly not so sure his choice of a public declaration was such a good idea. This morning, lying in bed with George’s scent still lingering on the pillows, it had seemed like the simplest thing in the world. Like the most logical thing in the world. But now, with all her friends and family watching, and George herself looking ready to shy like a nervous horse, doubt welled up, flooded his chest.

  He took a deep breath and broke into his proposal. He got the whole thing out, no stumbling, or stuttering, and their audience broke into smiles and sighs, but the look on George’s face stopped him cold as he reached for her hand.

  That was not the expression of a surprised, but happy, bride-to-be.

  Her eyes were narrow, her nostrils flared. Her lips were pressed together, the corners turned slightly down and the edges white. Her skin had taken on a mottled flush, anger pinking her cheeks.

  She rose, dodging his hand, and took a step back from him.

  ‘That’s not a proposal, it’s a bid, and I’m not a mare on the block at Tattersalls.’ She took another step back, bumped into Hayden, and then turned and hurriedly exited the room, skirts rustling in obvious agitation.

  The heels of her shoes rang smartly on the floor as she stormed down the hall. Ivo cursed under his breath and took off after her, only to be stopped by Alençon.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that just now, my boy,’ the duke said softly, steering him back into the room by his elbow. ‘She’s not likely to become receptive any time soon. And pushing your point will simply make matters worse.’

/>   Lady Morpeth looked shocked. Brimstone was shaking his head in disbelief, disgust written all over his face. St Audley looked ready to kill him.

  He’d made a mull of it. Damn it all.

  Ivo allowed the duke to thrust him down into a chair and bring him a drink. And then another, and another. It wasn’t yet noon, and he was well on his way to being thoroughly cup-shot.

  He didn’t remember the party breaking up or the gifts being cleared out. He just sat, and drank, and brooded. He’d judged wrong. He was sure she’d be expecting it. Sure she was ready and willing.

  There had been such accord between them that morning, such understanding. She’d come to him. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

  She bedded him readily enough—his anger and humiliation suddenly changed course—but she wasn’t willing to trust him with anything more. Wasn’t willing to give him anything more.

  He had only a vague memory of being bundled off to the billiard room to continue drowning his sorrows; the rest of the day simply became a blur. A blur in which Lady Bev chastised him, Bennett sat and listened to him drunkenly try to explain his motivation and reasoning, and George put in no appearance at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Can it be that the vivacious Lady B— has replaced the ever lovely dowager Lady G— in a certain duke’s affections?

  Tête-à-Tête, 25 December 1788

  After spending the morning listening to a drunk and clearly despondent earl, Brimstone made his way upstairs with a luncheon tray and forced his way into George’s room, sending her new maid scurrying away.

  His quarry was curled up in the window seat, as she always was when upset. Only his quick reflexes and thorough knowledge of the reception he was likely to receive saved him from being struck in the head with a well-aimed shoe.

  ‘Go away, Gabe,’ George hissed, sniffling at the same time. ‘I don’t want to eat anything, and I don’t want to see any of you. I know you put him up to it, damn you all.’

  Brimstone kicked the door shut and put the tray down.

  ‘I can’t tell you some of our friends haven’t been busy playing Cupid, but you’ll have to acquit me of any such crime.’

  He plucked the glass of brandy from the tray and joined George in the window seat, ousting her just enough to climb in behind her.

  ‘Come here, sweetheart.’ He handed her the glass and gathered her up against him. George resisted for a moment, going stiff, then relented and collapsed in a heap on his chest, spilling brandy all over the floor.

  ‘How could he?’ she asked, her voice catching between sobs.

  ‘Shhh, darling.’ He patted her back, letting her have a good cry. When she’d settled into mere hiccups he dried her face and settled them both more comfortably in the window box. He hadn’t seen George cry in years. Not since she was a girl and her pony had to be shot when it broke its leg in a rabbit hole.

  He’d missed the first few weeks after Lyon had been killed, and by the time she’d come home, she was over the shock of it, and had retreated to a more private grief. Anger, he’d fully expected; tears from George rather scared him.

  Tears were worrisome.

  ‘He’s a man, love, and at our best we’re all idiots, especially when it comes to women. He thought he had a brilliant plan. Thought it would please you. Maybe even thought it would keep you safe. It’s not his fault he’s the only one brave enough to get on with it.’

  ‘Liar,’ George retorted, still sniffling. ‘Nothing to do with bravery, none of the rest of you is in love with me in the least.’ She hiccupped then looked up at him. ‘You wouldn’t be dumb enough to make such a public declaration, would you?’

  ‘No, my dear, I wouldn’t, but I’ve known you since you were a brat with no front teeth, so I’ve the benefit of experience. Poor Somercote’s badly bitten, and Lord knows I can’t fault him for his taste. The real question is, what do you want? Eh-eh-eh.’ He held up a hand to halt her protestations when she pushed away and turned her head to face him. ‘It’s no use telling me you don’t love him. I’ve seen you together.’

  She hunched a shoulder and turned her face so he couldn’t see her expression clearly. ‘I know what I don’t want. And I don’t want to be made to look the fool in front of my entire family. And I don’t want to married for the sake of keeping me safe from some madman. Maybe I’m being ridiculous, but I wish I felt like he’d actually asked me, and not like he made the assumption that my answer was a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘No question he fouled it up, love. No question at all.’ Brimstone sighed. He and the rest of the boys were in for far more work than they’d anticipated.

  Somercote didn’t have a clue as to how to manage George, and if he couldn’t figure it out, Gabriel wasn’t at all sure that helping him to marry her would be doing either of them a favour. Not to mention that they still had to deal with a murderous black cloud on the horizon…Who in the hell would want to kill George? He, himself, had had the odd urge to throttle her over the years, but this was different.

  Sadly, Somercote was cut from a far different cloth than their little band. He was, to put it bluntly, a good man. Perhaps too good a man. George required a man who was willing to be a bit of a scoundrel when the situation called for it.

  George had had the bit between her teeth since before she’d put her hair up, and he didn’t think that likely to change. Somercote was certainly drawn to the flair George displayed—many men were—but the charm of her outrageousness might fade quickly once she was his wife.

  Ivo groaned as the curtains of his bed were flung back and light flooded in.

  ‘Up!’

  The covers were yanked away. Cold air washed over him and then his banyan hit him full in the face. He groped for it and managed to drag himself from the bed and pull it on without falling back into the bed.

  Brimstone stood a few feet from the bed, fully dressed and glowering. The smell of coffee greeted Ivo as he stumbled towards the fire, the icy floor making him hurry towards the hearth rug.

  In general, he never got so foxed as to earn himself a sore head the next day, but it was becoming almost a regular occurrence of late. He’d spent an inordinate amount of the last two months at least half-sprung, and a good deal of it nearly ape-drunk.

  ‘Do you have any idea what you’re letting yourself in for?’

  Ivo sank down into one of the chairs and poured himself a cup of coffee with unsteady hands. ‘In for?’ What the hell was George’s bulldog on about?

  Brimstone just shook his head and sat down across from him, one long leg crossed over the other, foot swinging.

  ‘Do you want her badly enough to not just overlook her faults, but to count them as virtues? Do you understand that she’ll never make a model wife? That any attempt to make her into one will result in one thing: a runaway wife. And that her friends will support her in her flight? Do you understand?’

  Ivo cradled his coffee between his hands, savouring the warmth in the cold room. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

  Brimstone chuckled, a low, wicked sound that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. ‘No, my lord. I think you’re dazzled.’

  Ivo shrugged before taking a large swallow of coffee. ‘That’s not an inaccurate way of putting it.’

  ‘What I can’t fathom, what none of us can, is why George?’

  Ivo let his breath out through his teeth, blowing his lips loose in frustration. ‘Did George ever tell you how we met?’ Her bulldog shook his head. ‘Ask her, then ask me that question again.’

  Brimstone gave him a curious look, black eyes piercing, brows raised. Firelight licked his glossy boots, winked back from the diamond in his cravat.

  ‘On to another topic, then. George isn’t to be left alone until we’ve settled the matter of her highwayman. I’m sure you agree?’

  Ivo nodded. How could he not?

  ‘She’s hardly likely to allow you to squire her about when we return to town, but that will leave you free for o
ther duties, like visiting Addington at Bow Street.’

  ‘So I’m suddenly approved of?’

  Brimstone met his gaze, his expression serious. ‘It’s not necessarily approval, Somercote, it’s resignation.’

  Ivo swallowed the last of his coffee and set the cup down on the tray. Resignation was better than obstruction. ‘So I’ll handle hiring a runner, and you’ll handle George.’

  ‘Precisely. And the first action I’m going to take in that capacity is to evict you from the premises.’

  George came downstairs to find everyone restrained and silent. Those who hadn’t witnessed the proposal had obviously heard the entire story. She caught Lady Tilehurst covertly watching her, while her eldest niece wore a pained expression. The idea of being the recipient of a seventeen-year-old girl’s pity was mortifying.

  Every time the door opened, everyone but George turned to see who it might be, the air of expectation palpable. Those who’d missed yesterday’s scene clearly felt they’d been deprived of a prime treat.

  George toyed with her breakfast while chatting about inconsequential, innocuous topics with Morpeth and Alençon, all the while waiting for Dauntry to walk in. Her stomach was in a knot, her throat almost too tight to swallow even tea. When she finished her toast she quickly retreated to the library, where she spent the morning reviewing the lists of things the tenants had mentioned at the fête.

  Helping to manage the estate’s concerns was a wonderful distraction. She was busily making notations in Lord Glendower’s ledger when Gabriel wandered in and propped himself inelegantly on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Mrs Stubbs says luncheon is almost ready, and Cardross is preparing to leave. He’s feeling decidedly out of curl, having missed your contretemps. Second-hand gossip of such an extraordinary nature doesn’t please him at all. So I’ve come to drag you back out into the world.’

  He stood and went to examine the shelves, giving her his back. ‘You needn’t worry about bumping into Somercote; we threw him into a carriage hours ago and sent him on his way.’