His wife hadn’t closed the bedchamber door, which was good news for the door. He could hear her rustling about in the dressing room, and he followed her in.
“Whom did you invite for dinner?”
She jumped. “I was going to sit down with you and explain everything in a calm and rational manner,” she shot, throwing gowns and stockings over her shoulder with reckless abandon. “And then I found out that you hit Lord William, and that was so…romantic, and now it’s too late, and oh, I’ve just made a muck of everything again!”
She looked like a miniature whirlwind. Obviously her guest list was not going to be welcome news, but even so, the part of him that enjoyed thinking on his feet was in heaven when Victoria was present.
“Victoria,” he repeated, with admirable calm he thought, “who is downstairs?”
Victoria squeezed her eyes shut, then peeked one open again. “Your grandmother and your brother.”
Sinclair blinked. “I must be losing my hearing,” he said slowly. “I thought I heard you say you’ve invited my family over for dinner, without informing me, and certainly without my permission.”
“Yes, I did. And I’m glad. You should have seen your grandmother’s face today, when she realized that you…”
“That I wasn’t the hopeless scapegrace she thought I was?” he finished. “I would rather have her disappointed in me than dead.” He grabbed one of her stray shoes off a cushioned seat and hurled it into the bedchamber. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud. “Damnation, Victoria!”
She snatched a pretty gray evening gown off the floor and left the dressing room. “Then don’t come downstairs,” she shot, and stalked off in the direction of her wildlife preserve.
They were halfway through their potato stew when the dining room door opened. Victoria looked up, hoping it would be Sinclair, but was still surprised when he strolled into the room. She could tell he remained agitated, yet he had joined them. She had to see that as a good sign; otherwise she was just flailing about with no clue how to help him, or how even to get through to him.
She had no idea when she’d become so obsessed with figuring him out, but obviously Sinclair Grafton had become her latest project—and she was determined to save him. From himself, from the wall he’d built to protect his family, and from the unknown assassin who’d taken his brother away. Making love with him had only intensified her determination tenfold.
“Good evening.” He strolled up to his grandmother’s chair and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. Augusta reached up to cup his face, but he evaded the caress and straightened again.
“Do you want a kiss, too, Kit?” he drawled.
His brother grinned, perceptibly relaxing. “A handshake will do.”
Sin complied, then took the seat at the opposite end of the table from Victoria. She’d been hoping for the offer of a kiss for herself, but on the other hand, she’d rather he be angry with her right now than with his family.
“I see you’ve kept most of the old staff,” Augusta commented, nodding in Milo’s direction.
“It made sense. They know the house better than I do.”
“The boat races on the Thames are tomorrow,” his brother said around a mouthful of baked ham. “I’ve twenty quid on Dash’s team, because he’s recruited that Greek brute, Stephano. Are you going to attend?”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” Sin said, the look he sent his wife telling her very clearly that one dinner was not going to reconcile him to his family.
“Oh. Jolly good, though. No matter,” Christopher stumbled, shoveling in another mouthful and clearly disappointed.
“But I don’t see why not,” Sinclair continued smoothly. “It’ll give me a chance to catch up on Oxford gossip.”
His brother grinned. “Excellent. Don’t wager on Dash, though. You’ll frighten all my potential victims away and ruin the odds.” Christopher leaned down the table toward Victoria. “Grandmama refuses to attend, but will you accompany us, Vixen? It’ll be a smashing lot of fun.”
Sinclair continued eating, giving her no clue whether he wanted her to join them or not. That in itself was all the hint she needed. “Thank you, Christopher, but I’m having luncheon with some friends.”
His face lit up. “Kit, please. Would they be female friends, by chance?”
She laughed. “Almost exclusively. Is there anyone in particular you wish to meet? I’m sure I could arrange something.”
“That’s a splendid idea, my dear,” Augusta said.
They all looked at Lady Drewsbury. “It is?” Kit asked dubiously.
“Yes. Your joining our family, Victoria, together with Sinclair’s return to London, both need to be celebrated. I believe I shall hold a ball at Drewsbury House.”
Christopher whooped. “You are the absolute top of the trees, Grandmama!”
“It’s been my lifelong goal to achieve such status,” Augusta said dryly, though her eyes danced.
From Sinclair’s expression, he wasn’t nearly as pleased with the idea as his brother. Seeing Augusta’s plans for a family reunion about to collapse, Victoria clapped, forcing a delighted smile. “What a splendid idea, Augusta. May I help you with the guest list, at least?”
“Of course. If we’re to make Christopher happy, we must include your friends. Mine are positively fossilized.”
“And do we have a date for this illustrious gathering?” Sinclair asked.
“How about the fifteenth? That gives us four days to do the invitations, and ten days for preparation and responses.”
Well, he hadn’t said no, but the more he thought about it, the more likely he was to do so. Victoria rose and made her way around the table to his side. “Is that agreeable to you, Sinclair?” she asked softly, taking his free hand and bringing it to her lips.
She caught the surprised look that passed between Augusta and Kit, but ignored it as Sin smiled up at her. The expression didn’t touch his eyes. “I think it’s a grand idea,” he said warmly. “And it’ll keep you busy.”
Her fleetingly pleased surprise turned to annoyance. Damnation—she should have realized. While she was planning a glorious family reunion, he was plotting how to keep her away from the murder investigation.
Victoria smiled brightly at him. “Thank you.” She whirled around to face Christopher. “I’ll invite all of my unmarried friends. You are going to be very sought after.”
Kit chuckled. “I think I’m about to faint from happiness.”
Sin gave her a darker look. “Mm. So am I.”
Despite his obvious annoyance with her, he was pleasant and charming with his family, so at least the evening wasn’t a complete waste. Sin saw Kit and Augusta out to their carriage, then returned to the foyer, where Victoria waited and tried not to pace.
“I like your family,” she said as Milo closed the front door.
Sinclair glanced at the butler. “Thank you, Milo. We’re through for the evening.”
The butler bowed. “Very good, my lord. Good night.”
“Good night, Milo,” Victoria said, smiling.
Milo hesitated, but when neither of his employers showed an inclination to leave the entryway, he bowed again and backed down the hall toward the servants’ quarters. When he vanished around the corner, Sinclair faced her.
“Come with me,” he said, and turned for the stairs.
She stuck her tongue out at his back. “I was helping you.”
He stopped and faced her again. “I know. Come with me.”
“But are you angry, or not?”
“Yes, I am—extremely. You’ve started more trouble than you realize, Victoria. Now come with me, or I’ll carry you upstairs again.”
The threat wasn’t very effective, because she liked it when he lifted her up and carried her about. Her pulse stirred. Making love would just distract the both of them, though, and she needed to know what he wanted. “I’m coming.”
To her surprise he led her past the library, past her own rooms, to his bedchambe
r door. When he opened it and stepped aside for her to enter, she hesitated.
“Nervous?” he asked in his low voice.
She shivered. “Not a bit,” she snapped, and walked past him into the room.
He closed the door behind them, then caught her arm and turned her to face him. Before she could protest, he bent his head and kissed her.
Victoria felt it down to her toes. It was different than it had been before; more possessive, and more sure. And more intoxicating, though she hadn’t believed that possible. “Sinclair,” she murmured, sliding her arms around his shoulders and raising up on her toes. Distraction did have its merits.
“Should I leave, then?” a gruff voice said.
She squawked, banging Sin on the chin as she jumped at the strange voice.
“Damn,” her husband grumbled, not seeming at all put out, and rubbed where her forehead had thwacked him. “Victoria, this is Roman.”
A small, compact man emerged from an overstuffed chair and sketched a bow. He looked like a dockworker or a sailor who’d seen too many seasons of rough weather. A terrible scar ran down the left side of his face, pulling the corner of his mouth up in a perpetual grin, while two of the fingers of his left hand seemed to be permanently hooked.
“Hello,” she said tentatively. “I thought you were a groom.”
“Among other things,” he answered, scratching his head.
“Roman’s my valet…mostly.” Her husband gazed at her coolly. “He’s a spy, too. Or he was, I should say.”
“Sin! What in—”
“Well, that makes sense,” she interrupted, and strode forward to shake his hand. “How do you do, Roman?”
“I’m daft, my lady,” the valet grunted, glaring at Sinclair, “because I’m hearing things.”
The marquis waved a hand at the valet. “She guessed. She deduced, actually. Have a seat, Roman. I want the two of you to become acquainted.”
“You do?” they both asked at the same time.
“Yes.”
Victoria looked at the valet, who looked back at her. Sinclair had strolled over to the far side of the fireplace. Angry with her or not, Sin was giving her exactly what she wanted—access to that hidden part of his life he’d guarded from everyone else. She sat. A moment later, the valet seated himself opposite her.
“Brandy?” Sin asked jovially, and handed a full snifter to Roman. “And one for you, Victoria.”
Beginning to wonder whether she’d fallen asleep and stumbled into an exceedingly odd dream, she took the second glass. He poured one for himself and sat on the wide arm of her chair, close enough to touch but not doing so.
“Roman,” he began, “Lady Althorpe would like to help us with our investigation. I would appreciate if you would tell her why that is a very bad idea.”
“So that’s what this is about?” Victoria set her snifter aside and stood, anger and disappointment replacing her wary optimism. “I’m not a child, Sinclair, and I’m not stupid. Don’t think you can frighten me with—”
“Sit,” he ordered and grabbed the edge of her skirt to pull her back into the chair.
Victoria plunked down on her bottom. She had never liked being told what to do, especially when she was certain for one of the few times in her life that the task she had set for herself was the right one. “I don’t care what tales of blood and horror you mean to have him tell me,” she said. “You can’t order me about.”
“Actually, I can.”
“Such things ain’t fit for a lady to hear, Sin,” the valet grumbled, eyeing the fine brandy like it was about to bite him.
“And that is exactly my point. It’s not fit for a lady to hear, much less for a lady to be involved with.”
“If you lived in a brothel, Sinclair, you must have had females assisting you—to some degree, anyway.”
“Whores and thieves,” he answered promptly, obviously anticipating the question. “Neither of which describes you.”
“And they had more right to assist you than I do, apparently.”
Sin swore under his breath. “It’s not that, Vixen, and you know it. You’re a lady of gentle breeding. You have no idea what it’s like, looking for wolves in your own flock of sheep. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Obviously he wasn’t going to give in, and just as obviously he thought her utterly incapable of making a meaningful contribution. Well, she could maneuver as well as he could. She’d managed the gentlemen of the ton for nearly three years, since she turned eighteen. And even before that.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” she said haughtily, unable to keep the injured tone from her voice, “but if you won’t include me in your life, then so be it.” She rose again, and this time he didn’t try to prevent it. “Just don’t expect me to include you in mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a soiree to help your grandmother plan. Good evening.”
“My lady.”
Sinclair watched her exit through his dressing room into her own bedchamber. He flinched as the lock clicked shut. If spending another night alone was the price for keeping her out of harm’s way, though, he would pay it.
“I thought you wanted her help.” Roman gulped down his brandy.
“I did. I do. I just didn’t want her to know about it.”
“Oh. Seems a bit late for that.”
Sin slid sideways to drop into the chair she’d vacated. “I’m aware of that, thank you.”
“So what comes next?”
“You get the hell out of my bedchamber and leave me in peace. I need to think.”
“Fine.” The valet stood and walked to the door. “Seems to me, Sin, that you’ve leg-shackled yourself to a female you can’t control. That’s not good for a spy, and it’s surely not good for a husband.”
“Good night, Roman.”
The valet was correct, of course, which didn’t make the situation any more palatable. Sin prided himself on knowing just how far he could trust an ally—or an enemy—and just how they would react to any given circumstance. Victoria played by another set of rules entirely, and she’d begun playing havoc with him, as well.
He sipped his brandy. Or maybe the problem was that she wasn’t playing. They were married, which had begun to seem like one of his better ideas. Unless he wanted the marriage to end when he found Thomas’s murderer, he needed to figure her out, figure out what she wanted, and decide if that was what he was prepared to give her—and himself.
Most importantly, though, he needed to acknowledge that he was becoming quite fond of Victoria Fontaine-Grafton. He had known that he wanted her; he still wanted her, even more now that he’d tasted her passion. Given her frivolous, flirtatious reputation, he’d thought to use her only to gain access to her society. What he hadn’t expected was to like her—to admire her bright wit and very sincere warmth and compassion, which apparently even extended to include him.
He finished his brandy and then hers, then poured himself another, and then decided he’d be damned if he was going to lie awake all night just because his wife declined to join him in his bedchamber. Digging through his wardrobe, he found an elegant and suitably dark evening coat, slipped it on, and went hunting.
His prime target was playing cards at the Society Club, and after a cold glare at the doorman, he was allowed into the chandelier-lit parlor as well. Thomas had helped him in more ways than his brother could have realized; without the former Lord Althorpe’s sterling reputation to speak in his defense, the current Lord Althorpe would very likely have found himself banned from half of the gentlemen’s clubs of London.
“Mind if I join you?” he drawled, dropping into an empty seat without waiting for an answer.
“Well, if it isn’t that damned female-stealing bastard, Althorpe. Join us, by all means.”
John Madsen, Lord Marley, snatched up the table’s bottle of port before Sinclair could reach for it and pointedly emptied it into his own glass and those of his four companions. Undaunted, Sin signaled for another bottle, w
hich looked to be the table’s fourth. “What’s been played?” he asked coolly, feeling the brandy burning through his veins and knowing his lads would be appalled to see him going hunting in his present mood, and in his current condition.
“We’ll start a new round,” Marley answered. “Wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”
“That’s kind of you.”
Lionel Parrish, seated beside Marley, glanced uneasily between the two of them. “You play faro then, Althorpe? I thought vingt-et-un was the preferred game on the Continent.”
Sin kept his gaze on Marley. “I’m known to wager on just about anything. And to win more than I lose.”
Marley signaled the dealer to lay out the suit of hearts. “Most winnings can be lost again,” he said, dropping two quid by the seven.
So he wanted to talk about Vixen. That was fine by Sinclair. “Losing would take forever, with the pittance you’re wagering.” Glad he’d dumped money into his pockets before he left the house, Sin folded a twenty-pound note into the shape of a lady’s bonnet and placed it by the queen.
“Nothing’s been played,” Parrish protested. “Beginning a set with a twenty quid wager? That’s too rich for my blood.”
A fourth player, Viscount Whyling, eyed the table and the wagers. “Nice hat,” he said.
“My thanks. I can do a full-breasted woman with a hundred-pound note.”
“I can do one for two shillings, in Charing Cross,” Whyling replied, grinning.
The table’s fifth occupant chortled drunkenly. “Two shillings. That’s splendid, Whyling.”
It was fairly clever, but it was also distracting Marley. “Yes, but if I win, I keep the hundred quid,” Sinclair retorted. “In fact, now that I consider it, that is the most economical part of marriage, gentlemen.”
Marley looked at him balefully. “What’s so economical about marriage?” he growled.
Sinclair just smiled at him.
Parrish cleared his throat. “I believe it’s been well documented that there’s no such thing as gratis where sexual relations are concerned.”
“Good point, Parrish. In my exper—”
“Shut up, Althorpe!” Marley bellowed. “We all know you’ve had the Vixen. You don’t need to give us the details.”
Meet Me at Midnight Page 14
