Sin scowled. “I was speaking in general terms, my boy. I don’t believe I mentioned my wife.” He realized he really was far too drunk and far too frustrated with Victoria to be engaging in this particular conversation. Still, if it drew Marley out, he would face Vixen with the consequences of his idiocy—if he couldn’t avoid it.
“No, you didn’t,” Parrish said forcefully. “It’s my wager, isn’t it? I’ll put five on the queen. At least if I go down, I’ll be taking your golden ship with me.”
Vaguely grateful to Marley’s companion for aiding his escape, Sinclair decided to head them all toward other ground. “I wish my brother had had the stomach for wagering. I might have been able to begin enjoying my inheritance pre-posthumously.”
“Perhaps your brother was just selective in who he wagered with,” Marley drawled, the angry red color in his face fading. “We spent many pleasant evenings together.”
Clenching his jaw, Sin hardly noticed as he and Parrish won the round. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that. Did you mention ‘Thomas’ and ‘pleasant’ in the same breath?”
Whyling laughed again, and Sinclair decided he didn’t like the viscount all that much, after all. The fifth player, whom he remembered only as a Mr. Henning, managed a halfhearted chuckle. “Didn’t really know Althorpe, but he seemed a good sort.”
“He was,” Marley said, sneering at Sin. “Had a good head on his shoulders, even if he occasionally faced it in the wrong direction.”
Aha. “Excuse me,” Sin drawled. “You may disparage my late, lamented brother’s character at will, but not his sexual preferences. That’s rather below the belt.”
“I wasn’t talking about that, you nitwit. He kept telling me to divest myself of all my shares in French companies. Noble, I’ll admit, but I would have lost a fortune if I’d done it.”
“You lost it anyway, didn’t you?” Whyling commented. “Partially to me, and in this very room, as I recall.”
“Now, now,” Parrish said, pushing down on Marley’s shoulder as he began to lurch to his feet. “No use wasting good port to lament bad debts. I’m here to play faro.”
Sinclair nodded, deciding he would ask some very pointed questions of Victoria about her former beau in the morning. “As am I.”
Chapter 9
“Are you sure we should all be here?” Lucy asked. “After hearing about Lord William I’m fairly certain I don’t want to make Lord Althorpe angry.”
“Nonsense,” Victoria answered warmly. “He keeps insisting that this is my home as much as it’s his. My half wants to visit with my friends.”
“You promised you’d tell me what happened when you asked him about Lord William,” Lucy whispered.
Nothing in the world could have prevented Victoria from turning crimson. Swallowing, she took her friend’s arm and led the way into the huge Grafton ballroom. “Oh, nothing much,” she said flippantly. “You know how men are.”
“No, I d—”
“It’s a shame you won’t have the ball here,” Venetia Hilston tittered with the best timing she’d ever exhibited. “You could fit half of London in this ballroom.”
“You could,” Lionel Parrish agreed, seizing Lucy’s other hand and sweeping her into a waltz, “but that would leave us no room to dance.”
“It would be awfully warm, as well, with so many people,” Venetia said earnestly.
“She really has no sense of humor, does she?” Lord Geoffrey Tremont murmured in Victoria’s ear.
He’d been buzzing about her all afternoon, like a bee after a flower. With a chuckle Victoria scraped him off against Nora Jeffrie’s rotund form. “Marguerite, you should play for us,” she suggested, “and then we could all dance.”
“Yes, please play, Marguerite,” Lucy called, as Parrish continued swirling her around the huge ballroom.
Miss Porter didn’t need any more encouragement than that, and she hurried to the pianoforte in the corner, beneath the large picture windows. In a moment she launched into a waltz.
Gathering her friends at Grafton House had been a superb idea, if Victoria said so herself. The day was too windy for riding or strolling in Hyde Park, and if she’d still been living at Fontaine House her parents would have collapsed from mortification at having such a wild set of young people about. Besides, she wanted to find out if anyone knew who the previous Lord Althorpe might have been courting. A wealthy, respectable, single gentleman with a prestigious title couldn’t have been completely without female hangers-on.
“May I have this dance?” Lord Geoffrey murmured, having somehow escaped Nora.
Victoria stifled her annoyed frown and smiled instead. “Of course, Lord Geoffrey.”
The dandy had endlessly pursued her, stealing her away from Marley whenever he could manage it and then spending the entire time gloating over how he’d won her—as though she’d been a prize sow at a country fair. If he hadn’t stumbled on their circle at luncheon, she would never have invited him to join them at Grafton House.
He was a fair dancer, at least, and she had learned that a few well-placed nods and exclamations satisfied her portion of the conversation quite well. While he prattled on about how clever he’d been to find them, she watched Lucy and Lionel waltz.
Parrish had begun last Season as one of her admirers, but after a few subtle pushes in the right direction, he had become Lucy Havers’s staunch protector and companion. Victoria smiled. She’d never been one for matchmaking, but that particular pairing of sweet souls had been so obvious that she couldn’t help herself.
Halfway through the second waltz, Marguerite’s nimble fingers stumbled over part of a simple phrase. That was unusual enough that Victoria looked over at her friend—and nearly stumbled over Lord Geoffrey’s feet. Sin leaned against the pianoforte, chatting with Miss Porter as though he’d known her for years.
Annoyed with him or not, the first emotion that hit her was thrilled anticipation. Whatever she thought of his stupid snobbery about not allowing her to assist with his investigation, he continually surprised her—and in her experience, that was something both rare and treasured.
He didn’t interrupt or attempt to cut in, as she’d expected, but remained leaning against the pianoforte until the waltz concluded. His presence of course caused a stir, and Victoria was glad that Marley had declined to join them today. She would not invite Lord William again.
“He doesn’t seem to mind us,” Lord Geoffrey murmured, as they continued circling the room.
“Why should he?” Victoria returned, halfway to wishing Sinclair would cut in. “You’re my friends.”
“I actually meant us, my dear. You and I.”
“I see. It’s a dance, my dear—not a Bacchanalian ceremony.”
“Well, it’s just that I heard he bloodied William Landry’s nose, and that he and Marley nearly came to blows last night. I wouldn’t have expected someone like him to be the jealous type, especially with the way you…met, but one can never know, I suppose. And I have no desire to have my teeth handed me, despite the pleasure of dancing with a female as lovely as you are.”
Victoria glanced at her husband again. First he’d gone after Lord William, and now Marley. As far as she knew, Parrish had been out with his friend last evening, but Lionel hadn’t mentioned anything about running into Sinclair. She’d thought Sin had gone to bed after she stalked out of his little conference. Apparently he hadn’t gotten his fill of fighting with just herself as an adversary.
When the waltz ended, she freed herself from Lord Geoffrey’s grip and strolled over to the pianoforte. “Good afternoon,” she said, giving a tentative smile.
She expected the same selfish arrogance he’d shown last night. Instead, Sin leaned down to softly brush his lips against her cheek. “Good afternoon.”
As usual when he touched her or kissed her, she wanted to sink into his embrace and start pulling his clothes off. It wouldn’t be very ladylike, but she had more than a hunch that it would be immensely satisfying. It was d
ashed confusing, being angry with and distrustful of someone and at the same time helplessly attracted to him.
“Althorpe,” Parrish said as he approached, Lucy on his arm. His demeanor seemed a little cool, especially for him, and especially now that she knew something unpleasant had occurred last evening.
Sinclair likewise assumed his aloof, rakish guise and returned Lionel’s greeting with a brief handshake. “Mr. Parrish.”
Victoria cleared her throat, wondering what in the world had happened last night, and why no one had bothered to tell her about it. “Sinclair, have you met everyone?”
“No. I don’t believe I have.”
Victoria made introductions all around, while with calculated efficiency Sin charmed everyone present—except for Lionel Parrish, who kept his distance.
Growing more curious by the moment, Victoria finally cornered Parrish herself. “All right, what’s going on?” she whispered.
“Hm? Nothing, Vixen.”
“Why didn’t you mention that Sinclair and Marley fought last night?”
He drew a breath. “They didn’t fight; they exchanged words.”
“About me?”
“Ask your husband. Marley’s a friend of mine, Vix. Not a close friend, but I have no wish to be pummeled by him, or by Althorpe.”
“Fine. I’ll ask Sinclair, then.”
She turned away, but stopped when Lionel touched her shoulder. “I worry about you,” he murmured. “Are you certain you’re all right with him?”
“You don’t need to worry about—”
“Is there any more dancing planned for this afternoon?” Sinclair asked, joining them.
Immediately Parrish lowered his arm. “Actually, I think we need to be going. The Magic Flute premieres at the opera house tonight, and it looks to be a sad crush.”
“Will you be attending?” Lucy asked, prancing up to take Victoria’s hand, obviously unaware of the tension flowing between the two men.
“I…don’t know,” she stumbled, forcing herself not to look at Sinclair like some puppy begging for a bone. “We hadn’t discussed it.”
“Would you like to attend?” Sin asked, his tone intimate, as though a dozen other people weren’t in the room to overhear.
“I would like to,” she admitted, blushing, “but it’s not necess—”
“Yes, we’ll be attending,” he interrupted, smiling at Lucy.
“Good luck finding seats,” Lord Geoffrey grumbled. “I couldn’t, and I even offered fifty quid to Harris to give me his box.”
“My grandmother has a box.”
Victoria tried not to stare at him as though he’d just solved the riddle of the Sphinx. Another surprise, and another kindness to her. It was difficult to keep her balance when the ground kept shifting.
She saw her friends to the door, while Sin—either on purpose or by accident—kept himself between her and Parrish. As they left, he looked at her. “What were you and Parrish conversing about?”
“About what happened between you and Marley last night,” she answered, glancing pointedly at Milo, still lurking in the foyer.
Sinclair gestured her toward his private office. “What did he tell you, then?”
“He told me to ask you.” As she followed him into the room, he closed the door behind her. “I assume the conversation was about my virtues or lack thereof, again,” she continued, “but given the way you’re acting, I’m not certain how well I came out this time.”
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Do you miss anything?”
“About as much as you do. So what happened?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“Fine.” She folded her arms across her chest. “How were the boat races?”
“Two boats sank, and no one drowned.” Sinclair strode to the desk and back again, avoiding the chair where his brother had been shot. “Vix—”
“I said you didn’t need to tell me. I’ll ask Marley.”
His expression hardened. “You are not going to ask Marley anything. Is that clear?”
She held his gaze. “As far as I’m aware, you’ve excluded me from joining your merry little band of spies. You can’t order me not to see my friends.”
He stalked closer. “I am your husband.”
“And so I’m supposed to obey you? Ha!” She turned on her heel. “Make me.”
“Just how much do you know about Lord Marley?” he shot back.
“I know more about him than I do about you.” Victoria paused in the doorway. “I assume we’re still going to the opera tonight, so you can spy on everyone?”
He was silent for a moment. “Yes.”
Obviously she didn’t mean much to him, if he was more concerned with his little games than with how angry and hurt she felt. She didn’t know why she’d expected—or hoped for—anything different. “I’ll see you this evening, then,” she said quietly, and left the room.
Sinclair had to stalk the length of the room and curse for a good five minutes before he could pull his thoughts together enough to decide his next step. Victoria didn’t understand—obviously she would never be able to understand—that these people she called her friends and invited to visit her house weren’t what they seemed. At least one of them was a killer; from what he’d uncovered in Europe, another good half of them were liars, adulterers, cheaters, traitors, and profiteers.
Not her, though—she was none of those things, and he didn’t want her anywhere near them. He would find his own clues from now on, if she would just agree to stay out of this misery.
Still cursing under his breath, Sinclair sat behind the desk and pulled out a stack of paper to write some letters. The first was simple—Lady Stanton sent a note to her nephew, Wally Jerrison, currently lodging with several friends on Weigh House Street, reporting that Lord Marley had disagreed with Thomas Grafton’s views on French trade and Bonaparte.
The second note was equally brief, but it took him five times as long to compose. Finally he settled for, “Grandmama, if you have any extra chairs available, Victoria and I would very much like to join you at the opera this evening. Sinclair.”
The “very much” part had exited in the first draft. However, he meant it, so at the last moment he added it again onto the final copy. Being seen in his company could be dangerous, yet those well-acquainted with Thomas would know that all three brothers adored their grandmother. Avoiding her could potentially be as damaging as anything else. And in truth, after spending dinner with her the other day, he’d realized how very much he’d missed her—and Christopher.
The second reason for the extra plea was even more complicated. He’d lied again—to Victoria. They were attending the opera not so he could spy on everyone but because she wanted to go. He simply wanted to spend time with his wife in a place they could be together without arguing or lying. He’d begun to think of her more than he had any right to.
The response to the second missive came not twenty minutes after he sent it out. Despite the simple “Christopher and I would be delighted to have you join us. Augusta,” he could almost hear the surprise in his grandmother’s writing. Kit would no doubt be less than delighted to attend an opera, but the way Victoria’s female friends seemed to materialize out of thin air whenever she appeared in public, his younger brother would no doubt be adequately compensated for his suffering.
He sent Milo to inform Victoria that they definitely would be attending the opera, and then went into the library. Victoria had left Thomas’s box of sketches there. Several times he’d gone to the door and then decided he had something more pressing to do, but obviously he couldn’t put it off indefinitely.
Sitting at the table that occupied the middle of the large, airy room, he pulled the wooden box to him, unfastened the leather straps binding it, and carefully lifted it open. The first sketch was of Christopher, when he must have been sixteen or seventeen, his hair its usual disheveled riot, and an easy, open grin on his face.
Victoria had been right; eve
n to Sin’s untrained eye, Thomas’s sketches were excellent. The next few were of Althorpe—the trees at the edge of the lake, the stables, and the grand old manor itself. The sketches told him nothing about who might have killed his brother, but everything about quiet, thoughtful Thomas.
The last drawings looked slightly more helpful, if no less painful to view. Thomas had obviously made a hobby of sketching his peers. Since Sin hadn’t heard anyone but Victoria mention the former Lord Althorpe’s fondness for drawing, Thomas had probably done it from memory rather than using actual models.
His good friend Astin Hovarth, the Earl of Kingsfeld, appeared on several pages—at White’s club, on horseback, and wearing his hunting attire. Lady Grayson, Grandmama Augusta, Lord Hodgiss, Miss Pickering—had all fallen victim to Thomas’s talents, as well.
As he gingerly lifted the next sketch from the box, Sinclair paused. Sitting in what looked like a ballroom, vague faceless forms surrounding her and no doubt representing her multitude of suitors and admirers, was Lady Victoria Fontaine. Even her image had the power to make his heart pound.
Their lovemaking hadn’t quenched his urge for her at all, and neither had any of their arguments or her obvious disappointment in him as a husband. But at the moment that wasn’t his priority, and he couldn’t allow it to become so. He wasn’t certain he knew how to become any sort of proper husband, anyway.
In the portrait, a wisp of curling dark hair had strayed across her brow. The expression on her smooth, oval face bespoke her humor and intelligence, while the twinkle in her eyes said that she knew exactly what the men surrounding her wanted. Sinclair ran his finger across her brow, but the lock of hair remained elegantly out of place.
Thomas had chosen to sketch her. Had he been one of her admirers? Sinclair didn’t think so—not a serious one, anyway, or he wouldn’t have seen the knowing humor in her gaze. She’d said she and Thomas had been friends, but not close ones; given her natural compassion and the way she seemed to inspire everyone’s confidences, it wasn’t surprising that Thomas had told her that he drew. Had he told her anything else, perhaps something she hadn’t even realized?
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