No, she was the same ruthless woman she had always been. The difference was that Logan was no longer the same man. He was now as cold and manipulative as Sybil.
Perhaps more so.
Though not quite malicious, he was still capable of acts most would find reprehensible.
Methodically, a seed of his scheme bloomed. He possessed much ammunition against Sybil. He could easily disarm her only to cripple her with the weight of the truth when she least expected it.
Who was better suited to teach Sybil a lesson than the man she had wronged so many years ago? The man she never thought capable of possessing wealth, or an estate such as this.
What had she called him? An urchin. That was it. But Logan was much more, always had been, even before his recent evolution.
Logan Ambrose … orphan, chimney sweep, pickpocket, baker, soldier, mercenary, businessman, friend, partner. With each title came more wisdom, more strength, more power.
Yes, he would teach Sybil a valuable lesson.
But only after he ensured that her defenses were down. Logan must ensure that she trusts him first. What better way than to summon someone from his past?
Someone once just as deadly as Logan.
As he wrote the missive in his choppy handwriting, Logan knew this to be the best course.
Charm Sybil, then proceed.
Of course, there was still the matter of who attempted to kill her tonight. And whether or not her sister was safe. On this, Logan’s closest confidant would be beneficial.
By the end of the day, reinforcements would arrive. They would help commence this charade, his plan to punish the woman who once ruined his only chance at happiness.
Sybil had unknowingly made the worst possible enemy all of those years ago.
At long last, she would regret it.
Sybil sat at the large work table in the center of the kitchen. Having found a pot of what she was certain to be mulled wine and grabbing a glass, she poured a small amount then tasted it.
Spicy, potent … just what she needed to calm her nerves. She filled her glass and downed it in several hefty swigs.
Since no one was present, there was no need for manners, though she held her second glass in the air, a silent gesture as she whispered, “To love and loyalty.” Sybil drank a liberal amount.
Smacking her lips, she sighed as the hearty liquid began to numb her nerves. Again, she refilled her glass. Again, she offered a cheer, “To God and country.”
As she placed the glass to her lips, Sybil heard a loud whimper from a dark corner of the room. She lifted her lamp, tilting her head to the side as a large hound stood before shaking its fur.
“Oh, hello,” she took another swig as the canine approached, her gaze darting around the dim room.
One hound.
That was fortuitous.
The dog was tall with large paws though it was lanky. “Am I supposed to be frightened of you? For I must confess, you are not as commanding as your master.”
The dog barked a warning.
Sybil jumped on the table, kicking her chair over in the process. As she sat in the middle of the table, she dragged her glass and the pot of mulled wine closer to her.
“No offense,” she assured the canine before raising her glass again, this time towards the furry beast. “To canines, whether big or small. I drink to you all.”
After downing the rest of her glass, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as the dog studied her. He, she assumed it was a he, tipped his head to the side, as if assessing who this insane woman might be, seated on the large table in the middle of the night.
“I know what you are thinking,” Sybil narrowed her eyes, clutching the glass in one hand and pointing to the dog with her forefinger. “How did a girl like me wind up here?”
She held out her arm, motioning to the kitchen with a flourish.
“Odd, is it not?” Logan’s baritone sliced through the air, immediately charging it as if an electrical storm had rolled through. With might, his presence filled her senses. He exuded power and dominance with a single word or phrase. “I, too, was wondering what you are doing here, in my kitchen. For I specifically recall charging you to remain in your room.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, she noted he still wore his wrinkled white shirt and dark breeches though she had failed to notice that his trousers were caked with dried mud. From her rescue, Sybil assumed.
“Pray, do not blame your hound,” she took another swig. “He was so intimidating that I jumped on the table to evade him.”
The canine shot her a confused glance.
“You were horrifying,” she hiccupped. “And I do not use that term lightly.”
Pausing, Sybil pressed her forefinger to her lips. “Upon further consideration, I do not know if I use that term lightly because I cannot recall. But, fear not, gentle beast, for you did your duty to your master and for that, I salute you.”
She held her glass in the air before taking another gulp while Logan studied her, his brow furrowed.
It was clear that Sybil was inebriated. It was also clear that his hound did not take an immediate dislike to her. To the contrary, his hound was now sitting on the ground beside her, clearly protecting Sybil.
“Traitor,” Logan muttered under his breath, his tone a mixture of sarcasm and disappointment.
His dog, Adolphus, moaned.
“Quite, right,” Sybil concurred with the canine before turning towards Logan, her rosy cheeks softening what had been a stark, pallid complexion hours earlier. “I fear your dog pities me. I believe he finds me to be stark raving mad. He is clearly attempting to disarm me by befriending me.”
“So, you are defending Adolphus now?” Logan continued to study his guest. She appeared healthy and in no physical pain thanks to the concoction his cook had prepared.
Aside from her being perched on a table in his kitchen, all seemed right. With one exception: he had told her to stay in her room and she openly defied his instructions.
“Must I lock you in your room?” Logan quipped, hiding his smirk behind his hand. “Must I bolt the door? Have Adolphus stand guard?”
Placing her free hand against her forehead, Sybil spoke in an animated tone. “Please, not Adolphus! He terrifies me. Anything but that.”
Adolphus hung his head then trudged slowly out of the kitchen, as if he would no longer take part in such an obvious ruse.
“Fine, be that way,” Sybil shook her finger at the canine’s back. “I was trying to help you.”
Logan shot her a wry grin. “Clearly, he has no intention of accepting your assistance.”
“He likes me, though he refuses to admit it. I wonder who that reminds me of,” her tone was teasing as she refilled her glass, offering it to Logan.
What was it about this woman and her ability to make him want to forget all of the horrible things she had done and said to Logan? From the moment he entered the kitchen to find her toasting his dog, his resentment lessened by an annoyingly large degree.
“There is more than one glass in this kitchen. I shall get my own,” he crossed the room prepared to find another glass.
Grabbing his arm, Sybil yanked him towards her. “No, I insist—”
Sybil lost her balance, spilling the magenta liquid on her borrowed dressing gown. “Oh, no. Your poor maid! Look what I’ve done!” she gasped, her expression somber while studying the stain.
“I shall purchase a replacement for Marigold—”
“Marigold?” her eyes widened, her heart-shaped lips curling into a smile. “That is such a precious name. It conjures the most beautiful blossoms, does it not? Like Rose, Violet, Petunia, and Daisy …”
Sybil’s voice trailed off at her last word.
Daisy.
Logan studied her expression, searching for a hint of malice, a glimmer of recognition from his guest. Why would she emphasize Daisy if she did not recall that he had given her sister daisies every day and every day, without fail, Sybil would tea
se him about it?
“Your Marigold doesn’t resemble that flower in the least,” she continued, as if unable to discern his change in mood, as if oblivious to his scrutiny. “She should be blonde, instead she is a brunette with a rather monotone voice … not the least bit luminous.”
He couldn’t argue her point. Instead, Logan decided it was best to say nothing as he placed Sybil’s glass on the table.
“You are far too inebriated to walk up those stairs,” Logan lifted her in one, fluid motion then cradled her in his arms. “Nor should you place pressure on that ankle.”
As they proceeded to the doorway, Sybil grabbed the doorjamb. “What of the lantern?”
“Don’t need it. My butler is coming,” he studied his thin, silver-haired butler with gold wire-rimmed spectacles as the man approached. “Would you mind leading us to Miss Sutton’s room?”
The butler’s eyes widened at the sight of Miss Sutton, waving to him.
“Hello,” Sybil’s singsong voice filled the hall.
Clearing his throat, the man pursed his lips and scrunched his nose before turning on his heel and walking ahead, illuminating their path.
Sybil leaned her head against Logan’s shoulder. “Oh, dear. I fear your butler does not like me.”
Logan heaved her closer to him before ascending the stairs. “That is an accurate assessment, if not an understatement.”
Stifling a giggle into his shirtfront, Sybil turned to him and smiled. “I find you much more amiable when I am inebriated.”
“That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he drawled.
Slapping his chest in a playful gesture, she added. “It is true. You are. Though your butler …” she furrowed her brow. “Not so much. Pray, what is his name?”
“Thornton,” Logan shot her a wry grin.
Sybil tilted her head to the side, “He is rather prickly, is he not?”
This time Logan’s smile turned into a hearty guffaw. He hadn’t laughed openly like this in ages.
“Shush,” Sybil pressed her forefinger against his mouth. “You will wake someone. Like your other hounds. You did imply that you owned more than one.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “I lied. I sensed one would not deter you however, more than one … I was wrong.”
“Indeed, Mr. Ambrose. Quite wrong.”
“Do not gloat.” It took great pains for Logan to conceal his grin as they reached her room. Quick to put Thornton out of his misery, Logan instructed, “You are excused.”
Bowing, the thin man exhaled a deep breath, relief washing across his features.
Logan placed his guest atop her mattress with care. After which, he crossed the room, pouring her a glass of water.
“The stain did not seep onto my shift,” Sybil announced, draping the dressing gown on a chair in the far corner.
Halting in mid-step, he watched as she crossed the room, much too inebriated to feel pain for she did not limp. Instead, she sauntered back towards her bed, enough light remaining from the candles that her lithe form was illuminated under the thin, gauzy material of her shift.
Endowed with supple curves and long legs, Logan could understand why Sybil was so popular among men in London.
As she settled underneath the bedding, a thought crossed his mind. Though brief, it was enough to send his heart rate spiking: if she looked that alluring in her shift, what would her body look like out of it?
Well aware that his thoughts were bordering on insanity, Logan shook his head to clear it. Sybil reminded him of Bella, who had continually been in his thoughts since her twin wandered onto his property. Any attraction, if you could call it such, was because he wanted Arabella.
Even now, after all this time, he yearned for her.
Stop the madness, he silently instructed himself. It was his solemn vow as Sybil settled against the pillow.
“You should drink this. It will help with your morning headache,” he offered her the tumbler then withdrew his hand. “Wait. You must first promise that you will not stab me, or inflict any other bodily harm to me or my crystal before I give this glass to you.”
Sybil smiled, her serene countenance the complete opposite of all that he had witnessed from her years prior.
This gesture was sweet and kind.
Contradictory to the attributes that comprised the Sybil Sutton he once knew.
Had she truly changed?
“I promise,” Sybil sat up and accepted the glass. She tugged at Logan’s shirt, pressing her lips against his cheekbone, the one that displayed his scar.
His heart skipped a beat, perhaps two. The kiss so unexpected, so gentle, so filled with warmth that his body responded with a force he never imagined.
What was this woman doing to him?
“Thank you for being so thoughtful,” she whispered against his cheek, the scent of wine and spices all but intoxicating him.
Logan straightened, aware that his pulse was pounding against his temples as he watched her drink the water he had just given her. When not a drop remained, she handed him her empty glass and placed her cheek against the pillow, a sweet grin sweeping across her rosy countenance.
Logan exited the room, closing the door behind him. He subsequently pressed his free palm against the knotted wood.
What is this feeling … this fluttering within his chest? What was this woman awakening within him and why couldn’t he will it to recede?
No matter how he recounted Sybil’s many misdeeds, her past malice and acts of selfishness, Logan could not overlook her current serene smile, her ability to make him laugh or the way his body reacted to one innocent kiss on the cheek.
“Bloody hell,” Logan muttered as he marched to his suite. “Toughen up. This is Sybil Sutton for God’s sake.”
Though he wasn’t certain, Logan feared that God was playing some sort of trick on him, meant to teach him a lesson.
But Logan refused to fall for Sybil.
Not now, not ever.
Having long since memorized the interior of Winterthorne, Logan proceeded in darkness, arriving at his suite to find his fire alight and his room bathed in a warm glow. He marched to the mantel, staring into the flames.
“I will not fall for another Sutton,” his statement was intended to fortify his own resolve.
Arabella had all but destroyed him.
Sybil was capable of much worse.
No, he wouldn’t travel that path.
No matter how evolved Sybil appeared, no matter how much she reminded him of Bella, no matter how sweet she seemed.
Sybil Sutton was a viper.
Never again would he be poisoned by her venom.
“It is about bloody time you arrived, mate,” Logan slapped his best friend on the shoulder.
Colin MacAlistair studied him, “What is so urgent that I had to whisk my wife, her grandmother, our daughter and three carriages to this god-awful place?”
“Hey,” Logan snapped his brows. “This is my home to which you refer.”
“And what a lovely home it is, darling,” chirped a sweet voice from the foyer. Garbed in violet and splashes of red, the cherubic older woman with silver ringlets waved a cane embellished with feathers in the air, pointing to the many wolves that adorned the great hall, etched in the walls and ceiling, with their eyes glaring from all corners.
Imposing.
Just the way Logan liked it.
“I love what you’ve done with the place. All the wolves …” The Dowager Viscountess Fiona Weston pursed her lips before continuing, “appear friendlier. Have you been feeding them something different?”
Colin coughed in his hand while Logan burst into laughter. “Hello, gorgeous.” He wrapped his arms around the rotund woman.
“Ah, my scoundrel,” she placed his cheek in her gloved palms. “We have missed you. We held a spectacular event just last week and it pained me not to see you brooding in the corner of our grand ballroom.”
Logan smiled. “I only brood when you won’t dan
ce with me, love.”
Colin’s wife, Eve, bounded through the door holding hands with a toddler with cherubic cheeks that resembled those of her great-grandmother. Following close behind was a nanny and several footmen carrying trunks. Based upon the grimaces on the men’s faces, the trunks were quite heavy.
“Darling, we’re home,” she announced, arching a brow towards Logan as he kissed the back of her free hand. “Why the mysterious missive and odd request for feminine garments? Have you eloped? If so, is she blind or will you allow her to redecorate? All these canine faces are hideous, Logan.”
“I find them rather cheerful,” Fiona walked towards the large, five-foot tall statue of a snarling wolf and placed her cloak around it.
The room fell silent.
“What?” She glanced from her granddaughter, to Colin then to Logan. “Horacio appears cold. Poor thing. He isn’t wearing his winter coat and it is quite blustery today.”
Tipping his head to the side, Colin asked, “When did you name that statue?”
“Horatio and I had a lovely conversation the last time our party called upon Logan,” Fiona fluffed some feathers on her cane. “It seemed appropriate to be on a first name basis with him. Wolves are people, too. Or so a previous owner is rumored to have said. I know my history of this magnificent estate.”
Fiona rapped her cane against the polished marble under her feet. “One must respect history. Especially in regards to Winterthorne. Didn’t one of its guests get devoured by a wolf generations ago, shortly after insulting the majestic creatures?”
“You do know your history,” Logan winked at the kind woman. “Brava.”
Fiona smiled at him. “I know our family’s history. And you are a part of that, my darling boy.”
The sentiment was so sweet and unexpected that it sent his senses reeling. He felt oddly off-kilter as a flurry, like a blustery winter snowstorm, whirled within Logan’s abdomen.
Family was something he never had and the Dowager Viscountess considered him to be such, vocally acknowledging it for all to hear. The proclamation awakened something inside of his dark soul.
The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 Page 5
