To Sin With A Scoundrel (7 page)

“Hmmph.” Brewster pulled a face. “Well, at least you aren’t expected to show your phiz at Lady Becton’s soirée this evening.
Don’t know why my wife insists that I attend. The guest list always includes a gaggle of eccentric old ladies who share the
dowager’s interest in art and science.” The newsprint crackled. “Perhaps if
I
got written up for cavorting with a naked whore, I could get banished to the country for the duration of the Season. Just
think of it—hounds, horses, hunting.” The viscount sighed and blew out a plume of smoke. “Heaven.”

Somehow, his recent prank no longer seemed so uproariously funny.
Lucas slouched a little lower in his chair. “Yes, but there might be hell to pay. I’ve been told that wives don’t find that
sort of behavior amusing. Which is one of the reasons why I don’t have one.”

“Smart man,” growled Brewster. “I fear you are right. I have little choice but to suffer through a long evening of music and
learned conversation. The only saving grace is that the lady serves a very decent claret.” The baron rose and set the newspaper
aside. “Enjoy your devil-may-care freedom while you can.”

Lucas feigned a smile, but he wasn’t feeling overly smart at the moment. In retrospect, he should not have allowed lust to
overpower reason in dealing with Lady Sheffield. Clearly the widow was wary of the opposite sex—and he had only added more
empirical evidence that the male species were louts. He should have reined in his baser urges. Instead, he had reacted like
a randy stallion.

His uncle would be so deucedly disappointed.

Swearing under his breath, Lucas reached for the brandy. However, with his hand a mere hairsbreadth from the bottle, he held
back. Hell, he was Mad, Bad Had-ley. He would
not
give up so easily. Henry did not yet know of the rejection. There was still time for one last assault on the lady’s Ivory
Tower. But it would have to be done with brains rather than brawn.

Steepling his fingers, Lucas thought a bit longer. While trying to arrange the first audience with Lady Ciara Sheffield, he
had done a little research on his quarry. He knew of her scientific society and her small circle of friends. Recalling Brewster’s
mention of Lady Becton’s soirée, Lucas decided to do penance for his earlier sins by making an appearance. It was the sort
of staid affair that he would usually avoid like the plague.

However, Brewster’s grousing had sparked an idea. The elusive widow never made an appearance in Society, but as for her fellow
‘Sinners’…

Ciara eyed the Arabic manuscript, half expecting a green-horned
djinn
or
affreet
to rise in a puff of smoke from the ancient vellum. However, the only demons were those inside her head. And unfortunately
they were speaking the king’s English, loud and clear.

Fool! Fool! Fool!

Stepping over the broken glass, she slumped into her desk chair and took her head in her hands. “Oh, you wicked, wanton woman,”
she whispered. “How could you be so
woefully
stupid?”

A handsome face, a teasing kiss—she ought to know better than to fall for a flirt’s superficial charms. The first time she
had been oh, so young and innocent in the ways of the world. Now there was no excuse for such an abominable lapse in judgment.
All men were charming when they wanted something.

Well, she would
not
be manipulated or used. Lord Hadley and his wicked, wanton mouth could go kiss Lucifer’s arse…

Out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t help but notice the intricate little painting in the margin of the manuscript page.
The fine brushstrokes, skillfully rendered in muted shades of greens and grays, seemed to depict a caravan of camels passing
through a grove of palm trees,

Intrigued, she picked up her magnifying glass and pulled the pages closer. “The traders returned from the East, bearing strange
plants and spices previously unknown to our world,” she translated slowly.

The tantalizing words raised gooseflesh on her arms. Sitting back, she reached for her pen and a fresh sheet of foolscap.

“Why, Lord Hadley, I fear you are going to ruin my reputation…” The dowager Countess of Becton paused to lay a gloved hand
on Lucas’s sleeve. “For throwing a boring party.”

“I am always happy to oblige a lovely lady,” he replied, lifting her frail fingers to his lips.

“So I have heard,” said the countess dryly. “But unless you have an interest in archaeology, you ought not waste your charms
on me. I’m old enough to be an artifact.”

“A very well-preserved artifact,” murmured Lucas. “I would never guess that you and my mother were close friends at school.”

“It was your
grand
mother, as well you know.”

“Impossible.”

“Naughty man.” Lady Becton chuckled. “I see why you have no lack of willing partners for your head-over-heels escapades.”

Lucas winced inwardly. Put that way, he sounded like one of the acrobats at Astley’s Circus.

The dowager squinted through her quizzing glass. “Which begs the question of why you are here. A cello recital does not attract
a very risqué crowd. Indeed, most of my guests are not a day under sixty, and bluestockings to boot.”

“Maybe I’m interested in improving and expanding my mind,” he answered.

Light glinted off the gold-rimmed lens. “That appears to be the only portion of your anatomy that needs any such attention.”

Lucas choked down a laugh. Age had not dulled the dowager’s sharp sense of humor. He seemed to recall mention that the lady
had been quite a hellion in her day.

“But if you are looking for intellectual stimulation, you have come to the right place. Do let me introduce you to some of
my close friends. It isn’t every day that the old ladies get to ogle a flesh-and-blood rake.” Lady Becton drew him toward
the main drawing room. “Let us hope that none of them faints dead on the spot.”

“Indeed. At the moment, I have enough sins laid at my feet.”

She silenced him with a slap of her fan. “And enough ink blackening the front page of the newspaper.” Her brow arched. “Tell
me, are you planning to do anything shocking?”

He assumed an angelic smile. “I assure you, my intentions are above reproach.” The last notes of a Boccherini concerto floated
out from the music room. “However, like your virtuoso musicians, I sometimes feel the urge to improvise.”

“Well, if you have the urge to submerge yourself in another scandal, the least you can do is let me watch.”

Before Lucas could reply, he was led to a small group of ladies standing near the tea table at the far end of the room. It
was hard to tell which they were enjoying more—the lemon tarts or the lively discussion on the cross-pollination of tropical
fruit trees.

At his approach the voices rose a notch higher, and in a twittering of ostrich plumes, several of the ladies took cover behind
the potted palms.

Like hens fleeing from a fox
.

The others, however, stood their ground with admirable sangfroid as Lady Becton moved down the line, performing the introductions.
The last in the group was a short, silver-haired female who had wandered off for a moment to study a framed set of botanical
prints.

“Lady Ariel.” The dowager tapped her friend’s shoulder. “If you can tear yourself away from
Cannabis savita
, I should like to introduce you to Lord Hadley—you know, the champion swimmer.”

Lucas heard a splash behind him as someone spilled her tea.

“I am acquainted with the gentleman.” The lady slowly turned, her oversized steel-rimmed spectacles giving her the air of
a startled owl. “We met briefly at Lady Wilton’s ball. In addition to your sporting skills, sir, you have quite a gift for
reciting entertaining poetry.”

“I am flattered that you recall such details,” replied Lucas as he lifted her hand to his lips.
Appalled
was a far more accurate word. The limericks she had overheard were bawdy enough to make a sailor blush.

“It’s hard to forget such pithy verses as ‘There once was a lady from Exeter, so pretty that men craned their necks at her.
One was even so brave as to take out and wave the distinguishing mark of his sex at her.’” Lady Ariel paused. “Do you know
any more?”

“Lots. But most are even more improper to repeat in front of a lady.”

“Then come stand
beside
me, Lord Hadley. At my advanced age, I find there is little that shocks me. Besides, I am a scientist, and as such, I like
to keep an open mind about things.”

Perhaps all was not lost, thought Lucas.

“Alas,” sighed Lady Becton, “I am going to have to take my leave, just when things are getting interesting. I see Lord Highstreet
has cornered Mr. Battell, and if I don’t intervene, they may come to blows over whether Beethoven’s music ought to be banned
in polite society.”

Lucas smiled. “And here I thought intellectual gatherings were staid affairs.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe some of the things that go on,” replied Ariel. “I know for a fact that when scholars roll out the
guns, they can make the Battle of Trafalgar look like a yachting regatta.”

He cleared his throat and decided to test the waters. “Lady Becton mentioned you have quite a keen interest in science.”

“Very much so. In fact, I belong to a small circle of learned ladies who meet every week to discuss a wide range of fascinating
topics.”

Including a certain Italian sex manual.
Lucas wondered whether they considered the subject of its contents biology. Or physics.

“Indeed,” he murmured politely. “I believe our hostess said something of the sort, and that your sister is a member, along
with Marchesa della Giamatti and the Duke of Clyne’s granddaughter.”

“And the Marchioness of Sheffield,” added Ariel.

“Ah, yes. The chemistry expert.” He signaled to a passing footman for two glasses of champagne. “Seeing as she is not here,
I assume the wine is safe to drink.”

The thick lenses magnified the flash of indignation in her eyes. “Really, sir, Ciara is a
very
serious-minded scholar, sir. Her work—and every other thing about her—is above reproach.”

“I did not mean to make light of the matter. The truth is, my uncle, Sir Henry Phelps, shares your good opinion.” Lucas hesitated
and then made up his mind to take the plunge. There was nothing to lose in trying to win over the elderly lady. He had a feeling
that she could be a powerful ally, despite her diminutive size.

“In fact, he was quite anxious to engage Lady Sheffield’s expertise regarding an ancient medical manuscript he recently discovered.
But alas…” He exaggerated a sigh. “She refused.”

Ariel’s brow furrowed. “Refused? That does not sound at all like Ciara. She is exceedingly generous in sharing her knowledge
with other scientists. We have all read your uncle’s essays and have a high regard for his scholarship.”

“Apparently that opinion does not extend to me, the messenger. Lady Sheffield turned me down flat. Wouldn’t even take a look
at it.” Lucas took a small swallow of his wine. “A pity. My uncle suspects it is a long-lost work by some Greek fellow with
a funny name. Hippo… Hippo… potamus?”

Ariel sucked in a breath.
“Hippocrates?”

“Yes, that sounds about right. Not that I can tell one from the other.” Was he going a bit overboard on the theatrics? Doing
things to excess was, he knew, a real weakness in his character.

“A lost manuscript by Hippocrates?” she mused. “Hmmm. Let me have a word with Ciara at our next meeting. I may be able to
help.”

“I would be extremely grateful,” said Lucas. “And if there is any favor I might do for you in return, Lady Ariel, you have
only to name it.”

She flexed her frail fingers. “Would that you could thrash the stuffing out of that nasty writer for the
Morning Gazette
. You know, the one who pens the gossip columns.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been a naughty girl.” Lucas kept his tone light, but he couldn’t help but wonder what had sparked her
remark. He hadn’t bothered to read the newspapers for the past few days. Could it be that Lady Sheffield had made some slip
that could be used as a bargaining chip? He was determined enough to resort to any means, foul or fair.