Chapter One
Andrew Sinclair lookedaround his room at Emerson House, dismayed at having to leave such comfortable accommodations when he was just growing used to them. The heavy crimson curtains allowed just the right amount of light to shine through the windows overlooking Bruton Street. The jewel tones of the coverlet and walls complimented the curtains and created a peaceful sanctuary for Drew and his thoughts. There was little else to do but depart London for River Crest, the country estate of the Earl of Emerson, his brother, and once Drew’s childhood home. His trunks had already been taken downstairs to be loaded onto the coach where Drew’s two sisters, Tamsin and Aurora, along with Miss Maplehurst, awaited him.
As a general rule, Drew didn’t care for the country. There was no need to wander about woodland paths and fields when there was a perfectly good park in London.
He smoothed down the snowy white of his cravat, nodding in approval at the well-dressed, attractive gentleman staring back in the oval of the mirror. Not a strand of hair out of place. Coat and trousers perfectly tailored. Boots gleaming from a fresh shine. Drew would offer praise to his valet for his appearance if he possessed one. Which he did not. Nor had he ever. Valets were a luxury, along with cooks, maids, grooms, and butlers.
Dunnings had none of those things. The house barely possessed a roof and working fireplaces.
But the fortunes of the Sinclair family had once more changed, this time for the better. This house, the London residence of the Earl of Emerson and his family, was only a few steps from Grosvenor Square. A full staff was in place. A most excellent cook, named Mrs. Cherry, and an enormous butler who went by the name of Holly.
But Drew could sometimes still catch the scent of cabbage and desperation. The smell of Dunnings was rooted in his nostrils and refused to leave. Animals had burrowed into the house surrounded by hedges so thick and overgrown one risked being sliced by getting too close. Birds had roosted in the eaves leaving their droppings. A once sweeping lawn had been left to grow wild with nothing but a chipped fountain, water green and filled with sludge to give an indication it had once been a stately garden.
He had attended dozens of house parties, almost all of which were held in the English countryside, but had rarely ventured further than the tables where whist, piquet, or vingt-un were being played inside. Drew never made it past the terrace in such instances. He wasn’t in attendance at such events for the fresh air, sunshine, and annoying rodents scurrying up the trees. Dunnings had ruined the country for him. The constant round of card games and seduction of women was the only escape from the life foisted upon him at Dunnings, plus the purses he won from the overindulged gentry had helped put food on the scarred, wooden table of that crumbling estate he and his siblings had been banished to by Bentley.
Bentley.
The previous Earl of Emerson and the absolute worst older half-brother anyone should have to tolerate. Shortly after inheriting, Bentley embarked on a lavish lifestyle, eventually bankrupting the estate before finally doing his half-siblings a favor and breaking his neck. Even Drew knew better than to race a barouche through the busy streets of London. Drew’s brother, Jordan, was now earl.
Which meant the Sinclairs had all returned to London, excepting Malcolm. He wasn’t really sure preciselywherehis twin was at the moment. Somewhere on the Continent.
The day they’d buried Drew’s father. The very second Bentley inherited the title, he’d banished the entire family to Dunnings, a long-forgotten estate so far from London by rights it should have been in Scotland but was actually in Northumberland. Forced to exist on Bentley’s dubious charity, their existence had been one of hardship and struggle.
Mother died, wasting away into the gray of Dunnings.
His fingers grew stiff as he flicked a loose thread from the sleeve of his coat.
The dust of that place felt as if it were clogging his throat. Drew could almost hear the mice running behind the walls mixing with the sounds of his mother’s endless coughing.
Never again.
The Deadly Sins, as London society liked to refer to the Sinclairs, were firmly ensconced once more on Bruton Street. Yes, Bentley had bankrupted the estate, but in an odd touch of irony, coal had been found beneath the barren ground of Dunnings. A great bloody deal of it. London would have to stiffen its upper lip. The Deadly Sins weren’t about to be forced from their home again.
Drew now preferred London, though when his father was alive, they’d all lived at River Crest. Odessa, Jordan’s recently acquired wife, was slowly restoring the lovely manor house to its previous glory after Bentley had stripped the estate and allowed it to rot. Drew looked forward to seeing River Crest again, though it was filled with ghosts.
“But I can’t tup widows and play cards every night for the rest of my life.” Drew’s purpose in life or rather, the lack of it now that his family’s fortunes were once more secure, had gnawed at him as of late. Besides the tupping of agreeable women, which he excelled at, Drew’s other talents were more closely related to cards, calculating odds and wagers. He was good with sums, percentages, profits, and the like. A close acquaintance, Charles Worthington, had broached the subject of forming a partnership, one built on investing in various interests for a variety of wealthy gentlemen. The idea of actually having a purpose in life appealed to Drew now that he wasn’t in a constant struggle to survive. Something more important than cards and women to occupy his time. He no longer wanted to hop from house party to some other frivolous amusement. The only sticking point was that Drew needed sufficient funds, a stake, for the partnership. Pride kept him from asking Jordan, who was only now climbing out of the hole Bentley had dug for them all, for the money. The money from Dunnings must first take care of the family and the estate.
And Drew wanted to prove he could do this on his own.
“Drew,” Tamsin bellowed up the stairs in a wholly unladylike manner. “Hurry along. We are going to be late.”
“A moment.” Mother would be everywhere at River Crest. He could still see Malcolm, chasing him through the flowers as Mother ran after them, laughing for them to stop. She’d loved wildflowers. Bluebells, daisies, and foxgloves. Nothing too tame for Lady Emerson.
Drew pressed a palm to his heart as he often did when thinking of his brave, inventive mother. Sarah Fitzsimmons had been an actress before becoming the mistress of the married Earl of Emerson. The blackest of marks against the Sinclairs, the fact that Father had wed his mistress and elevated her to countess after the death of his first wife. Bentley had bitterly resented Mother though she did everything in her power to make him a part of the family. She deserved better from him than to be shipped off to Northumberland and eventually die at a shabby, run-down estate.
The anger, old but still raw, pricked at Drew’s chest. It was a wound that never entirely healed, the ache refusing to dull over time. After the bustle of London, most would welcome the bucolic countryside, but all those pastures and serene woodland only reminded Drew of Dunnings.
“You’ll make us late,” Tamsin yelled up the stairs once more. A thump sounded.
Tamsin was literally stomping her feet in agitation. London hadn’t tempered her poor manners in the least. Drew really only had hope for Aurora.
“What were you doing, admiring yourself in the mirror?” Tamsin said as Drew made his way down the stairs. “Honestly, Drew, you aren’t at all that handsome.”
“There are many ladies who would disagree with your opinion, Tamsin.” Drew was a bit of a rake. It wasn’t his fault he’d been gifted with a great deal of attractiveness.
“Ugh.” Tamsin’s displeasure greeted him from the bottom of the stairs. “I cannot believe my brother is little better than a card-playing dandy. What would Malcolm say?”
“Malcolm would be grateful he looks enough like me to draw a lady’s eye.” Twins they might be, but Drew and his brother looked nothing alike. Drew was lean and athletic, made for London’s drawing rooms, while Malcolm was broad and muscular. He’d once been a soldier but now claimed he provided various services for wealthy individuals.
