Chapter One
London, 1816
“Lord Stamworth is the most tight-fisted sot the ton has ever seen,” John Chaucer, Earl of Summerset complained. The earl held a glass of suspiciously-pale wine up to the light. “I swear, he’d try to cheat the best lightskirt at The Black Rose, even if it meant he’d never get his Thomas wet again.”
Sinclair Archer, Marquess of Dunkeld, had to agree. Stamworth’s wine was little better than pink water. The man also threw the most tedious routs of anyone in London. Sin glared at the woman in the corner of the drawing room, plucking at the strings of a harp like they were the feathers from a chicken. A loud, dying chicken.
“Stamworth’s wife is visiting her family in Bath.” Sin picked up the dried-out bit of tongue on his plate and dropped it with disgust. “Perhaps that accounts for the poor hospitality.” What he wouldn’t give to be in Bath, be anywhere, rather than this dreary affair. If Liverpool hadn’t requested his presence, he wouldn’t have been caught dead in this bloody crush.
Another pair of chits sidled up to him and Summerset, trying to catch his friend’s eye whilst avoiding his own. Only the bravest lass tried to turn the Scotsman’s head. Despite his title, few set their caps at him. He was too large and untamed in appearance; his clothes, although made of the finest materials, always rumpled; his manner, too abrupt for the delicate English roses.
Which suited him fine. Whenever he settled down, it would be with a proud Scottish woman, one strong enough to hold her own with him.
A girl with lustrous brown hair swished her skirts and gazed back at his friend, her chin dipping.
Sin grunted. Still. He did have the superior title over Summerset. These women were daft to not at leasttryto catch his eye.
Summerset arched an eyebrow, the blond hair forming a perfect semi-circle. “I might forgive him the burnt seedcakes.” He gave the chits next to him a wicked grin that sent them tittering behind their fans. “Even having no entertainment save the girl murdering the harp could have been excused. But I will not forgive serving this swill, not when Stamworth is reputed to have the best cellars in all of England. The greedy bastard doesn’t want to share.”
One of the girls pretended to swoon at the foul language.
Sin turned his back on her nonsense. If a girl spent her evening eavesdropping on men’s conversations, she didn’t have any right to object to its content. He grabbed his friend’s elbow and dragged him into a deserted corner.
Summerset pulled a Pomona green pocket square from his jacket and brushed at the crease Sin’s hand had left in the silk of his sleeve. “I know the sub-standard fare is aggravating, but that’s no reason to assault an innocent, one-of-a-kind creation of Monsieur Jacques’s.”
“Don’t be a halfwit.” Sin shifted his weight. The girls were still eyeing his friend like a hunting dog did a fresh kill. Pampered, scheming coquettes, every last one. “Can we leave, or are there any other unsuitable women you wish to flirt with?”
“Every woman suits me.” Summerset gave him a lazy smile that set Sin’s teeth on edge. The hell of it was, his friend was right. Something about the sly fop had all the ladies raising their skirts. Luckily for the maters of the Beau Monde, his friend tended not to turn his attentions on innocent maids.
“There’s a game at Halliwell’s tonight.” Sin cracked his neck. “Our time would be better spent there.”
Summerset cocked a shoulder against the wall and scanned the room. “And miss a meeting with our esteemed friend? Who knows what delightful little caper he’ll send us on tonight. And stop tugging on your cravat. Not after my valet spent nearly an hour getting it just so.”
Sin scowled but dropped his hands. “It was nary a minute I let your man fuss over me.” And only because Summerset refused to leave his home unless Sin’s ‘travesty’ of a knot was rectified. “Liverpool isn’t showing. I’m done here. Let’s go.”
“One more drink.” Summerset swirled the liquid in his glass and sniffed. “But it can’t be this pig-swill.”
“Fine.” Sin squared his shoulders. “I’ll get you some wine. The good stuff.” Anything to escape this rout. And sneaking into their host’s cellars was infinitely preferable to holding up the wall like a bluestocking.
Without waiting for his friend’s response, Sin strode across the room, ignoring the raised hand of Lord Childers. The last thing he wanted was more stultifying talk on the merits of a Scottish referendum with a man who didn’t know Hadrian’s Wall from Stonehenge. The sounds of the ballroom disappeared as the door swung shut behind him. The hall was empty, and if Sin remembered the layout to this house correctly, the stairs down would be just around the corner. Without slowing, he plucked a taper from an elaborate silver candelabra sitting on a side table and trudged down the corridor.
He lightened his step, softening the sound of his boots as he made his way down past the kitchens and into the cellar. Old habits died hard, and entering unknown territory clomping as loudly as a shire horse was never optimal for survival.
He sighed. A mission right about now wouldn’t have gone amiss. Damn Liverpool for not showing. His mother’s letters urging his return to Scotland were arriving more frequently, and if he didn’t have a job soon to distract him, might become impossible to ignore.
The small wooden door to the wine cellar stood open and a dim light flickered within.
Sin hesitated at the entrance but heard no sounds. The steward might have left a candle burning if he needed to come down for more wine. If the cheap bastard Stamworth would let him.
He strolled down one corridor, bottles climbing on either side. A slate sign at the top of each shelf listed the province and year of the wines across its dark surface.
Hmm, a ’94 Bordeaux, an ’02 Malaga, a …Sin paused and lifted a bottle out of its slot. He blew dust from the brown glass. A seventeen eighty-three Hermitage from the Rhone valley. Sin pursed his lips. He preferred a good dram of whisky to grape juice, but even he knew he was holding a quality bottle of wine. And if their host ever watered down this vintage, Sin would bloody the man’s nose himself.
“Drat,” a soft voice muttered.
Sin whipped around but his aisle remained empty. He padded to the end of the row and peered around the corner. The unmistakable figure of a woman stood feet away, her back to Sin, the candle she held flickering precariously close to an escaped curl as she tugged at something by her leg.
“Release me, you infernal bit of metal,” she muttered.
