“Madam?” Sin glanced around the cellar, searching for a companion. The woman’s gown wasn’t the rich jewel tones common of married women at these types of functions, nor was it the washed-out pastels favored by the chits making calf-eyes at Summerset. Was she a miss? “Are you—”
She whipped around, eyes wide, and pressed a hand to her heart. The candle in her other hand tilting ever closer …
Sin leaped forward, snatching her wrist, and eliciting a muffled shriek.
Her chest heaved. “I assure you I carry no coin upon my person. If your intent is to rob me, you will be sorely disappointed.”
Sin grimaced and dropped her hand. Summerset might jest that he looked a ruffian, but he was a marquess, damn it. He might refuse to wear the ballocks-hugging silk pantaloons and jewel-encrusted boots so many of the aristocracy favored, but he hardly looked a pauper.
“You were about to set your hair on fire.” He slid his gaze down her figure. She was young, early twenties, he guessed. Her dress had a modest neckline, and lacked the ribbons, bows, and other whatnot he so detested. Her form was sturdy, and the top of her head reached his shoulder. A very tall woman, indeed. “Missus …?”
She held the candle further from her body. “Miss. Miss Winnifred Hannon. And I assure you, I was not. I am most careful when it comes to flammable materials.”
“What are you doing down in Lord Stamworth’s wine cellars?” He looked over his shoulder, but still no companion or liaison of hers appeared. “Are you a guest of his?”
“I am.” She pressed her shoulders back. “My father is a friend of Lord Stamworth’s. And you are, sir?” She hiccupped softly, and pressed her free hand to her mouth looking adorably abashed.
“Sinclair Archer, Marquess of Dunkeld, at your service.” Lifting his own candle, he held it up to her eyes. They were a lovely light blue with deep, dark centers. He leaned toward her and sniffed. “Are you intoxicated?”
“I beg your pardon?” She glared up at him, her chin lifting in a manner that made him smile. “Why, I would never”—hiccup—“do something so disreputable.”
Setting his candle down, he leaned around her and plucked two bottles of wine from the top of the barrel behind her. One was uncorked, the other still retained its wax seal. He raised an eyebrow.
Cocking her head, she pursed her lips. “There is a perfectly logical explanation for those.”
“I was certain there must be.” He widened his stance and settled in to hear it. Truly, he should have spent the whole of the rout in the wine cellar. It was certainly more entertaining.
“A colleague of my father’s wanted to taste a vintage from 1810, preferably a Madeira, and was having trouble finding one on his home island.” The lass narrowed her eyes, looking as put upon as a tutor whose student hadn’t learned his tables. “Trade ships aren’t sailing to Java every day, you know.”
His lips twitched. “Of course not.”
“So, knowing that Lord Stamworth keeps an excellent cellar, and also knowing my father was loath to ask him for a bottle …” She raised her hands, like the solution was obvious.
“You came down to take it.” He nodded. He could appreciate such a direct resolution to a problem. “And the second, open bottle?”
She flushed. “Mr. Raguhram’s theory concerning the influence of volcanic eruptions on agriculture was persuasive. I wanted to taste it for myself.”
Sin blinked. Whatever he had expected to hear, that wasn’t it. Was she in earnest, or spewing nonsense due to her half-sprung state? He raised the bottle to the candlelight; half the bottle remained. “That was quite the taste.”
Miss Hannon pressed her lips flat. “I only had a sip or two. The rest I spilled over there.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Now, I really must be returning to my father.” She took a step forward and was pulled up short. She sighed. “Once I free my skirts from a nail.”
Sin returned the wine bottles to the top of the barrel. “Here, let me.” Squatting down, he pushed her skirts aside, ignoring her sharp intake of breath, and found where she was snagged. The slippery fabric of her gown refused to slide back over the nail head. Sin pinched the skirt above the nail and pulled, a loud rent echoing in the cavernous cellar. “There.” He stood. “You’re free.”
She thrust the candle into his hand and twisted her skirts, stooping to examine the muslin. She stared at the tear in her skirt, glared at him and slowly straightened.
Sin cocked his shoulder against the nearest shelf, preparing for his tongue-lashing. Women and their clothes. She’d been stuck; now she was free. Really, there was no reason for her to complain.
But she surprised him. Dipping her chin, she said, “Thank you, Lord Dunkeld.” She picked up the unopened wine and cradled it to her stomach. “Now, I really must be going.”
He held out a hand. “Wait.” He had too many unanswered questions for her to leave him now. “What is this Mr. Ragu…”
“Mr. Raguhram,” she provided helpfully.
“Mr. Raguhram’s theory? And why would tasting a bottle of wine help to prove it?”
“One cannot prove a hypothesis.” She tapped the toe of her beaded slipper against the dusty floor in a rapid tattoo and peered over his shoulder. “Multiple tests with positive results may lead one to give the hypothesis a high level of probability, but replicated tests can only serve to disprove a theory.”
“Is that right?” He should introduce this chit to Summerset. He was the chemist of their motley crew of spies and would find a woman with the same bent a delightful diversion. His gaze drifted down her well-built form. Then again, perhaps Summerset should stay well away from this one. She didn’t seem the sort to tolerate his friend’s easy virtue, and the earl might see her as a challenge. “You’re very decided in your opinions for one so young.”
