Kent’s brows drew together at his daughter’s pronouncement. During the locket incident, he’d looked distinctly disapproving, but now his expression shifted, conveying the depth of his love for his child. It was a look that Sinjin had never received from his own father.
“I am in your debt, Revelstoke,” Kent said gravely.
“I did as any gentleman would have.”
“If there is any way I can repay the favor, you need only ask,” Kent returned with equal firmness.
The offer hung in the air; it was the opening Sinjin needed.
“There is no favor to repay,” he said, “although there is business I wish to speak with you about, sir.”
Mrs. Kent rose, and the gentlemen immediately followed suit.
“Ladies, shall we withdraw to the drawing room?” she said.
“Why?” Her Grace’s brow furrowed.
Her reaction suggested that the family typically bucked the tradition of segregating sexes after dinner. Which wasn’t all that surprising. From what Sinjin had witnessed thus far, this was no conventional family. Although he was hardly a stickler for convention, at the moment he wanted the women gone—and Miss Polly especially. She was too much of a distraction.
“Perhaps the men would like some privacy to go along with their port and cigars,” Mrs. Kent said meaningfully.
“That is precisely why we ought to stay,” the duchess protested. “Privacy is when all the interesting things happen.”
Nonetheless, under Mrs. Kent’s guidance, the ladies filed out. Miss Polly brought up the rear. The last thing he saw before the door closed was her suspicious gaze upon him.
“Now, my lord,” Kent said once the men were seated again, “I gather the purpose of your visit is not entirely social?”
Sinjin glanced at Kent’s brothers-in-law.
“My family can be trusted,” the investigator said.
In for a penny.He drew a breath. “I have come to retain your services, sir.”
“For what purpose?” Kent looked curious rather than surprised.
Sinjin had the inkling that it would take a lot to disturb the other’s equilibrium, and he found that stalwartness comforting. Also, he had nothing to lose.
He steeled himself. “I want to hire you to prove that I’m not mad.”
Chapter Eight
“I’ll finish up from here. Thank you, Nan,” Polly said.
With a bob, the maid departed, and Polly continued with her evening ablutions. As she brushed her hair the requisite one hundred strokes, her thoughts kept returning to Revelstoke. Anger and humiliation smoldered, her gaze falling upon the locket on the vanity in front of her.
Does the dashed Lothario think I’ll be fooled by his stupid tricks?
His mother’s locket, indeed.
When she’d questioned him about the trinket, she’d seen the unease, the flash of guilt in his aura that labelled him a liar. He’d probably assumed that a wallflower like her wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, would simply be overjoyed to receive anything from the God of Revelry. Why he’d even bother trying to win her favor, however, was beyond her. Perhaps charming the opposite sex was a compulsion for him. Or maybe he wanted to impress her family with a seemingly thoughtful gesture.
Thoughtful. Hah. She’d wager he had dozens of those baubles, one in every pocket to use on unsuspecting females.
There was definitely something not right about the man. She shivered, thinking of the jumbled, agitated mass of his aura when he’d first arrived. Fear, anger… even desperation had been in the mix. He’d reached for his wineglass time and again, and whether or not he realized it, the alcohol had fueled his disordered state, making the emotions pulse like dark veins beneath the strained skin of his self-control.
Despite her dislike of the earl, she hadn’t been able to stand by and allow him to go further down the path of self-destruction. He hadn’t welcomed her interference—she flushed, recalling his innuendos which were clearly meant to put her in her place—but at least he’d stopped drinking, and the food had steadied his aura.
But why had he come? And what in heaven’s name did he want with Ambrose?
