“Habit, my boy, is harder to break than any drug.”
“A poor excuse.”
“Perhaps.” George glanced around the room, wondering how many times his mother had been here. That she loved his uncle was obvious from the way she had kept his letters, treasuring them.
The affair had been so longstanding he could hardly see how it could have continued without love—the kind of deep and abiding love he felt for Sybil. Yet how anyone could feel such a thing for his mother was utterly beyond belief.
“I shall take my leave,” he said stiffly, standing before his uncle the way he had when he was a child, desperate for approbation from someone. But now he was an adult, and his uncle could give him nothing more than he wanted.
“Believe me when I say I wanted nothing more than the best for you, despite your mother’s actions.”
“It matters little if I believe you or not,” George said stiffly, “given this desire of yours resulted in no real actions of note.” He gave a formal bow. “Goodbye, Uncle.”
His uncle said nothing as he left the room.
* * *
The carriage rattled across the cobblestones as it carried Sybil home. Her mind was filled with what they had discovered—or at least, what George had discovered. She would not soon forget the look on his face: rage and raw hurt. His uncle had betrayed him in a way he would not soon forget, she knew.
But they had also failed to discover any proof that she was the letter-writer, which meant that the mysterious person was still out there.
She peered out at the empty streets. This time of night, it felt as though she was the only person left in London. The pavements were quiet, windows were blank and empty, and although she knew this was partly because they were in a quieter neighborhood, it still gave her this aching sensation of being alone.
There was a loud neigh from one of the horses, and the carriage came to an abrupt stop. Sybil was flung forward, and she caught herself with a gloved hand against one of the velvet benches. Velvet in a carriage—it was the height of luxury that only George could afford and think worthwhile.
She shook her head. That was hardly the most pressing thing right now. Shouts echoed from outside the carriage, and there was the sharp, staticpopof a firearm. They had a pistol.
Her breath froze in her lungs, and she cowered in the corner of her seat, trying to catch a sign of movement from the windows. Perhaps if she stayed quiet, no one would know she was there. No, of course, they would know she was there. Carriages did not usually carry nothing; there was almost always someone inside. And even if there was not, it would only make sense for an assailant to check.
A weapon. Perhaps she would be better protected if she had something with which to defend herself. But unless she intended on using her reticule as a club—hardly likely to inspire fear in anyone—or rip the curtains from the windows to fling in their eyes, there was nothing she could use.
The door flung open and a darkened figure leered up through the darkness at her. She could see little of his face, but his stomach was large enough that it would hinder his attempts to enter the carriage gracefully. Or, hopefully, at all. His face split into a smile and she realized suddenly that this was the man her mother had been meeting in the park. Her lover.
Or perhaps not her lover, because what would her lover be doing accosting her in the middle of the street in the middle of the night?
“My, what a pretty thing you are up close,” he said. She shrank further away from him. “I thought your Duke would never leave you alone.”
“You were following me?” she managed.
“I’ve been watching you for quite some time. Come, girl.”
“With you?” Sybil gave a snort. Not a delicate, ladylike snort that she might have utilized in polite company; this was a loud, abrasive sound that would have made her blush in any other situation. “Never.”
Something dark was in his hand before she had time to blink. It looked… oh heavens, never mind looked, itwasa pistol. He was pointing a pistol at her and her palms were sweaty. “Now,” he said, his voice quiet. “Let me tell you again. Get out of the carriage.”
Sybil weighed her options, which didn’t take her long. Either she went with the man or he shot her. Now, the commotion might have drawn attention to them, but there were no shouts or signs that they were coming. Reluctantly, she uncurled and shuffled closer. He stepped back to give her room to leave the carriage and even held out a hand to help her down—a hand she sniffed at and pointedly didn’t accept.
Almost immediately, he gripped her arm and shoved her to where another, significantly less luxurious carriage, waited. There was only one horse pulling it, and the interior smelled musty and disgusting. He clambered in after her, the carriage suspension dipping considerably with his weight, and they lurched into movement.
Away from George’s carriage and the men that had been with her. With the way she had been ushered into this one, she hadn’t had a chance to see whether they were hurt.
“Now,” the man said, smiling at her in a way that made her feel vaguely nauseous. “What has your mother told you about me?”
Sybil stared in disbelief at the man opposite her, her jaw dropping open. “Why would she tell me anything about her lover?”
He laughed. A jaw-dropping, belly-shaking laugh that made Sybil tempted to vomit all over him, just to shut him up. “A lover?” He wiped the corner of his eye. “Is that what you think I am?”
“What else would you be?”
