Page 3 of Surrender to Sin
The Prince Regent beamed like a toddler given a favorite sweet. Amazing how much their future monarch resembled one, too, with his elaborately embroidered clothing, rumpled hair, and florid, fleshy jowls. “Lovely. How marvelous this club is. No lowborn riff-raff. Can’t stand them, or the virtue brigade always hounding me. Spending! Women! Drinking! Bah. They will be sorry for scolding me when I hold a different rank. Mark my words, they will.”
Ignoring the petulant tone, Sin smiled easily. “Quite. I shall look forward to your company again soon, sir.”
“Right you are. Give my best to Devil, naughty man, staying in his office to count guineas when he could be drinking with me. Even Vice took time from his busy evening to have a brandy.”
“Poor form. I shall take him to task at once.”
Prinny trotted happily away, and Sin rolled his eyes as he strolled to the suite of offices on the second floor. It was ridiculous to feel so damned irritable and restless when life was practically perfect.
He part-owned the most exclusive pleasure club in England. Held more wealth than could be spent in ten lifetimes. Enjoyed robust good health, the friendship of the highest ranking men in the land, and an incomparable selection of stunningly beautiful, exquisitely hedonistic women who eagerly shared his bed.
Suppressing his temper, Sin unlocked the office door and kicked it shut behind him.
“Prinny has you in his sights again, Devil. Would it kill you to have a drink with the man once in a while, just to shut him up?”
Lord Grayson Deveraux sat back in his chair and ran impatient, ink-covered fingertips through his short-cropped black hair. “Yes. The punishment for poisoning a prince is death, and I wouldn’t be able to help myself once he started whining about debts and the sheer unfairness of his life. Honestly don’t know why we allow him membership. He’s three payments behind now.”
“Because he’s the future King of England,” said an amused, lilting voice. Sin glanced over his shoulder to where Iain, Viscount Vissen, nicknamed Vice, was loosening his cravat. How the red-haired Scot remained immaculate when he spent his evenings managing every aspect of the club’s activities—and often joining in—was a minor miracle.
“Wouldn’t have thought that carried much weight with you,” replied Devil.
Vice shrugged. “The secret to success is keeping friends close and enemies closer. Besides, if you want to talk missing income, ask Sin here why we have another three new parlor maids taking elocution lessons to remove their East End twang. He won’t stop until he’s rescued every unhappy lightskirt in London, you know. Either that or he’s murdered in his bed by a disgruntled abbess.”
Pouring two fingers of premium brandy, Sin then raised his glass in a salute. “Dancing with such danger adds a little excitement to my day. Besides, they are hard workers, very loyal.”
“And somewhat remind you of your mother,” said Devil quietly, stacking leather-bound ledgers into a neat pile. “Another year rolls around soon, does it not?”
“Possibly. I hadn’t thought about it,” he lied, taking a fortifying sip of the smooth brandy. As if the day his father, the fourth baron, and his mother, a high-end courtesan turned baroness, perished in a terrible carriage accident wasn’t permanently etched into his mind. “But enough chitchat, let’s get this meeting underway so we can all get some sleep.”
A soft knock sounded, and a livery-clad footman poked his head around the door. “Beg pardon, my lords, but there is a woman who wishes to speak to Sin.”
Vice laughed. “Rather early for a morning call. Our Sin’s legend is growing. I’ll take wagers: three to one he’s about to be sweet-talked into rescuing maid number thirty-two. Five to one he’s pitchforked by that disgruntled abbess.”
The footman vigorously shook his head. “Oh no, my lord. She ain’t either of those. She’s a countess. The Countess Carrington, her fancy little card said.”
Every hair lifted from the back of Sin’s neck. The title was familiar, but he couldn’t picture the lady’s face, and that was a warning in itself. “Tell me about her.”
“Beautiful blonde. Young, the old earl’s treat to himself. I know she’s been stuck in the country for years, only came to town when he permitted it and only allowed out for select occasions. Her uncle is an acquaintance of yours, though: the Duke of Waverly.”
“Ah,” he said, frowning as the connections fell into place. What the hell was Grace Lloyd-Gates, bishop’s daughter, dutiful wife, and excruciatingly virtuous widow doing at Fallen? Women like her usually refused to come within thirty feet of the building, unless of course they were waving placards. Perhaps she was here on a dare? Surely she couldn’t be seeking membership.
Could she?
…
Unable to sit still for a minute, Grace circled the elegantly furnished parlor. On another occasion, another address, she might have curled up on the overstuffed chaise and gazed for hours at the exquisite paintings on the walls, or perhaps ran her fingers over the keys of the polished pianoforte.
Not today.
Today, her stomach was in knots, perspiration misted her skin, and only through some sort of miracle had her feet obeyed the command to walk up to Fallen’s front door. It was one thing to ponder solutions, but being here at the entirely unfashionable hour of ten o’clock in the morning to begin the boldest, riskiest, most ill-thought out plan of her life, was something else entirely.
“Lady Carrington. My sincere apologies for keeping you waiting.”
The rich, deep voice nearly made her jump a foot in the air, but straightening her shoulders, Grace turned in a swirl of lavender-striped skirts.
And nearly swooned.
It was him. The lord they called Sin was the same man she’d fantasized over since that long ago day in Hyde Park, and if anything, he was even more divine up close. Short-cropped chocolate brown hair, exotic amber eyes, strong, square jaw, perhaps a touch under six feet in height, but so broad in the shoulders he appeared much bigger. Under that shirt, trousers, and crisp cravat she would wager he was sculpted muscle all over.
