Page 81 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

“Are you cackling?” Keir asked.

Sybil turned the sound into a cough. A manly cough. “Of course not.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Sybil skimmed the book, taking care not to look too interested in its contents.

Keir loomed. He was very good at that.

The usual wagers were recorded: bets on the weather, horse races, betrothals.

She flipped back a few pages, angling herself so that she blocked the book as best she could. She checked again. And again.

“Not a single name with the mark,” she muttered. “Botheration.”

“After you took down Chiswick and Copperwhite? Are you surprised?”

“A little,” she replied. She paused. “This page is missing.” She ran her fingertip along the edge of the page, cut cleanly from its bindings. “Oh, now I am really annoyed.”

Outside, the snow had been cleared from the pavement, making it easier to walk to the next club than to bother with the waiting carriage. The gas lamplights created yellow pools of light in the night. Sybil pulled the folded parchment from her waistcoat, and a pencil from an entirely different pocket, purely because she could, in order to mark down the club and the fact that someone had reached the book before her. She would keep immaculate notes just in case something was useful for Priya.

And the pockets were a nice distraction from the vexation.

“This waistcoat has pockets,” she said.

“They all do,” Keir replied, taking his good fortune entirely for granted.

“You have no idea, do you? Just how lucky you are.”

“For a waistcoat with pockets?”

“You try hanging pockets from your stays or sewing them into the lining of your cloak and then use that tone with me.”

His smile was brief, amused. “I am sure I quite beg your pardon.”

“As you should. Pocket pig.”

He laughed and looked as surprised at the occurrence as she did. She had missed the sound of his laugh. She had missed him. Even entwined together, there had been such distance between them. But last night had been different. Perfect.

“I am sure I have never been called that before,” he said.

“Not to your face.”

“Duly noted.”

“Admit it,” Sybil said. “You are having fun.”

“I am trudging through slush with snow falling down the back of my collar.”

“Like I said. Fun.”

“I would have more fun if you married me.”

She stumbled to a stop so quickly that her boots skidded on a patch of icy slush. Keir calmly caught her by the back of her coat and righted her.

“You can’t just say things like that!”

“Why not?”