A Little Bit Sinful Page 3

Eleanor swallowed hard, hoping to calm the sudden pain in her stomach. Before she had a chance to fully compose herself, the door swung open and the Earl of Hetfield stalked inside.

  Though well into his sixtieth year, the earl was still a handsome man. Tall, commanding, with a head of silver hair and a pair of piercing dark eyes, he dominated any room.

  “Papa! You’ve come home.” Bianca rushed forward to embrace him.

  Eleanor stayed seated. He was not the sort of parent who liked to show affection, though he tolerated Bianca’s attention without too much protest. As for herself, well, Eleanor could not recall an instance when her father had eagerly bestowed a hug to either of his daughters.

  “Careful there, girl, or you’ll crush my coat,” the earl grumbled.

  Eleanor’s shoulders stiffened at the callous remark, but Bianca laughed and hugged the earl tighter. For an instant she envied her sister’s naïveté. It protected her from hurt.

  “I’m sure there is not a wrinkle to be found anywhere on your illustrious person, my lord,” Eleanor said, eyeing his pristine white cravat and polished black boots. “Your valet would never allow it.”

  The earl tipped back his head and glanced at her, his brows drawing into a frown of puzzlement. Good Lord, does he not even know who I am? Her mouth dry, Eleanor forced her eyes to meet his, a shaky smile forming on her lips.

  “I need a drink,” the earl declared abruptly. “The roads from Town were a disaster.”

  “Let me get it for you, Papa,” Bianca offered.

  Without waiting for his answer, Bianca skipped over to the sideboard. Her lower lip curled under in confusion as she contemplated the trio of crystal decanters and variously shaped glasses.

  “Brandy,” Eleanor said, pointing to the tallest decanter. “And use the snifter.”

  “I’m surprised you remembered,” the earl remarked as he swirled the generous portion of amber liquid in the glass Bianca handed him.

  “I have an excellent memory,” Eleanor said, wishing she had the nerve to ask for a drink for herself. She rarely drank spirits, except for an occasional glass of wine with dinner. Yet she had a sinking feeling that this afternoon she was in need of a dose of false courage.

  “Memory is a most unappealing trait,” the earl said as he sat down. “Especially in a woman of your years, Eleanor.” Raising the glass to his mouth, the earl downed the contents in a single swallow.

  “You haven’t journeyed all this way for a drink,” Eleanor snapped, angry at the sting of hurt his words produced. Despite her best efforts, he still possessed the power to wound her. “Is there something specific you wanted?”

  “I have come to take Bianca to Town,” the earl announced. “‘Tis high time she was properly presented to society.”

  Bianca gasped with delight, clasping her hands together in glee. “London? Truly?”

  Eleanor frowned in puzzlement. “The Season has already begun.”

  “No matter,” the earl replied. “Things always start off slowly. All the truly important balls and soirees are yet to come.”

  “It will take weeks to get ready,” Eleanor said. “Bianca needs clothes, as well as instruction in deportment, etiquette, and dancing.”

  The earl waved his hand dismissively. “She needs only a single outfit to travel to London. We shall commission a wardrobe once we reach Town. As for the rest of it, I assume that you have taught her proper behavior. Are you now saying that you have neglected her all these years?”

  Eleanor bristled at the unfair criticism. “I have done my best, given my limited knowledge. You might recall my time in society was rather limited.” The earl favored her with a wry glare as if he needed no reminder of it. Eleanor felt herself start to shrink into her seat. John Tanner had left the estate two weeks before she went to London to embark on her disastrous Season. Heartbroken, she had gone through the motions, not caring that her plain looks and subdued personality had rendered her nearly invisible.

  With a shake of her head, Eleanor pulled herself upright. She refused to apologize for the past.

  “Fortunately, Bianca possesses both beauty and wit,” the earl said. “She will be a smashing success, I am certain.”

  What was this all about? Apprehension churned in Eleanor’s stomach, along with a healthy dose of fear. If their father’s honest intention was to introduce Bianca into society, why had he waited so long to let them know of his plans? Why had they not been given time to prepare? Even under the best of circumstances, it would be difficult for the provincial Bianca to make a success of it.

  “I am sure Bianca will enchant everyone,” Eleanor said cautiously. “Though her success would be guaranteed if she were allowed the proper time to prepare. Why not present her next Season?”

  “And miss out on this year’s splendid crop of eligible bachelors?” The earl walked to the sideboard, poured himself another generous dose of brandy, then sat on an upholstered chair. “No, I’ve made up my mind. She will go now.”

  Eleanor felt another jolt of fear. The reason for the earl’s haste was clear—he wanted, nay, he needed, to find a husband for his youngest daughter. As soon as possible.

  That must mean his finances were in worse shape than usual. Eleanor was well aware of the two outstanding mortgages on the estate, the back pay owed to many of the servants, the accounts to various merchants that went unpaid. Normally the earl juggled his funds in such a way that each was paid just enough to keep the more aggressive creditors at bay.

  Something must have changed. Eleanor wished she had the nerve to ask him what had happened. Yet even knowing why the need for funds so suddenly arose would not alter the earl’s plans.

  He was going to arrange a marriage for Bianca to whomever he could make the best deal with, the deal that most benefited himself. He most certainly would not allow anything as petty as his daughter’s personal feelings toward her future husband to deter his decision.

  Poor Bianca. A chill feeling of dread crawled up Eleanor’s spine. Bianca’s sweet innocence was no match for the manipulating earl. Eleanor turned toward her sister and the dread escalated. Bianca was smiling with delight, completely unaware of her fate.

  “We shall have the best time,” Bianca exclaimed. “Aren’t you excited, Eleanor? It’s been many years since you’ve been to Town.”

  “Eleanor?” The earl turned a disparaging eye upon his oldest daughter. “Bianca, I have come to bring you to Town, not your sister.”

  “Not Eleanor?” Bianca’s face crumbled with disappointment. “Why won’t she be coming with us?”

  “She is not needed,” the earl said dismissively.

  Eleanor bit the inside of her lip, trying to remain as outwardly serene as possible. The earl did not engage in arguments with his daughters. He dictated and they obeyed. Yet with the proper approach, he could be persuaded.

  “But of course Eleanor must come,” Bianca declared, her voice shaking with emotion. “I shall be lost without her. Please, Papa?”

  The earl briefly glanced at Eleanor. She forced herself to lift her head and stare at his stiff shoulders, refusing to be reduced to an insignificant afterthought. Bianca needed her and therefore Eleanor wanted very badly to go to London. But she would not beg.

  Yet with each passing moment of silence, her fear heightened. What would become of her sweet sister if she were not there to oversee things? What manner of man would the earl choose for his youngest daughter? Eleanor shuddered. She had no confidence in their father’s judgment or motivation.

  “If you bring me, I can serve as both companion and chaperone,” Eleanor said quietly.

  “Please say yes, Papa,” Bianca implored, hurrying across the room. She sank gracefully to her knees in front of the earl’s chair. “I cannot manage without her.”

  Though it pained her to watch her sister subjugate herself in such a manner, Eleanor kept silent. Finally the earl raised one eyebrow and leveled a haughty, disapproving look at his eldest daughter.

  “If it pleases you,
Bianca, then of course your sister may come along,” he declared in a cool, languid voice. “Provided she makes herself useful.”

  Peter Dawson’s fingers moved with elegant ease as he deftly shuffled the deck, then cheerfully dealt the cards. Sebastian, seated across from his friend, disciplined himself to appear calm and relaxed. After all, this was merely a friendly game of cards among gentlemen. Suspicions would surely arise if he appeared too anxious or agitated.

  The Duke of Warren’s ballroom was crowded and stuffy, making the card room a haven for the gentlemen needing a respite from the dancing and conversation. There were five of them seated around the table, but only one man truly interested Sebastian—the Earl of Hetfield. His prey.

  It had taken Sebastian two weeks of careful planning to reach this point. He had returned to Town a few days after his grandmother’s funeral bent on revenge, only to discover the earl was not in Town. Frustrated, Sebastian had spent his days waiting anxiously for the earl to return, honing his already impressive sword skills and perfecting his keen shot.

  Then finally some good news. The earl had returned to Town four days ago. Assuming he would soon be out in society, Sebastian had visited three different events tonight in search of him. It was somewhat of a surprise to locate Hetfield at the duke’s party, for it was far and above the most respectable entertainment of the night.

  “Cards, gentlemen?” Dawson asked.

  Sir Charles declined, Lord Faber took one. The earl took two, then drew on the stub of a cheroot. He looked younger than Sebastian had imagined, and to be fair, far less sinister. Though he had known for years the identity of his mother’s lover, Sebastian’s promise to his grandmother had rendered him powerless to confront the man. He had therefore avoided meeting Hetfield, worried he would be unable to restrain himself.

  Yet as he now gazed at the man who had driven his mother to suicide and forever changed his life, Sebastian was surprised at how calm he felt. Perhaps it was because his plan for revenge was so simple?

  Sebastian knew the course he must take had to be an honorable one. Hence a duel would be fought between himself and the earl.

  The practice of dueling had been employed for centuries by gentlemen throughout the world as a means to appease honor and exact justice. Though frowned upon by society, it occurred nevertheless and in far greater numbers than many believed.

  Sebastian knew he had the grounds to accuse the earl of causing his mother’s untimely demise, but he would not reveal the truth and sully her memory. Amazingly, his grandmother had managed to keep her daughter-in-law’s suicide a secret. There had never been a whisper of scandal attached to his mother’s name either before or after her death and Sebastian was determined to keep it that way. As far as society knew, this duel would be fought for a completely different reason.

  It would be fought for something foolish and ridiculous and false—an accusation of cheating at cards. The ironic justice of it all sat well with both Sebastian’s conscience and macabre sense of humor.

  It would actually be fairly simple to call the earl’s honor into question. After Hetfield had won an especially large pot, Sebastian would accuse him of cheating, demand satisfaction, set the duel, and thoroughly disgrace the man. Either swords or pistols would serve nicely, since Sebastian was an expert at both.

  “Benton?” With a practiced gesture, Dawson held out the deck. “Will you draw?”

  Sebastian gave his cards a cursory glance, declined any new ones, then tossed a coin in the center of the table. The key to winning at vingt-et-un was an awareness of what cards had already been played, coupled with the ability to calculate the odds as to which cards would next appear. It was something Sebastian excelled at doing.

  He watched closely as the earl lifted the edge of one card and stared down at it, contemplating his next move. Sebastian’s adversary was a strong player, his moves bold and decisive. Of all the gentlemen at the table he was clearly the most skilled. Except for Sebastian, who was deliberately tossing away most of his winning hands.

  At Dawson’s signal the players turned their cards face up. “Twenty-one,” Dawson said. “Lord Hetfield wins.”

  “Damn, Lady Luck is certainly smiling upon you tonight, Hetfield,” Lord Faber grumbled. “That’s three times in a row you’ve won.”

  “Perhaps you would prefer to switch to hazard, Lord Faber?” the earl asked with a smile.

  “Ha! Hazard’s a game for young fools,” Lord Faber replied. “Makes no sense at all to throw away good coin on a pair of dice.”

  Play continued. The earl won the majority of the next dozen hands, his pile of winning coins nearly double the size of any of the other players. Dawson was his usual congenial self, dealing the cards with good humor as he tried to keep the game light-hearted and friendly. Sir Charles continued drinking at a steady pace while Lord Faber pressed his luck with mediocre hands, inching the play to a higher pitch as he tried to recoup some of his losses.

  Nerves on edge, Sebastian pushed his whiskey glass out of easy reach, not wanting to tempt himself. For this plan to work he needed to be sober and clearheaded. Accusations hurled by a man too deep in his cups were never taken seriously.

  Sebastian would have preferred to confront the earl in a gaming hell, where the clientele was seedy and desperate, but that could have easily put his plan in jeopardy. Accusations of cheating in the hells were a common occurrence. With the rare exception, the recipients of these charges were less concerned about their honor and more focused on being allowed to continue in the game. Things rarely escalated to a duel.

  “The bet is to you, Hetfield,” Dawson said.

  The earl had a six and five displayed and a third card turned facedown. He hesitated. Sebastian marveled at his outward calm, for he knew the concealed card made the earl’s hand unbeatable.

  Taking a deep breath, Sebastian smiled at the earl with the most serene expression he could muster. Hetfield returned the grin and tossed in another coin. Excellent.

  “Another twenty-one?” Lord Faber exclaimed bitterly when the hands were revealed. “You really do have the devil’s own luck tonight, Hetfield.”

  Finally! Lord Faber’s annoyance could not have been timed more perfectly. Emotions raging, Sebastian cleared his throat.

  “Strange, the last time I checked there were four kings in a deck. How is it exactly that you were able to play a fifth, Lord Hetfield?” Sebastian asked, his tone carrying an edge of accusation.

  “A fifth?” Sir Charles spoke in a slow, slurred voice. “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” Sebastian replied forcefully, knowing it was indeed the truth, since he had been the one to maneuver the card into the earl’s hand.

  “That’s preposterous!” the earl cried.

  “No, wait, I think Benton might be on to something,” Sir Charles said. “I believe I did see the king of spades earlier in the game too.”

  “Hell, Charles, you’re too foxed to see much of anything!” the earl exclaimed.

  “Rubbish!”

  Sebastian held his smile. Sir Charles’s exclamation of indignity would have been a bit more effective if he hadn’t followed it by downing the rest of the brandy in his glass. Still, that was one player on his side. Two more to go.

  “Did you notice anything amiss, my lord?” Sebastian asked, turning to the gentleman on his left.

  Lord Faber coughed nervously, his thick, stubby fingers pressed against his mouth. “Now that you mention it, I might have seen the king of spades in the first round of play.”

  “You did,” Sebastian insisted.

  “What are you suggesting, Benton?” the earl asked, his voice sharp.

  “I am suggesting nothing,” Sebastian drawled. “I am simply stating a fact. ‘Tis impossible for you to have played that particular card legitimately.”

  A gasp was heard, followed quickly by the low, muttering drone of voices. It spread through the card room like wildfire. Good. Let them all talk. An accusation of cheating was never lightly dismis
sed, even among the most hardened gamesters.

  The tension in the room grew palpable and a remarkable stillness settled over everything. Play ceased at the nearest tables as the occupants turned their attention to the drama unfolding. Though it set him further on edge, Sebastian welcomed their interest. The more men who saw the exchange, the harder it would be for Hetfield to walk away.

  “There is of course only one way for a true gentleman to settle the matter.” Sebastian set his hands on the table, then pushed himself to his feet. “Name your second, Hetfield.”

  “What?” The earl jerked awkwardly to his feet, toppling his chair.

  “I believe I have made myself perfectly clear. Are you going to defend yourself or not?”

  A faint hint of emotion flashed in the earl’s eyes. Fear? Recognition? Had he finally figured out that Sebastian was Evangeline’s son, the woman he had scorned so cruelly all those years ago? The woman who had taken her own life because of the earl’s disgraceful behavior.

  Two spots of red burned in the earl’s cheeks, yet his voice was calm when he spoke. “This is simply preposterous. You are, of course, mistaken, Lord Benton. I refuse to dignify this ludicrous bit of nonsense with a response.”

  “Yes, quite right, my lord.” Dawson stuck his index finger inside the top of his cravat and tugged nervously on it. “I am certain there was only one king of spades. This was all a misunderstanding that’s best forgotten by everyone. No harm done, eh, Benton?”

  Sebastian whirled upon his friend, seized by a strong impulse to grab him by the throat and shake him until his teeth rattled. “Stay out of it, Dawson,” he ground out between clenched lips. “This is between me and the earl.”

  But his friend would not be silenced. Dawson moved closer and set his fingertips against Sebastian’s chest as if trying to keep him from lunging at the earl. “Christ’s blood, Benton, let it go,” he whispered. “I doubt the earl was cheating, but even if he was, what does it matter? The wagers were not overly extravagant. Only Faber has lost a significant amount of coin and I am certain if you drop the matter he will follow your lead. Damn it all, if you keep pressing like this, things will turn very ugly, indeed.”