Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5) Read online

“How do you know that?”

  “Because I’ve never hurt a woman and never will!”

  “You’re out of control. Who knows what you’re capable of? The fact that you want to blame some figment of your imagination—some nameless, faceless man whom no one else saw…” His Grace broke off, murmuring, “No, this is the only way. You need help, Sinjin, and perhaps all this was a blessing in disguise. You’ll thank me for this one day.”

  He turned to leave.

  Fear spurred Sinjin to grab the other’s shoulder. “Papa, no—don’t leave me here.” He hated the pleading in his voice, the hoarseness he couldn’t control. “I know I’m not perfect like Stephan, not good like him, but I can get better. I’ll do better. Just… just believe me. I didn’t do this. I know I didn’t.”

  His father’s eyes met his. They engaged in a silent tug-of-war, resolve pitted against desperation. The duke raised his fist and rapped on the door.

  It opened, and two attendants appeared. One had a strait-waistcoat in hand.

  “Get away from me.” Sinjin backed away, shouting, “I will not be detained!”

  “It’s only temporary. For your own good.”

  With one last resigned look, the duke walked out.

  Chapter Six

  A fortnight later, Polly was sitting in the well-appointed drawing room of her brother Ambrose’s Mayfair home. She alternated between staying with her various older siblings, but for the past year, at Rosie’s behest, she’d stayed on at Ambrose’s to keep the other girl company. Tonight, Emma and Thea had brought their families over to celebrate Polly’s birthday, and they were all enjoying a cozy visit before supper.

  On Polly’s lap rested the small blond head of Thea’s girl, Francesca. The two-year-old had spent the last half-hour chasing her twin brother Samuel and her cousin Christopher around the zebrawood coffee table when she’d decided to stop for a break. She’d promptly passed out on the Aubusson, and Polly had scooped up the sleeping tot for a cuddle.

  The cushions sank on Polly’s other side, and she turned to see that Olivia, Emma’s firstborn, had joined them.

  “Aunt Polly,” the pretty brown-haired cherub said, “what do you think of Christopher?”

  “I like your younger brother very much.”

  “Would you like to have him for your birthday present?” Livy offered.

  Emma, sitting nearby with a dozing Christopher, snickered.

  Stifling a grin, Polly said, “I think your parents might want to keep him.”

  “Mama and Papa don’t need him.” Livy’s green eyes flashed. “They have me.”

  “They have enough love for you and your brother,” Polly assured her niece, “and I think you will grow to enjoy Christopher’s company as well.”

  Livy crossed her arms. “He doesn’t know how to do anything. He’s boring.”

  “He won’t be boring for long,” Polly promised.

  “Angel, how many times must I tell you that your brother is not for sale?” Livy’s papa, the tall, dark, and wickedly handsome Duke of Strathaven, crossed the room to ruffle her dark ringlets.

  “I’m not trying to sell him, Papa, I’m giving him away. Since Aunt Polly doesn’t have a baby, I thought she might want one for her birthday,” the little girl said virtuously.

  Even as Polly smiled along with everyone, she felt a pang. Out of the mouths of children…

  Today she’d turned two-and-twenty, and it made her acutely aware that, after being out for four seasons, she was still unwed, without a fiancé—let alone a babe—in sight. As much as she rejoiced at her siblings’ happiness, loneliness stirred within her. Looking around the room, she saw the unique bonds shared between the married couples; over the years, she’d discovered that emotions such as anger and hate tended to be uniform, but love expressed its beauty in unique ways.

  At the pianoforte, Thea was supervising as her stepson Freddy and Edward, Ambrose and Marianne’s son, played a rousing duet. Thea’s husband, the Marquess of Tremont, stood beside her, a possessive hand on her waist, adoration threading his aura with rich silver. The same silver flickered around her when she smiled at him. Strathaven, in the meantime, had joined Em, and the two were playfully bickering over something, attraction glittering between them like magenta confetti.

  On a nearby settee, Rosie and Marianne were perusing the latest fashion plates from Ackerman's. They were debating the merits of various passimeterie choices when Ambrose came to sit with them, setting a casual arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  “Tired, sweetheart?” Ambrose said.

  Marianne, a glamorous silver blonde, gave a rueful smile. “A bit. I don’t recall being so peaked when I was carrying Edward. Pregnancy is a young woman’s endeavor, I’m afraid.”

  It had come as a surprise to the entire Kent clan when the doctor had pronounced Marianne with child two months ago. As Marianne had explained it, she’d been feeling tired and achy and had thought she might have a touch of an ague. Instead, she’d discovered that she was expecting—fourteen years after she’d last given birth.

  “You look the same as when we first married.” Ambrose pressed a kiss against his wife’s temple, his amber gaze and aura warm with love. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon.”

  Marianne laughed. “And you, my darling, have grown far more silver-tongued with age. I’m inflating like one of those hot air balloons. Soon I won’t be able to hide it.”

  “I agree with Papa,” Rosie said. “You have a ravishing glow about you, Mama.”

  “What a pair of flatterers.” Contentment infused Marianne’s emerald aura with radiant gold. “And how lucky I am to have you.”

  As much as Polly adored her ever-growing family, being with them sometimes made her feel more alone. She knew she’d always have a place with any one of her siblings, but she didn’t want to be the tag-along sister forever. She wanted a home of her own. Of late, spending time with her nieces and nephews had also made her keenly aware of her own budding maternal instincts. Which meant she ought to focus on her plan of landing Nigel Pickering-Parks… but instead she couldn’t stop thinking about Revelstoke.

  At night, images of the earl’s wickedness flitted through her dreams, and several times she’d woken to find herself sweaty and tangled in the sheets. Beneath her nightgown, the tips of her breasts had risen into stiff and tingling points. Lower, in the secret cove between her legs, she’d felt a pulsing ache and… a disconcerting glaze of wetness.

  Dear heaven, what was happening to her?

  She thought about asking her sisters, but the intimate nature of such questions—and what they might reveal about her—made her balk. The same thing occurred when she contemplated telling Rosie about how Revelstoke had mocked her in the garden all those months ago, and, more recently, what she’d seen him doing at the bathhouse. Just thinking about those events made Polly squirm with mortification, a rash of heat creeping over her insides.

  Thus, her encounters with Revelstoke remained filed under the category of “Guilty Secrets.” She rationalized to herself that it didn’t matter: they weren’t going to see him again anyway. Despite Rosie obsessing over him, he wasn’t going to come calling. He was a cad and a rake, and as Lady Langley had pointed out (and he hadn’t denied) that long ago night in the garden, he had no interest in virgins—Praise Jesus.

  “When do you want to open your presents, Polly dear?”

  Em’s voice stirred her from her reverie. “Oh, um, whenever it is convenient,” she said. “Maybe after dessert?”

  “That’s our Polly,” her eldest brother said, “the easy-going and patient one of the family. Since you were a little girl, you’ve liked to save the best for last—even when the best wasn’t much.”

  The Kents hadn’t always lived in the lap of luxury. Mama had passed when Polly was six and Papa had fallen ill afterward, leaving Ambrose to provide for everyone and Em to run the household. As lean as times had been, however, the family had never been short on love.

 
“All of you have always made my birthday special,” Polly said with heartfelt gratitude.

  “I baked your favorite cake.” A smile tucked into Em’s cheeks. She was a marvelous cook, and the fact that she was now a duchess didn’t prevent her from tinkering in the kitchen. “I doubled the icing since I knew Strathaven would insist on eating half of it.”

  “Being married to you has given me a sweet tooth,” His Grace drawled, making Em blush.

  “Chef has also prepared something special for dessert—” The opening door interrupted Marianne. Her brows lifted as Pitt, the butler, entered, his expression flustered. “What is it, Pitt?”

  “Beg pardon, madam,” Pitt said, “but there’s a gentleman here to see Mr. Kent.”

  “I’m not expecting any visitors.” Ambrose frowned. “What is his name?”

  “He didn’t give it, sir. He did claim, however, that he is here on a matter of some urgency.”

  Emma perked up. “Well, this sounds intriguing.”

  Before her marriage, Em had aspired to join Ambrose’s private enquiry firm. Even now, she worked on the occasional case—with her duke’s consent (and sometimes without his knowledge).

  “Do you have any idea who it is, darling?” Marianne said to Ambrose.

  “No, but I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” Ambrose unfolded himself from the settee and rose. “Tonight is a time for our family celebration…” He trailed off, his gaze going to the doorway.

  Where the Earl of Revelstoke stood.

  Awareness tingled through Polly as she stared at the man whose presence had invaded her dreams. Memory had dulled the reality of him. Standing at the threshold of the drawing room, he was even more virile, more startlingly attractive than she remembered. There was a slight dishevelment to him, but instead of detracting from his looks, it heightened his charisma. He looked as if he’d just come from a place beyond the civilized, some exotic place of untold pleasures, and Polly’s female instincts told her why women would want to follow him there—or anywhere.

  His stormy blue gaze circled the room, pausing on her. Like a captive bird, her heart dashed madly against its cage as the full impact of his presence slammed into her. Despite his controlled expression, a shield straining to hold back the emotions beneath, his aura blazed. Desperation, anger, and fear wriggled and pushed at the glowing cobalt wall like maddened worms.

  Polly’s lips parted. What in God’s name has happened to him?

  Rosie’s chirpy tones broke the silence. “Lord Revelstoke!” She rose, her hands clasped at her breast, her face wreathed in smiles. “You kept your promise to call after all!”

  Chapter Seven

  Sinjin had not come to pay a social call.

  Given Miss Primrose’s welcome, however, it would have been rude to gainsay her invitation to sup. Thus, he found himself sitting beside her in the elegant dining room. The table was artfully set with a turquoise and gold Sèvres service, and he soon learned that the colorful hothouse arrangements were there to mark the occasion of Miss Polly Kent’s twenty-second birthday.

  He’d interrupted a family celebration. How bloody awkward.

  Mrs. Kent was on his other side, at the hostess’ end of the table, keeping a watchful eye on him. The subject of the fete was across the way, doing the opposite. Miss Polly avoided looking at him as if he sported a Gorgon’s head and was capable of turning her to stone if she so much as glanced his way. Her posture was stiffer than one of Brummell’s cravats.

  What does she think I’m about to do—open my trousers and give her another display?

  While he understood her antipathy, he didn’t know why it bothered him. Usually he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, yet, for some reason, the judgmental little prude had attracted his notice from the start. He’d grant that she had her attractions—she was lovely in a quiet, unusual sort of way—but he’d been around plenty of beautiful women, and none of them had held onto his attention once he was out of their bed (and sometimes not even during).

  He chalked it up to the novelty of encountering a female who wanted nothing to do with him. Who seemed wholly unimpressed by his looks, money, and title. Even if he didn’t like her judgement, he supposed he couldn’t fault it. Hell, she probably saw him more clearly than most.

  At any rate, he had more important business to contend with than the offended sensibilities of some chit. Fortifying himself with a drink of wine, he remembered to smile at Miss Primrose, who was regaling him with witty anecdotes. He listened with half an ear, his mind whirling.

  Do they know where I am? Will they track me down here?

  It had been two days since he’d made his escape from Mrs. Barlow’s. Since he’d fled that serene, soul-crushing hell. Although they hadn’t dared to inflict physical abuses upon him, the deprivation of his personal liberty had been enough to trigger memories of Creavey. His black devil had awakened to a battle cry.

  Never surrender.

  He’d escaped with the clothes he was wearing and the coins that he’d found in the pockets of the two guards he’d knocked unconscious to make his escape. He’d made it back to London, half on foot, half as a stowaway on a farmer’s cart. All the while, he’d kept a vigilant watch—every shadow, every flicker a potential threat to his freedom.

  His father might think him delusional, but his suspicions had saved him. He’d sensed Mrs. Barlow’s guards everywhere: following him, waiting to pounce and return him to that despicable prison. He’d gone to his townhouse first, but he’d waited outside. Waited and watched until he’d glimpsed shadows moving behind drawn shades. He’d been right all along. They were inside his home, readying to spring a trap.

  He’d taken off, pulling his hat down low, disappearing into the crowded street.

  He hadn’t known where to go. They were after him, hunting him, and his family believed him mad. His so-called friends were out of the question. They might be good for a drunken escapade, but he wouldn’t trust any of them farther than he could toss them. The ladies were no better, any help he received from them certain to come with unwanted strings. He didn’t have enough money in his pockets to stay the night with a whore… and, after wat happened at Corbett’s, the last place he wanted to go to was a bawdy house.

  Then it had struck him. Merrick—of course. His man of business was straight as a die and would surely know what to do. He’d gone directly to Merrick’s office, but upon arrival, he was informed by the clerk that Merrick would be out of Town until after the weekend. Scrambling, he had gone from there to scout out his banking establishment where he’d spotted dark-garbed figures that could’ve been his enemies milling about the entrance.

  They were everywhere he knew to go. His home, his clubs, his bank—all compromised. Without a safe harbor, he’d sought refuge in the darkest parts of London, cloaking himself in the fog and soot-choked air. Finally, when he could stay on his feet no longer, he’d found shelter in a flea-ridden inn that let rooms out by the hour.

  He didn’t know how long he’d slept—the first time he’d done so since his escape. But he must have fallen into a deep, restoring oblivion, for when he awoke, it was the next day and he found himself unexpectedly calmer. ’Twas as if the storm was passing, and the solution had suddenly shot like a star through the clearing clouds of his mind.

  My papa is London’s best investigator.

  Primrose Kent’s father was Ambrose Kent. Of course. The man was famous for all the cases he’d solved. Kent had helped powerful peers out of predicaments, and, through his sisters’ marriages, was related to a few of them as well. With burgeoning hope, Sinjin had cleaned himself up and made his way over to Kent’s offices. Finding them closed, he’d located the investigator’s home address and gone directly there.

  Which brought him to the present moment. From the head of the table, Kent watched over the proceedings like a hawk. Unlike his daughter, the investigator had clearly gleaned that this was not a social call. Strathaven and Tremont, seated beside their respective ladies, wer
e also taking Sinjin’s measure.

  Desperation breathed down Sinjin’s neck. He needed to speak to Kent in private, but dinner dragged on, course after course teeming with dishes. His stomach was too knotted for him to eat, so he drank more wine instead. Although it took willpower, he kept up the façade, bantering with Miss Primrose, her tinkling laugh scraping across his eardrums like a fork against china. He felt on edge, his grip on his equilibrium tenuous. A footman appeared at his elbow to refill his half-finished glass.

  “My lord.”

  He started, his gaze meeting Miss Polly’s over a plate of sweetmeats. She was actually looking at him now, and instead of the witless adoration or coy flirtation he was used to seeing in a female’s gaze, hers was disconcertingly clear and unflinching. He felt as if he were staring at the surface of a pristine lake. He saw his own reflection in her eyes; it wasn’t a pretty sight.

  She gave the footman a subtle but firm shake of the head, and the servant backed away without replenishing his wine.

  “Perhaps you’d care to eat something, my lord?” she said quietly.

  Her underlying meaning could not be clearer: Lay off the wine, you sot. Beneath his collar, his neck burned. Who did she think she was? He’d never liked being told what to do—and by some puritanical slip of a miss, no less. Yet he was aware of the audience around them and the need to court Kent’s favor, which he wasn’t going to do if he issued an acerbic set-down to the man’s youngest sister.

  He lifted his glass, draining the remnants to prove his point. Only then did he aim a hard smile at the interfering do-gooder across the way.

  “Since you’ve whetted my appetite, Miss Kent,” he said silkily, “what tasty morsel do you suggest I sample?”

  A slow blush rose beneath her porcelain skin. “The, um, pheasant is the chef’s specialty.”

  “If you say so, then I must try it,” he said coolly.

  The dish in question was brought to his side. To his chagrin, his hands were not quite steady with the serving utensils, but he managed to get a portion onto his plate without embarrassing himself. He tried a forkful. The meat, accompanied by currant sauce, melted in his mouth.