Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

“Because your clever little hobby is rather expensive, that’s why.”

Devlin straightened from his slouch. “How—” he began, and then snapped his teeth shut. Bloody Hell. He should have guessed that the Foreign Office would make a thorough investigation of his habits before asking him to undertake this mission.

Thorncroft looked pleased with himself. “Yes, yes, I know all about those exquisitely detailed mechanical objects that you design and build. I became curious after you sold us that ingenious telescope and folding slingshot. Where did you acquire such skills?”

“Never mind,” growled Devlin. He wasn’t about to reveal any more private secrets. “Now, might we return to the business at hand?”

“But of course.” Thorncroft first took a sip of his brandy. “By the by, did you know Dunbar Castle houses a very fine collection of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century automata?”

Devlin spun his glass between his palms, and watched the ruby-red liquid swirl around and around. “Is that a bribe?”

“Consider it a bonus.”

“You are too kind,” replied Devlin sourly. He didn’t like feeling manipulated, but he couldn’t really blame Thorncroft for being good at his job.

Thorncroft raised his drink in mock salute. “I am. I’ve just paid you a King’s ransom to do little but dance, drink, and tinker with your mechanical creations.”

“And what if I do discover something havey-cavey is afoot?”

“We don’t expect you to rouse yourself to perform any heroics. One of our operatives will be stationed in the town. You have only to alert him of the details and he will take care of ensuring the prince’s safety.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“Yes, as I said, you will likely have nothing to do but enjoy a month of pampering and pleasures at Dunbar Castle.” Thorncroft set a small packet on the side table. “Here are funds for the journey. I’ve arranged for a traveling coach to call for you in the morning.”

Chapter Five

Bedbugs,” said Lady Trumbull darkly, as the ostler closed the door to their coach. “The inn came highly recommended by Lady Herrington, but I am sure the bedsheets had bedbugs.”

“I’m sure you are mistaken, Mama,” soothed Anna. Their mother was a fretful traveler who tended to find fault with everything. And the journey n

orth to Scotland had been a long and tiring one. “The scent of fresh lavender perfumed the linens.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed Caro. “It was quite sweet.”

“Well, if you girls are sure.” Their mother retrieved her embroidery from one of the bandboxes on the floor. “How much longer until we arrive?”

Caro consulted the map. “No more than a few hours, I think.”

“It can’t be soon enough,” sniffed the baroness. “It feels as if we have been bouncing over these rutted roads forever.”

Thank heaven the Earl of Wrexham had put his well-appointed barouche at the family’s disposal while he and Olivia were visiting Rome for their wedding trip. The interior was spacious, the seats were soft, the lap robes were warm—Anna dreaded to think what expressions of horror a hired vehicle would have drawn from their mother.

Heaving an inward sigh, she opened her book to resume reading where she had left off the previous day. But after a few minutes, she found her attention wandering to the square-paned windows and the rain-drizzled landscape outside the glass.

Scotland was, to her eyes, a starkly beautiful country, its austere angles and muted earthtone colors possessing a rough-cut appeal. The wind-carved granite had a chiseled strength, and the hardscrabble heather covering the mist-shrouded moors showed a rugged toughness in withstanding the force of the salt-tinged squalls blowing in from the North Sea.

“What a dreary place,” announced Lady Trumbull. “I do hope that Miriam has plenty of entertainments planned.” Her face suddenly brightened. “Ah, but if the weather is too beastly for hunting, the prince and his party will be forced to remain indoors.”

“It would have to be a full-force gale in order to convince the men to give up their shooting,” observed Caro.

“Hmmph.” Lady Trumbull smoothed at her skirts. “I have never understood why they would want to be tramping around in the cold and mud, when they could be indoors enjoying the company of the ladies.”

“Perhaps because there is some primal force that still resonates inside them—at heart they are hunters and gatherers,” murmured Anna.

Her mother made a pained face. “Nonsense, my dear. The gentlemen invited to Dunbar Castle are civilized aristocrats, not heathen savages.”

Were they? Anna did not bother to argue, but went back to reading her book on the history of Scotland. Accepting the countess’s invitation had been a stroke of inspiration, she decided. Given the country’s tumultuous past and its wildly atmospheric landscape, she was already envisioning a number of intriguing scenes for the last part of her novel.