Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

“On how much whisky I’ve imbibed,” drawled Devlin. “Usually I loathe exposing myself to any physical hardship. But having enjoyed a few wee drams at breakfast, I’m currently feeling no discomfort.”

“In that case, let us return to the castle,” came the barbed reply.

“Because there’s no sport in tormenting a Sassenach if he can’t feel the pain?”

McClellan didn’t respond to the quip. “Stay close, Lord Davenport,” he said brusquely. “There are dangerous peat bogs close to the trail and it would be a great pity to see you swallowed by the Celtic mud.”

Thankfully, his frigid flesh was soon submerged in steaming, pine-scented bathwater rather than slimy muck. Flexing his stiff shoulders, Devlin leaned back in the tub and stared up at the massive age-dark oak beams set in the plastered ceiling of his bedchamber.

Only half of the invited guests had arrived as of yet—the rest were expected over the next few days—and aside from the ill-tempered baron, the other gentlemen seemed pleasant enough. A trifle dull, but inoffensive. Save, of course, for the fact that one of them might be a cold-blooded assassin. As for the German prince, he and his entourage were cheerful fellows who talked enthusiastically about the upcoming hunting opportunities and flirted politely with all the ladies.

So far, the feminine presence numbered ten—six had arrived together from London, while two French noble ladies-in-exile had come from Bath, and the final pair were the wives of the prince’s military attachés. Five more were expected, making a total of fifteen to balance the same number of men.

Thirty guests in all.

Devlin pursed his lips and blew out a sigh. Thorncroft hadn’t bothered to mention the exact number, no doubt secretly enjoying the fact that it would require a great deal of effort to become acquainted with everyone and assess what possible threat they might present to the prince.

Damnation. He would have charged double for the mission had he known the facts.

He consoled himself with the thought that an attempt at murder seemed even more implausible now that he was here than it did in London. Aside from McClellan, whose surliness and overt Scottish nationalism made him too obvious a suspect, none of the other guests seemed out of the ordinary.

The most likely danger was that he might expire from ennui.

Lathering a sponge, Devlin circled it slowly over his chest and the soft caress stirred a more pleasant thought. There were several strikingly pretty ladies here already, including the young London heiress and a sultry Parisian widow who was part of the French party from Bath.

The heiress was under the watchful eye of her Mama, so the chances of gaining any intimate acquaintance with her fortune seemed slim. As for the other plump-in-the-pocket English pigeon that Thorncroft had mentioned, she had not yet arrived.

No doubt she would be just as closely guarded…not that he had any interest in seducing an innocent. Despite Thorncroft’s low opinion of his morality, he did have some scruples.

For an instant, his thoughts strayed to Anna, but he quickly reeled them back. Thank God she was in London—that should be far enough away to kee

p her from being a constant distraction.

Forcing his mind back to the mission, he decided the best prospect for an enjoyable interlude lay in la magnifique Marie- Hélène de Blois. After all, everyone—even the ladies—had to be considered a possible suspect, so a closer acquaintance with the comtesse was part of his mission. If a casual dalliance developed, well, both of them were experienced enough to know the rules of the game. There would be no expectations, no recriminations, no tears when it was over.

The prospect served to warm the last lingering chill from his limbs. Devlin dressed quickly and, after combing a careless hand through his hair, he made his way down to the drawing room.

“I hope you did not venture out for a ride today, Lord Davenport,” said Lady Dunbar in greeting, as she placed a hand on his sleeve and steered him to the drinks table. “The moors can be dangerous if one loses the way and strays off the trail in one of our North Sea gales.”

“Actually, I did,” replied Devlin. “Lord McClellan was kind enough to accede to my request when I asked at the stables whether I might accompany him.”

“Oh, dear,” murmured the countess.

Devlin arched a brow. “Is he in the habit of disposing of your unwanted guests in the peat bog?”

“Horrid man—Alec, that is, not you,” responded Lady Dunbar. “Did he try to frighten you with that farrididdle?” She chuffed an exasperated sigh. “They aren’t nearly as dangerous as he claims. But it’s easy to take a nasty fall if your horse gets entangled in the heather or gorse.”

“It wasn’t fear that had me quaking in my Hessians, Lady Dunbar, it was the toe-curling cold of your Scottish squalls. Do you not have summer here?”

“The seasons are different from what you are used to in London.” She lowered the lens. “As are a great many things.”

Devlin sipped his champagne. “Thank heaven that sparkling wine is not one of them. This is an excellent vintage.”

The countess accepted a glass from one of her footmen and then drew Devlin aside to a quieter spot by the diamond-paned windows. “I apologize again for my cousin. He is rather passionate about his political beliefs and doesn’t much like the English.”

“So I gathered,” he said dryly.

“But he is an excellent shot and knows the moors like the back of his hand,” explained Lady Dunbar, “So I pressed him to be part of the party and to serve as a hunting guide to the prince and his companions.”