Sutton's Scoundrel (The Sinful Suttons 5)

Wolf whistled again, then made a gesture to Sly Jack, the coachman, letting him know he wasn’t to come. The driver nodded and proceeded past.

“Good choice, Sutton,” Tierney growled. “Now then, the two of you will be coming with me.”

They had no choice. It was either risk their own lives and that of their men or do as Tierney demanded. Since Jasper and Rafe had taken Loge, there was always the hope that Tierney would not do anything too rash. Wolf had no intention of dying tonight. He had far too much to live for.

Portia’s lovely face flitted through his mind’s eye.

And that included a woman who very well could be the half sister of the cove who had a pistol pressed to his spine.

* * *

Portia examinedher son’s pastel drawing, impressed with his work. It bore the rudimentary lines of a child’s artistry to be certain, but there was something undeniably talented about the way he had depicted the vase of fresh hothouse flowers she had arranged earlier that morning. He had even captured some of the light streaming in through the windows, illuminating the petals with a crayon of Naples yellow. It was a pleasant diversion to spend time with Edwin, the perfect way to distract herself from the ever-present, inconvenient longing for Wolf that never ceased plaguing her.

“How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “You have perfectly captured the delphiniums and the lilies. I adore it, my love.”

Edwin stared down at his drawing, frowning. “You adore it?”

“Of course.” She smiled reassuringly. “You know how much I love all your sketches.”

“I suppose you must love them,” he said, stroking his chin as he considered his creation. “You are my mother.”

That was true, of course, and it was rather alarmingly perceptive of her son to suppose it.

“Mothers are not required to love their sons’ sketches,” she pointed out.

Her own mother, for instance, had never taken interest in anything Portia had produced, whether it be embroidery or watercolors or music. But she did not add that eternally dismaying fact to her observation.

“Hmm,” Edwin said, shrugging his shoulders before finally glancing up at her. “Uncle says pastel crayons ought to be left to women. He says that I am a gentleman and when I am a lord, I will have many duties far too great to allow time for such a feminine art.”

Her nails curled into her palms at the mention of Granville. Naturally, her brother would have something oafish and insulting to say about Edwin’s sketches. She forced her resentment to subside, however, for dwelling on her fury would do her no good.

She patted her son’s back. “Lords are entitled to enjoy whatever pastime they wish, darling. Some may prefer to hunt, others to ride, some to make sketches. You need not always listen to your uncle.”

Because he is wrong.

Because he is a hateful tyrant who presumes to know better than everyone else.

Because he delights in crushing spirits, and he shall do his utmost to destroy yours as well.

But she said none of those things, tucking all her warnings away instead. Portia was ever cognizant that her son could naively repeat some of her words of caution to her brother. And if that were to happen…

A shudder went through her.

No, that must never happen. The more she was able to shelter her son from the storm that was her elder brother, the better.

“Is Uncle the one who ruined your paper-hangings?” Edwin asked her, his pensive voice slicing through her own ruminations.

Shocking her.

“Of course not. Why would you think so?” She swallowed, the lie propelling itself swiftly.

She told herself it was for her son’s sake, to shield him from the ugliness of the world for as long as possible. But she also knew she deceived everyone around her about her brother’s violence because she was ashamed.

“Your inkwell was missing,” her son said, holding her gaze with his own, so like hers. “You said the maids overset it, but how would it have gone onto the wall? Uncle paid me a call the same day.”

Her son was clever.

Too clever.

And how she loathed lying to him.

“Why should you think it was Uncle?” she asked, attempting to understand his reasoning, deflecting his questions.

Had he overheard her arguing with Granville? Had her brother revealed something of their contentious relationship to her son?

“I heard one of the maids whispering about it,” Edwin admitted, then looked down sheepishly. “I know I am not meant to eavesdrop, Mama. I did not intend to, truly. Are you angry with me?”

The maids were gossiping about her brother. The knowledge made her go cold.

“Of course I am not,” she said. “But Edwin, it is important that you do not mention what you heard to Granville. He would be most displeased to learn of any untoward chatter concerning him. Do you understand?”

Good heavens, if Edwin were to go to her brother with such accusations, she had no doubt he would be furious. And she could not bear for her son to endure the brunt of Granville’s wrath. Not now. Not ever. She would protect him as she always had, however she must. No price was too great to pay.

“I understand, Mama.” Edwin looked up at her, his eyes searching for answers she had no wish for him to see. “It is true then, is it not?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, wrestling with her answer. If she revealed that Granville had indeed smashed her inkwell against her prized paper-hangings in a fit of pique, Edwin would likely have more questions she did not dare answer. But if she continued lying to him…

On a deep breath, she opened her eyes, holding her son’s gaze. “It is true, yes. And that is why you must never repeat what you heard to your uncle. It is imperative that you do not displease him in any way.”

“I know Uncle is not a kind man,” her son startled her by confiding.