The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 (13 page)

“Very well,” he took a couple of hefty swigs of the amber liquid.

Sybil did the same, preparing herself for the worst.

“When I knew you, you were vicious and selfish, the complete opposite of your sister. You have since acquired a rather sordid reputation.”

Sister?

She clutched her crystal tumbler so tight within her grasp that she thought it might shatter. “I have a sister?”

“Yes, you have an identical twin named Arabella.” He pursed his lips as if he swallowed something bitter. In spite of the apparent aftertaste, or perhaps because of it, he took another swig of his whiskey.

The toll of the clock rang through the room and Sybil counted to ten. She was grateful for the interruption. It allowed her to gather her wits and process all she was learning. She has a twin. What else?

A sordid reputation.

To what does that remark refer?

Numerous possibilities assailed her brain and, for the second time since stumbling upon Winterthorne, Sybil wondered if not knowing might be best.

Once the room fell silent, with nothing but the
cracks
and
pops
emanating from the fiery embers in the hearth, she dared to ask, “Where is my sister?”

“I’ve asked Colin to investigate that, as well as who may have attacked you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why have you kept up with me, but not her?”

He poured more liquid into his glass. The fact that he sought refuge in a bottle caused Sybil to down the contents of her own glass in several large gulps.

Allowing the thick liquid to trace a hot path down her throat, she shut her eyes, welcoming the numbness that the alcohol provided.

“It is difficult not to be privy to your antics, Sybil,” Logan tipped her chin and her eyes searched his.

The pity reflected back at her made her want to wretch. The same question assailed her.

What had she done?

Logan took her hand, squeezing it. “You have been the talk of London for many years now. You are a professional soprano, though you have spent most of your career in the chorus or in the wings. Success has eluded you, though you are famous. Or perhaps, I should say infamous, for you are known not for your voice but for your affairs with affluent men, most of whom are married.”

A wave of nausea washed over her.

“I am a trollop.” It was a statement.

One which Logan failed to correct.

She leaned forward and lifted the decanter with shaking hands. Logan placed his hand on hers, refilling her glass with a quiet strength.

Once Sybil had taken several gulps, she stared into the glass of amber liquid, now half empty. Allowing herself to succumb to the burning sensation numbing her throat, wishing it would do the same to her rapid pulse and abdomen, which had coiled into tight knots.

“Is that why what we were doing—?” Pausing, Sybil cleared her throat. Her voice was no louder than a jagged murmur when she continued, “Is that why it felt so right? Because I am so proficient—?”

Sybil coughed against the lump of bile rising in her throat, unable to fathom her powerful reaction.

This was her life.

Why did it repulse her so?

Shifting his weight, Logan placed his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. It was a kindness she did not expect but one that brought tears to her eyes.

“There, there,” he said, as she buried her face against the crook of his neck.

His woodsy scent, one of musk and pine, reminded Sybil of her trek last night in the woods. Her veins pumped hard, fast, causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end. “Is that why I was attacked? Because I did something to deserve it?”

Logan sighed into her hair. “I don’t know. But I am investigating, with the help of Colin. We shall be discreet and hopefully uncover some answers.”

“I can see why you despise me,” the fabric of his shirt and cravat were now damp with her tears.

Smoothing her back in small, circular motions, Logan held her tighter. “After everything you did to make my life miserable, I planned on delighting in your pain when I revealed these truths to you.”

“Did you?” Sybil asked in a tiny voice. “Enjoy it?”

“Not one bit, love,” Logan kissed the top of her head. “Not at all.”

At least he was honest with her.

Brutally so, but the truth was a necessity. Regardless of how it pummeled her battered soul, she must learn of it, even though the realization made her want to retch.

Instead, Sybil melded her body against his, allowing him to comfort her for as long as he was willing. Because she didn’t know which Logan would await her in the morning.

Would he be the kind man he is at this very moment, or the cold man he had been earlier?

Not certain of the extent to which she had wounded him, Sybil was certain that Logan’s revelations thus far were just the beginning.

Apprehension and panic rooted itself deep within her abdomen, spiraling like vines around her core and constricting until she found it difficult to breathe.

If she had made Logan so furious, what had she done to those who had attacked her? How many would come for her? And why was she holding that knife dripping with blood? Who did it belong to? Were they alive?

So many questions had arisen with Logan’s admissions.

Would he still offer her protection tomorrow?

And, if not, what would she do?

T
he visitors arrived shortly after Logan and his guests were seated for breakfast. Five men, his footman warned. Wearing dark greatcoats and demanding an audience with the owner of the estate.

Well aware that someone may come searching for Sybil, Logan had prepared his footman to escort anyone who called directly into the parlor at the front of the estate. The room was secluded, jutting off the front foyer, and would allow Sybil to remain hidden.

The footman did as directed, immediately ushering Sybil into the kitchen via the back stairs, where she would not be seen.

Just as predicted, the hunters had arrived and they sought Sybil. Logan would make damned certain they wouldn’t find her.

Eve and the Dowager Viscountess remained at the dining table while Logan exchanged a knowing glance with Colin before heading towards the parlor. Upon entering the room, he noted that the men were burly, their coats bulky. He suspected they were armed.

Little did they know, Logan’s home was an armory. Such happens when a man is haunted by his own past – he prepares for attack. He is perpetually on guard.

And he hides his arsenals.

Such was the Logan Ambrose motto –
don’t allow anyone to get the better of you
. It happened to him several times, both while at war and once with Colin’s insane Scottish stalker.

It would never happen again.

“Good morning, gents,” Logan strode to the table on the far side of the room, next to a large, heavy tapestry sheathing a shelf within the wall, upon which sat a loaded pistol. “I understand that you wish to see me, but presented no card to my footman.”

A man with greasy brown waves and a long beard stepped forward. “We are looking for someone and heard you summoned the doctor to tend to a patient here. We’ve come to inquire who your guest was. We believe it was the woman we seek.”

Colin took the lead. “No, I’m afraid it is my wife who required the physician. She is most certainly not the woman you seek.”

“Where is she? We’d like to meet her,” the man’s husky timbre bounced off the mahogany paneled walls.

“That is, if you would allow us,” interjected a different man, this one with short, gray hair. He narrowed his eyes, issuing the dodgy man a look of warning.

Logan traced the edge of the tapestry with his forefinger. “That request is unacceptable. You have yet to explain who you are and why you have barged into my home issuing demands. It is
you
, gents, who owe
me
the explanations.”

One of the five shoved his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat. The bulge warned Logan that he concealed a pistol.

Upon exchanging glances with Colin, Logan nodded then grabbed his own pistol behind the tapestry, while Colin collected a rifle from inside a Louis VIII hutch. They pointed their weapons in unison, Logan in front, Colin behind.

The man with his hand in his pocket pulled his pistol. “You are outnumbered.”

Cocking his rifle, Colin asserted, “Trust me when I say that we are most certainly not outnumbered.”

The gang turned, their heads whipping from Colin to Logan before their eyes locked with one another. Some were slow or lazy, failing to reach their weapons in time. One of the two men who currently pointed their weapons at Logan seemed to notice this fact, his eyes widening.

Logan studied the man, his own expression menacing, meant to intimidate. His instinct had never failed Logan, at least not since he left his old life behind.

Now it told him one thing.

This predator was frightened.

The man’s hand trembled, giving credence to Logan’s suspicions.

“My apologies, gents, but I am getting the feeling that there is something amiss,” Logan hissed. “Who granted you the authority to charge my home, armed no less, making demands upon me and my guests?”

They remained silent. “Hand your weapons to my friend immediately or we will start shooting.” Logan’s tone brokered no argument.

When the intruders failed to move, Logan bared his teeth. “This will not end well for you. You will not pilfer from my property. I won’t allow it.”

It was a deliberate attempt to confuse his intruders. If Logan thought their intention was to steal from him, they would remain none the wiser that Sybil was residing under Logan’s protection.

“Certainly you have heard the rumors about this estate and the previous owners’ dangerous reputations. It is legend in these parts. I assure you, their reputations are nothing in comparison to mine. You don’t want to challenge me.”

Colin yanked the pistol from the greasy-haired man. He’d been so stealthy that none of the intruders heard him coming. Logan now pointed his weapon at the remaining armed man. “Your turn.”

This man, with shaggy black hair with silver strands, handed his pistol to Colin without a second thought.

“We still seek the woman. Our employer will require proof that she isn’t injured and hasn’t sought refuge here.” It was the initial man who found his voice again.

Logan assessed that this man liked controlling others and relied upon them for protection. That is why he wasn’t quick to grab his own weapon, because he lacked the determination to commit his own dirty deeds.

Eve limped through the door, leaning on her grandmother for support. “Good heavens, what is the meaning of this?”

“Are these men thieves? Shall we send for the authorities?” The Dowager Viscountess feigned outrage, while her granddaughter pretended to appear a wounded female struggling to remain upright.

“No,” the burly man was quick to interject, now attempting to diffuse the situation. “We had no intensions of stealing. We were looking for someone and stumbled into the wrong estate. We are sorry for the intrusion.”

“Wonderful!” Fiona brandished her cane like a sword, feathers floating through the air in plumes of crimson and gold. Unlike the whimsical air her cane and outlandish attire conveyed, her voice transformed from chipper to menacing in an instant. “Now hand over your weapons. All of you. We do not tolerate thieves on this estate.”

Colin grabbed their weapons as Logan added. “She is right. Don’t ever think of returning. I have security on this estate and they will be warned about you lot. If you or anyone you answer to ever again sets foot on my land, you will be shot on sight.”

As instructed, Eve had summoned Logan’s security team. An imposing brood of misfits who tended to his stables and gardening. They were also men with wicked pasts who wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who eyed them the wrong way.

Tall, broad shouldered, and commanding, the group entered the small room, which was now packed.

It paid to have connections.