Scandalous Read Online Free PDF Page B

most incomprehensibly making themselves at home in her house. She stood a little straighter, squaring her shoulders, raising her chin, and regarded the interlopers with eyebrows lifted in faint hauteur.
    For an instant, no longer, she and the black-haired man locked eyes. His, she saw, were a dark blue, deep set beneath thick black brows. He looked to be in his early to mid-thirties, and his skin was very tan, as though he had spent much time exposed to a hot, unEnglish sun. His features were chiseled, his face hard and handsome. His broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped form was well suited to the frilled shirt, long-tailed black coat, silver waistcoat, black knee breeches, and silk stockings which he wore.
    "Ah, so you have arrived at last," he said genially, just as if he knew them well and had been expecting them, and disengaged himself from the lady at his side. "Ladies and gentlemen, you must give me a moment to greet my sisters."
    Gabby felt her jaw go slack as he strolled toward her.
    "Gabriella, I presume," he said with a slight smile as she goggled up at him, and, possessing himself of her suddenly nerveless hand, carried it to his mouth. "Welcome to Wickham House. I trust your journey did not prove too tiring?"

 
    3
    She was unremarkable in every way save for the hauteur with which she regarded him, he thought. The hauteur nettled him: the daughter of an earl she might be, but she was also well past the first blush of youth, shapeless as a stick, dowdy in unbecoming, head-to-toe black, faintly disheveled, and, unlike the high flyer on his arm, possessed of looks that would never merit so much as a second glance from a connoisseur of women such as himself. He set himself to banishing the hauteur from her manner, and, he congratulated himself, succeeded admirably with his very first words. In fact, by the time he raised her hand to his lips, she looked as shocked as if he'd struck her. Her parted lips quivered, but no sound came out. Her eyes widened on his face until they were the size of coins. The delicately-boned hand he brushed against his mouth was suddenly cold as ice— or a corpse's. And, speaking of corpses, what small amount of color there had been in her face drained away in seconds, leaving it deathly pale.
    Her response was extreme even though the unexpected presence of her brother in London must come as a considerable surprise. He was barely able to stop himself from frowning as the thought occurred to him: was her response too extreme? Did she, in fact, know?
    Not unless she was possessed of the second sight, he assured himself. How could she, after all? The trail which had brought him here was known to no one save himself and a few— very few— trusted confederates. He had chased Marcus's killer all the way to Colombo, then lost him. Instinct had taken him to the port's crowded dock area. There he had picked up the scent again, and followed it clear to London, where he had found his quarry at last, rotting in a rented room in a flophouse so disgusting that the scent of a corpse could pass unnoticed for three days. Someone had clearly gotten to the gunman first. That someone was, he guessed, his quarry, his true quarry. The man who had ordered Marcus's death. The message with which Marcus had summoned him to Ceylon had read, in part, Come at once— believe it or not, I've found what you seek. He hadn't believed it, not really, but had gone nonetheless. But still, he'd been too late— Marcus had been killed before his eyes, ironically lending credence to his message. Now all he could do was try to flush out the man who had ordered Marcus's death. The best way to do that, he'd decided, was to assume Marcus's identity in hopes that the killer, befuddled into believing that his first stooge had failed him, would try again. So far, though, the scheme hadn't worked. Having flaunted himself throughout London without success, he was coming to the reluctant conclusion that the man he sought was intelligent