The Devil of Clan Sinclair Read Online Free PDF

interested in other people.”
    “Politics is about people,” he said, “and you’re interested in politics.”
    She considered the matter, then nodded. “You’re right. I have no place being judgmental, do I?”
    “As long as we’re listing your faults, I suspect you aren’t to be on the terrace, either.”
    She smiled. “Yet you’re standing right beside me.”
    “Perhaps I’ve been sent to teach you how to be more personable,” he said.
    “I’m not to be seen with you as much,” she said. “People will get the impression that you’ve singled me out, which would be off-putting to other potential suitors.”
    “I hear Mrs. Haverstock in there somewhere.”
    She nodded. “Mrs. Haverstock possesses many opinions about a great many things.”
    “Mostly foolish ones, I think. The woman’s daft if she thinks you’re not personable. You’re more intelligent than any woman here, and more beautiful.” He glanced at her. “What would you rather be, intelligent or beautiful?”
    She thought about the question for a moment. “I should say intelligent, shouldn’t I? Intelligence would last you your whole life, while beauty fades. But what woman doesn’t want to be considered beautiful?”
    “You needn’t worry. You have both.”
    She turned to him, placing one of her gloved hands on his arm. “The opinion of a friend,” she said.
    “Not just a friend,” he said. “She’s right in one regard. I have singled you out.”
    She dropped her hand, even though she liked touching him. Eyes were everywhere, and someone was sure to tell either her chaperone or her father that she’d been standing too close, and was too intent in conversation with Macrath Sinclair.
    “Have you?”
    “Not just a friend,” he said again. Turning, he drew her back into the ballroom.
    As they started to dance, she looked up into his eyes. If she were a more courageous woman, she’d tell him the truth.
    She’d singled him out, too.
    London
    July, 1869
    O ne of Paul Henderson’s first memories was of his father telling him he needed to learn his place in life. Even as a child, he ascribed to a higher role, a better spot in the hierarchy that was English society.
    As the son of a chimney sweep, he’d started working with his father at the age of five, sent up into narrow, airless chimneys with a brush and a rag with orders to do good or he’d have his ears boxed.
    On Sundays the old man gustily sang in church, striking him on the shoulder if he didn’t participate as well. He’d grown to loathe “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” his father’s favorite:
    The rich man in his castle,
    The poor man at his gate,
    God made them, high and lowly,
    And order’d their estate.
    Upward migration rarely happened in the United Kingdom. From the time he was twelve, escaping the life of a flue faker by running away, he’d been determined to be more than what God had made him. He wanted to go to America, one of the few places where a man was allowed to climb the rungs on a societal ladder.
    Until then he’d become a stable boy, working harder than the others, watching and learning from the men who rented the carriages. At seventeen he’d applied as a footman at one of the great houses, again learning from those who weren’t aware they were being studied. He spoke with precision, always watching that hints of his childhood accent never appeared.
    For ten years he kept his own counsel, woke an hour earlier than the rest of the staff, and learned to read thanks to a maid who’d been willing to teach him as a labor of love. He never stole, always performed each duty flawlessly, and on those odd occasions when he failed in some measure, promptly acknowledged his error.
    By the time he was thirty, he’d saved some money for the trip to America. After hearing of a position open to care for an invalid earl, he’d once again applied, this time with glowing letters of recommendation, and a confidence about his appearance gained through