Page 17 of Summoner of Sins

The butler opened the door, inviting him in for Lady Tabetha’s calling hours. He left his card with the man and then made his way to the sitting room where Lady Tabetha sat alone.

His brows lifted. She was the daughter of a marquess, so she ought to have a room full of friends and admirers. She waved him in, adjusting her shawl.

“Lord Maxwell, nice to see you again.”

He gave a quick nod. He nearly asked if he’d come at a bad time, but that would require speaking, and he’d save his words for only the most necessary bits of conversation.

“Are you here to discuss Sophie?”

Another nod.

Tabetha sighed, and then he watched as she undid her shawl. She wore a puffed sleeve day dress with a high neckline. As the silk of the shawl fell away, Max could clearly see the angry red burns that colored her left arm.

“They’re on my side and chest too,” she murmured. “It’s why no suitors are here.”

His brow furrowed. “S-surely m-many men….”

“Let me save you the words. I’m sure a great deal of men would overlook my scars to gain access to my dowry or my family’s connections, but who wants to be tolerated? Certainly not me.”

He sat down across from her, his jaw loose as he stared into her bright green eyes. She’d said plainly the thought he’d been circling but never quite able to articulate for years. “I don’t seek the company of women.” He was surprised to hear his own voice come out perfectly clear. “Sooner or later, I realize they have only just been t-tolerating my stutter.”

She nodded. “I understand. Just like I understand why you like Sophie. She doesn’t give a fig about my scars. There was no moment of hesitation when I met her, no doubt, no revulsion. She just accepted me. Maybe it’s her past, or perhaps her naturally sunny disposition, but she’s the first person I’ve met since this…” she said, waving her hand down her arm, “happened that I felt liked me without reservation.”

He closed his eyes. Was it true? Could Sophie care for him without reservation? Would he at some point learn that she hated the thing he disliked so much about himself? He had a difficult time believing it was true.

“When did you receive those scars?” he asked, opening his eyes again.

“Two years ago,” she answered, turning her face toward the far wall.

“I’ve stuttered since the age of four. My father found it repulsive, he…” Max stopped. It didn’t discount Tabetha, but how did he explain that his entire childhood he’d known the people who were supposed to love him could hardly stand him? That he was a blight on the family name? It was ingrained deep within him to believe he could not be loved.

She looked back at him. “I understand. I mean, I think I do. But consider this. Help Sophie now, the woman who I know doesn’t give a fig about your stutter, and she will be devoted to you. I promise you that.”

He nodded again. “She needs to find another relative.”

Tabetha’s eyes widened. “Right! Why didn’t I think of that?” With that she was up, crossing the room. On one side sat an ornate table with a single volume on its surface. He knew it was a history of the great families of England. His childhood home had the same book. He followed, standing just behind her.

“Let’s see, her mother is the daughter of the Earl of Wingate.”

She slid her down the page, stopping at the earl’s name. But a different name caught his notice. “Wait,” he rumbled, moving closer. “Does this say that Lord Whitehouse has a son?” His blood ran cold.

“Of course. Lord Cranston.”

Max blinked several times. Lord Cranston was a member of the Duke Fraternity. The one man who’d refused to go to the ball. The ball where he knew Lord Whitehouse would be in attendance. “But?—”

“They are estranged. Lord Whitehouse is known for his religious beliefs, and Lord Jameson for his hedonistic tendencies. They haven’t spoken in at least a decade, to my knowledge. It must offend Whitehouse greatly that the son, who drinks, gambles, and whores, will be the next earl.”

Max scrubbed his face with both hands. Two of the seven members were already dead and a third had been attacked.

Max and Ironheart had long suspected that Whitehouse intended to kill them all.

Was it possible that Lord Whitehouse’s motivations were far more personal than he’d imagined? Could this be an elaborate disguise to kill his own son, marry Sophie, and create a new heir? Or just get rid of the club so that he could point his son on the right path again? Why marry Sophie now after years of being without a wife?

“I have to go.”

“Where?” Tabetha asked.

He didn’t know. Should he go to Sophie first or Ironheart? Lord Cranston? He stopped, pulling out his watch. “I promised to meet Sophie in the garden, give her a name.”

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