The Earl's Irresistible Challenge

Could this infamous rake...

...finally have found his countess?

Part of The Sinful Sinclairs. When Lucas, Lord Sinclair, receives a mysterious summons from a Miss Olivia Silverdale he’s skeptical about whether he can help her. But Olivia, although eccentric, is in earnest about her quest to restore her late godfather’s reputation. Lucas’s curiosity is piqued, and not just by Olivia’s intelligent eyes and lithe form. A new challenge quickly presents itself: keeping Miss Silverdale at arm’s length!

The Sinful Sinclairs miniseries

Book 1—The Earl’s Irresistible Challenge

And look out for the next two Sinful Sinclairs—coming soon!

“It is a poignant, sentimental and expertly written love story.”

—Goodreads on Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress by Lara Temple

“Sensitive, touching and perceptive, this emotional book took me on the most wonderful journey where the hero and heroine deal with the obstacles in their way.”

—Goodreads on Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress by Lara Temple

LARA TEMPLE was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance…at least on the page. Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.

Also by Lara Temple

Lord Crayle’s Secret World

The Reluctant Viscount

The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies miniseries

Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress

The Sinful Sinclairs miniseries

The Earl’s Irresistible Challenge

And look out for the next book coming soon.

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Earl’s Irresistible Challenge

Lara Temple

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08861-9

THE EARL’S IRRESISTIBLE CHALLENGE

© 2018 Ilana Treston

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the marvellous, generous, creative

and all-round wonderful ladies of the

Unlaced Historical Romance Group—you are my

surrogate family in Romancelandia, and my little world

is so much the richer for my having found you…

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Blood was thudding in Olivia’s ears, loud in the echoing hollowness of St Margaret’s. She had purposely chosen an hour when there were likely to be few people in the church, but she hadn’t expected it to be empty. Or dark.

She should have realised they wouldn’t waste many candles on a near-empty church on a rainy winter afternoon. The few tallow candles smoked sulkily in their sconces and occasionally shivered in the draught that seemed to come from all directions at once.

Surely if she cried out someone would hear, wouldn’t they? Hans Town might not be a fashionable part of London, but it was respectable. Or perhaps it was best to just tuck tail and run...

Too late.

The strike of boots on the flagstones matched the rhythm in her ears and a man emerged from the darkness at the far end of the nave, his greatcoat rising about him like sweeping wings. She was not surprised they called him Sinful Sinclair. She presumed it was merely a play on his family name and less than pristine reputation, but, as he moved towards her in a swift, gliding motion and she noted his pitch-black hair and uncompromising features, she understood the name better.

‘Lord Sinclair, thank you for coming,’ she said as he stopped before her, pulling a piece of paper from his coat pocket.

‘Don’t thank me, this isn’t a social call. You sent this quaint little note?’

‘I did. Lord Sinclair—’

‘What do you want and why the devil did you have to choose such an inconvenient location?’

‘It is convenient for me. Lord Sinclair, I—’

‘I didn’t see another carriage in the lane outside. How did you arrive?’

She blinked. She had not even begun and already she was losing control of the situation.

‘What on earth does it matter? Lord Sinclair, I—’

‘It matters because I prefer to know what I am up against when I come to meet a silly little miss in an empty church in the middle of nowhere. If this is some kind of plan to entrap me I should warn you, you have very much mistaken your prey...’

Olivia’s confusion disappeared and she couldn’t hold back a laugh.

‘You believe I brought you here to entrap you? Goodness, you are vain.’

His eyes narrowed and she felt a new flicker of alarm. Perhaps laughing at him was not advisable under the circumstances.

‘Lord Sinclair...’ she began again and hesitated. The clear list of points she wished to make faded under the oppressive force of his black eyes. She took another deep breath. ‘Lord Sinclair—’

‘I know my name,’ he said impatiently. ‘Only too well. Stop wearing it thin and get to the blasted point.’

‘I have some information about your father.’

The draught swirled his coat out in a wide arc about him and cut through the thin fabric of her own cloak and she shivered. He didn’t reply immediately, but the impatience was gone, replaced by a rather sardonic smile.

‘So do I and very little of it is good. What of it?’

‘I have evidence that raises some questions about the circumstances of his death. It is possible that he was wronged.’

The only sound was the faint whistling of the wind through cracks in the high windows. She pulled her cloak more tightly about her and waited.

‘Raise your veil.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I prefer to see people’s faces when they are lying to me.’

Olivia considered her options. She didn’t know if involving this man was one of her more intelligent ideas, but he had come and she would have to see this through. She rolled back the thick lace veil attached to her bonnet and his dark eyes scanned her face without any change in their expression of amused contempt.

‘A little miss, but not silly, I think. Now let us begin anew. Why did you summon me here?’

‘I told you, I have some information about the circumstances surrounding your father’s death.’

‘I see. And what do you want in exchange for this so-called information?’

She hesitated.

‘That depends.’

‘Not a very clever bargaining approach. You should have come with a clearer idea of what you think your lies are worth. Or what you think I am worth.’

‘But that is precisely what I am trying to determine.’

He laughed, a low warm sound that did nothing to soothe her skittering nerves.

‘You want a list of my assets? You are by far the most inept blackmailer I have come across, sweetheart, and I have met a few.’

‘I wasn’t talking about your financial worth,’ she replied coldly. She knew he would be difficult, but she had not counted on him being annoying as well. She wasn’t at all certain she wanted to deal with this man.

‘I can think of only one other level on which I might be of any worth. But it’s a bit cold here for that, however tempting the bait. I have a carriage waiting outside, though, if you like.’

‘No, I would not like!’ she said, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Really, if only he would be quiet for a moment and let her think. She knew he was a care-for-nobody, but she had expected a little more interest in her story. Did he really not care at all? If he did not, there was no point in continuing. Except that she very much needed help. Mercer, her man of business, was a treasure, but he was only good when told precisely what to do and she no longer knew which way to direct him.

‘Are you certain? You have a certain charm and I wouldn’t mind seeing just how far—’

‘Oh, would you please be quiet so I may think! I had no idea you would be so provoking!’

At least that wiped the mocking humour from his face. She waited for his anger, wishing she had held her tongue, but he merely took her elbow, turning her towards the exit.

‘Come with me.’

‘No! Let me go!’

Her confusion turned to panic and she tugged her arm out of his grasp. He raised his hands and took a step back.

‘Calm down. I won’t hurt you, but it’s as cold as a witch’s... It is freezing in here and I don’t feel inclined to stand around in this draughty church discussing my family for any busybody to hear while you make up your mind about extorting me. If you wish to speak with me, you may do so in the carriage. If not, goodnight.’

His words were calm, but his brisk stride as he headed towards the exit was a blatant dismissal. Olivia stared at his retreating figure with such a wave of hatred she could hardly believe it originated from her. The temptation to throw back her head and howl at the eaves was so powerful she could almost hear her own voice echoing back at her.

Instead she filled her lungs with cold air, lowered her veil and stalked after Lord Sinclair.

She reached the road and for one panicked moment thought she was too late, but then she saw the dark-panelled carriage on the narrow lane leading past the church. The buildings hung low, blocking out what remained of the late afternoon gloom and she could hardly see his face under the brim of his hat, but felt him watching her as she approached. Without a word he opened the carriage door.

She must be mad to be contemplating stepping into a carriage with one of the Sinful Sinclairs. Mad, desperate or a fool. Well, she was desperate. And though she might be an utter fool, something about the way he mocked her at least relieved concern for her person. But still...

‘Lord Sinclair, perhaps we could...’

He sighed and stepped into the carriage himself.

She hadn’t meant to grab the door as he closed it. She felt the resistance of his hold on the handle, then it eased but remained taut, counting out his patience. When he let go she stifled her qualms and grabbed her skirts to take the high step into the carriage. Once inside she pressed herself as far back into a corner as she could. He tossed a rug towards her.

‘I wish you would stop acting like a hissing cat being forced into a pond. Put that around you before you freeze; that cloak is about as useful in this weather as a handkerchief. Now, you have ten minutes to tell your tale and be gone.’

She clasped her hands together and began her rehearsed speech.

‘My godfather, Henry Payton, was found dead. The constable was summoned by a woman by the name of Marcia Pendle, who claimed she was Henry’s mistress and that he died...while...well, in bed. However, I know she isn’t the genteel widow she claims to be, but a courtesan at an establishment on Catte Street and that she was paid to make that claim to the constable at the inquest and though I don’t know why, I am at least certain she was not my godfather’s mistress.’

‘Are you? That is charmingly loyal of you, though naïve. But how does any of this sordid but mundane tale relate to my father?’

‘Well, it doesn’t, not directly. At least not that I can see as yet. But amongst the belongings my godfather left at the leased house where he died were letters written to him by a Mr Howard Sinclair from twenty years ago and with them a note in Henry’s hand which read, “If this is true Howard Sinclair was terribly wronged and something must be done,” and underneath that he wrote the name Jasper Septimus and underscored it several times. I don’t know if there is any connection between this note and his death and Marcia Pendle’s lies. The letters appear to be mostly business correspondence and I have no idea who Jasper Septimus is. I know this is all garbled, but I had to see if you could shed any light on this story.’

He listened with the same mocking calm with which he’d dismissed her earlier, as if he was watching a mediocre play just titillating enough to overcome the urge to leave the theatre. With his arms crossed and his chin sunk into his cravat, to her exhausted mind, it looked like the inverted white triangle of white fur on her pet wolfhound’s throat. Except that Twitch wasn’t in the least frightening despite his size and impressive fangs.

Finally he spoke.

‘I grant you credit for a very vivid imagination. Let me see if I have managed to follow this Drury Lane plot. Sorry, two interconnected Drury Lane plots. In the first a doxy is paid by someone to lie to the magistrates about being your godfather’s mistress, presumably to mask the circumstances of his death which I gather were at the very least humiliating. In the second your godfather ruminates over the past and comes to the startling conclusion based on the words of a Jasper Septimus, whose name is an insult in itself, that my father was wronged. And this revelation is possibly at the root of the first tale. Have I done your fantasies credit?’

It was evident he was a cold man, but she expected to hear something in his voice when he spoke of his father’s death. There was nothing, not a quiver or a change of inflection.

‘I am not fabricating any of this. It is the truth.’

‘Well, so what?’

‘So what?’ she asked, shocked.

‘The facts you proffered don’t amount to much, do they? Certainly not to a murderous plot that spans decades. A much more likely explanation is that you or this woman are attempting to extract money from me on the back of what you believe is my sentimental need to know more about my sire’s very ignominious departure from this world. Let me assure you I have no such need. In fact, you might have gathered I am not of a sentimental disposition.’

‘You are ignoring a further possibility, my lord.’

‘Am I? Enlighten me. I admit to being curious what your rather unique mind will conjure next. You are a very peculiar girl, do you know?’

‘I am not a girl. I am almost four and twenty years of age!’ She immediately regretted her outburst as the amusement in his eyes deepened. He was baiting her and she was rising to his hook each time. She should be the one in control of this conversation and yet she had let him take the reins from the moment he entered the church. She removed the rug, placing it on the seat beside her.

‘Goodnight, Lord Sinclair. I shall not waste any more of your time. You are clearly not interested in what I have to say.’

Again that soft gliding motion of his was deceptive. Though she was closer to the carriage door, she had not even reached the handle when his hand was there.

‘Don’t play me,’ he said softly. ‘I won’t be led. And certainly not by a pert almost-twenty-four-year-old who likes mysteries and hiding behind veils. You have five minutes remaining.’

‘Then listen instead of being so...aggravating! This is important to me and you keep...’ Her voice cracked and she stopped before she crumbled completely. She was shaking, from cold and weariness and the aftermath of tension and fear. She pulled the rug towards her and shoved her hands into its warmth, feeling like a pathetic fool.

He didn’t speak, just knocked against the carriage wall and it drew forward. Olivia gasped and reached for the door again, but he put his arm out, barring it.

‘Calm down. I won’t touch you and I will take you wherever you ask once we are done. But though I don’t care for much, I care for my horses and I won’t keep them standing further in this cold. Fair enough?’

She nodded warily.

‘Good. Now, what is your name?’ he asked.

‘My godfather’s name was Henry Payton.’

‘I asked for your name, not his.’

‘Olivia, Olivia Silverdale.’

‘Olivia Silverdale. Sounds as fanciful as your tale. Now begin at the beginning. Who is this Marcia Pendle and how did you trace her?’

He had changed again—more businesslike but no less ruthless.

‘I told you. Marcia Pendle works in a...a house of ill repute in Catte Street.’

‘Catte Street. Madame Bernieres’?’

She raised her brow contemptuously. Obviously he would know about the brothels of London.

‘I think that was the name. She calls herself Genevieve, but she is really Marcia Pendle from Norfolk.’

He shook his head briefly, but there was no negation there, only a kind of focused confusion as he watched her. Stripped of mocking or anger, he looked more human but no less unsettling.

‘So. Marcia Pendle is Genevieve. How and why did you trace her and why on earth would she tell you she was involved in your godfather’s death?’

‘I traced her because I had my man of business hire a Bow Street Runner, a Mr McGuire. He was present at the inquest into my uncle’s death. Apparently Marcia gave a masterful performance about a long-standing relationship where they would meet at the leased house where he died. When she left the inquest he followed her and after some discreet investigation discovered her true identity and occupation. He also discovered she is very superstitious and every week she visits a gypsy fortune-teller near Bishopsgate who is no more a gypsy than Marcia is French, but one Sue Davies from Cardiff. So, I went to see Miss Davies...’

‘You went to Bishopsgate to visit a fortune-teller.’

‘Yes. And after we had a little conversation and understood one another tolerably well, I paid Gypsy Sue, as she is called, to tell Marcia she must consult an occultist.’

‘A what?’ he asked. The sardonic edge had left his voice completely. All she could detect there was a kind of fascinated shock.

‘Have you never heard of them? Apparently they are quite popular of late. There is very much a demand for communication with dead loved ones on The Other Side. In any case, the gypsy, or rather Sue Davies, told me how Marcia was obsessed with someone named George whom she loved and mourned and that she asked Sue...’

‘Wait one moment... Hell, never mind. I will reserve my questions for the end.’

‘Thank you. So I had my man of business lease a house in an unassuming part of town where such an occultist might credibly have her lodgings and Sue Davies helped me set the stage, so to speak. Like Marcia Pendle she was once an actress and was very useful in procuring the correct clothes and artefacts. Then she sent Marcia Pendle to me and under the guise of my occultist’s persona I questioned her about her relations with Henry.’

‘Good lord. A vivid imagination doesn’t even begin to cover it. So we are now at a consultation between a masquerading occultist from Yorkshire, a French madame from Norfolk and a fraudulent gypsy from Wales. Charming. Proceed.’

‘How did you know I was from Yorkshire?’

‘I have an ear for accents. Proceed.’

‘Very well. During this session, Marcia Pendle revealed she never even met my uncle, let alone became his mistress.’

He held up his hand again.

‘Revealed. A doxy and practised blackmailer just handed you this information. Just for the asking...’

‘Not quite. I told you she is very superstitious. I told her the fellow she wanted to reach could not meet her in the afterworld unless she revealed all and cleansed her soul.’

‘You exposed yourself to a woman who you believe might be involved in murder and she believed a young girl is her gate to the afterlife. I don’t know which of you is more unbalanced...’

‘Of course I didn’t allow her to see me. I was heavily veiled and I wore a rather vulgar dress Sue gave me and she even showed me how to paint my face so that should my veil slip I would not be recognisable. Sue did offer to act the occultist instead of me but I had to be the one asking the questions. I could hardly prompt Sue all through the session, could I?’

‘I see,’ he said carefully. ‘I was apparently right about your imagination. I’m impressed the powers that be have no issue with Marcia Pendle being a doxy, only with her lying to the authorities.’

‘There are apparently different degrees of depravity.’

‘That is very true, there are. So back to your discoveries—I presume you asked her who paid her to engage in this deceit?’