One Little Sin Read Free

What?”
    She hesitated briefly. “This is no foolish parlor game, my lord,” she answered. “Do you really wish to know?”
    Quin faltered. “I—yes, why not?”
    The Gyspy’s gaze was distant. “What is the phrase you English say, Lord Wynwood?” she murmured. “Ah, yes, I recall it. Your chicks are coming home to roost.”
    “Chickens,” corrected Quin. “I believe it’s usually said to be chickens.”
    “Are you quite sure?” Her voice was suddenly sharp. “In any case, none of you shall continue to evade the consequences of your iniquities. None of you can continue to take and use and exploit, whilst paying no price. You must begin to pay for your sins. Fate will make this so.”
    “Iniquities?” said Alasdair. “Sins? Ma’am, those are harsh words.”
    “Call them what you will,” said the Gypsy, with a shrug that set her long earrings jangling. “But you will pay, MacLachlan. And you will learn. And you will suffer in the doing of it. What is to come will be as real and as painful as that bruise between your eyes.”
    Merrick cursed softly, but did not turn around. “I grow weary of this Cheltenham tragedy,” he snapped. “Let’s be off.”
    “Wait a moment, Merrick.” Quin was studying the woman warily. “Is this one of those Gypsy curses?”
    At that the woman’s eyes flashed. “Lord Wynwood, you are such a fool,” she said. “You have read too many novels. The three of you have cursed yourself, with no help needed from me. Now you must make restitution. You must make it right.”
    Merrick looked over his shoulder. “Utter balderdash,” he snapped.
    “Nonetheless, it shall be so,” she said quietly.
    An ill wind suddenly blew through the tent, chilling Alasdair despite the summer heat. He spun around to see that his brother had thrown open the flap and was striding back down the path. Quin shrugged, and followed.
    Never one easily daunted—even, perhaps, when he should have been—Alasdair smiled, and slid onto the middle stool. “My dear girl,” he said, leaning half-across the table. “Now that those Philistines have gone, I really must ask you—has anyone ever told you that your eyes are the color of fine cognac? Your lips like blushing rose petals?”
    “Yes, and my arse is like two orbs of Carrera marble,” she answered dryly. “Trust me, MacLachlan. I have heard them all.”
    Alasdair’s smile melted. “Ah, a pity!”
    The Gypsy woman gave him a bemused look and stood. “Begone with you,” she said. “Get out of my tent, MacLachlan, and put away your well-worn charms. They do you no good here and have caused trouble enough already.”
    Aladair hung his head and laughed. “It has been rather a bad day,” he admitted.
    For a moment, the Gypsy said nothing. “Oh, my poor, poor MacLachlan,” she finally whispered. “Oh, I fear you do not know the half.”
    The chilling breeze touched the back of his neck again. But this time, when Alasdair looked up, his beautiful prophetess had vanished.

Chapter One

In which a Thunderstorm breaks
    Upon returning to his town house in Great Queen Street, Alasdair waved away his butler’s questions about dinner, tossed his coat and cravat on a chair, and flung himself across the worn leather sofa in his smoking parlor. Then he promptly slipped back into the alcohol-induced stupor which had served him so well on the carriage ride home.
    A copious amount of brandy had proven necessary in order to endure the company of his traveling companions. Quin had become peevish about his twenty-pound wager, and grumbled all the way to Wandsworth. As for Merrick, Alasdair’s younger brother needed no excuse to behave sullenly. It was his perpetual state of existence. At least the pretty Gypsy had called that one right, Alasdair mused, drifting into oblivion.
    For a time, he just dozed, too indolent to rise and go up to bed. But shortly before midnight, he was roused by a racket at his windows. He cracked one eye to see that the