Obsession: The Unspoken Sin (seven Deadly Sins Book 5)

“Exmoor doffed his hat. “Alice hasn’t been in Scotland for some time now.” This time, the gentleman beat the tan top-hat with such vigor, it was a wonder he didn’t snap the brim. “Alice does not want to return for Elspeth’s debut.”
Denbigh frowned. He’d known Alice Masterson since she’d been a babe. She possessed an obstinacy of spirit to rival a thousand mules. She’d been like a younger sister to him through the years. They’d sparred on every occasion. She possessed a keen wit and a sharper tongue.
Yes, she’d been like a sister to him…until she hadn’t. Selfishly, even though he’d enjoyed her company—too much—it had been somewhat of a relief when he’d learned the lady had decided to quit London altogether. She’d retired to Scotland, their family’s favorite country seat, so she could paint and sketch and ride and live freely. Denbigh had secretly envied her. He’d missed her, but he’d also been ever grateful that she’d gone.
“I need her to come home.”
Exmoor’s pleading voice infringed on those bad best friend thoughts. The tumult in Exmoor’s eyes bespoke a tortured man, and the glint there set off a frantic sensation in Denbigh’s own gut. He loved the gentleman’s mother, who’d been like a second mother to him. He loved his sisters.
“I need you to help me bring her home,” Exmoor said, his voice sounded somewhat steadier, though his eyes were still troubled.
Denbigh treaded carefully.
“You know the lady can’t be brought around once she’s made up her mind. So, she quit Scotland and doesn’t want to return to London. You have plenty of other seats. Let the lady time and space as she requires and desires, and as I require.” He silently flagellated himself for that betrayal.
He wasn’t such a good man to realize his protestations came from a place of self-preservation.
“There is more,” Exmoor said tightly. “This isn’t just about obedience. This isn’t just about enjoying her own time in her own space. This is about—”
Denbigh’s ears latched on to the unspoken remainder of his friend’s sentence. He waited in vain for the other man to clarify or explain.
“The lady doesn’t want to attend another dull, boring Season,” Denbigh cajoled. “You and I can both understand and appreciate that.” And I appreciate not having to fight my feelings for her.
The other man didn’t dispute his words.
“She belongs with her family, Denbigh. You know that.”
He did.
Denbigh, however, proved a selfish, coward, because no good could come from her return.
“Exmoor, you’re the most devoted brother there is, and I don’t say that lightly because I consider myself a fairly good and reliable brother to my younger brothers. But you see her for the holidays.” Denbigh paused and corrected himself. “At least most of them. It so happened that whenever he spent holidays with the Masterson family, Alice was, not so inconveniently, absent. He’d alternately longed for her company and been grateful for her absence.
“You see her, Exmoor, about as much as I see my brothers.” One was in university. The other newly out. Both were sowing their oats and experimenting with their late father’s title of rogue—as Denbigh once had. 

What his own wild days had cost him…
Exmoor turned and looked squarely at him. His gaze pierced Denbigh’s.
For a moment, Denbigh believed the other man knew he stood here silently ruminating over Alice. After Denbigh’s brief stint as a rake, Exmoor made it all too clear—
“She is in London, Denbigh.”
A wave of relief hit him. Exmoor hadn’t caught on. “All the better. So, see her at your own time. She’ll pay you visits. She just doesn’t want to attend the—”
“She’s residing at the Devil’s Den and working there.”
Denbigh’s entire body jerked. His every muscle tautened and recoiled to the point of pain. “The Devil’s Den?”
Exmoor nodded.
Denbigh hadn’t even realized he’d spoken aloud. Surely, Denbigh heard him wrong. Surely, surely, surely. A thousand different surely’s. For surely, there was some explanation for why he’d heard what he’d heard because Exmoor simply couldn’t have stated that as a fact. It had been a jest. Yet the gentleman’s deadly serious features confirmed there was no joke at play.
“Say something, Denbigh.”
Denbigh’s stomach churned until he thought he’d be sick. What the hell did Exmoor want him to say? “Working.

His voice emerged, strangled and distant to his own ears. Surely, Alice wasn’t employed at one of the most debauched gaming hells in London. “Working?

Exmoor, as a protective older brother, would never force her into such a state. No, it didn’t make sense.
“She’s been commissioned to restore artwork at the club and create new pieces,” Exmoor said, his voice deadened. “She’s painting portraits of the Killorans and their family.”
All the air left Denbigh on a swift exhale through his tightly clenched teeth. “My God, man, how could you?”
A flush instantly settled on Exmoor’s cheeks. “This was her choice.”
“Her choice? Her bloody choice?” Denbigh’s voice climbed. He stopped himself just before calling into question the man’s abilities as a brother. Only loyalty, fraternal loyalty, kept him from finishing his thoughts.
The marquess’s face grew even more strained. “You said yourself that she’s spirited. She is also a grown woman and has made up her mind.” Exmoor sounded tired, so very tired. “I have tried to convince her to return home. I have sent letters, but I cannot enter the club. Not without raising questions about my presence there. I need you to help me.”
Of course, Denbigh would do so. Surely that wasn’t in doubt?

“Nor am I worried about my reputation,” Exmoor continued. “But in my being there, it’d bring society’s attention to the place Alice currently resides and—”
Denbigh brushed that off. “You needn’t explain further.” He knew Exmoor well enough to know he’d not even let that be a consideration.
His mind still couldn’t fathom sweet, innocent Alice, living and working at that debauched club.