Читать книгу One Forbidden Evening - Jo Goodman - Страница 8

Cybelline calmly held out her hand for her linen cap. Lady Rivendale gave it over immediately. Crumpled as it was, Cybelline returned it to her head and carefully tucked away all evidence that her hair was now fiery red. “I am sorry it offends you, Aunt Georgia.”

“Offends me? Why, it caused me to swear, and you know I have been trying to set a better example for the scoundrels.”

“Then it is good they are not here.” The scoundrels were her brother’s three wards. Sherry had plucked the young ruffians from the streets of Holborn, giving the matter as much thought as one might have for plucking feathers from a chicken. Pinch, Dash, and Midge—names from the streets that had not yet been put to rest—were a considerable trial as well as a source of great joy. Lily, Sherry’s wife, remarked more fondly than not that they were like puppies in want of proper training: There were bound to be accidents. There had been noticeably fewer mishaps since Lily gave birth. The presence of a baby in the home had quieted them but in no way quelled their spirit. “I will tell them about your slip, of course. You can depend on it. You will have to add a shilling to their collection jar. It’s only fair since you set the rules.”

Lady Rivendale’s generously full mouth flattened, and she harrumphed softly. “I disapprove of tattling, you know.”

Cybelline merely smiled.

“Though I might be tempted to tell Sherry and Lily what you’ve done to your hair.”

Cybelline’s smile faltered.

“Hah!” The countess possessed a remarkably smooth countenance for one in her fifty-fourth year. This was a consequence of a nightly regimen of creams and lemon juice and avoidance of the sun. Lines such as she had—at the corners of her mouth and eyes—did not overly concern her, as she believed they were righteously earned by love and laughter and surviving the vagaries of life. Her face crinkled now, amusement deepening twin creases between her eyebrows. “So you do not want your brother to know. Nor Lily either, though I imagine she would come to understand your actions much more quickly than Sherry. I wonder, however, if she will understand more quickly than I.”

The threat was subtle but clear, and Cybelline did not miss it. Some explanation was expected. She was not hopeful that she could stray far from the truth and stand up to Lady Rivendale’s scrutiny. It was never comforting to have that steely, sharp-as-a-razor glance turn in her direction. Sherry had always been better at ducking his godmother’s inspection, and he would be the first to admit he suffered it far more often than was his wish.

“It was you, Aunt Georgia, who suggested that some change might be in order.” It was a good beginning, Cybelline thought, reminding the countess of her own words. “You cannot have forgotten our conversation.”

“No, indeed, but I think I remember it differently than you. We were speaking of your taking up residence at Penwyckham. I suggested that you consider spending a few months there with Anna. It was a change of scenery that I had in mind and well you know it.”

“We were discussing change,” Cybelline said. “I was thinking of it in another manner.”

“I doubt you were thinking at all. That is a most unfortunate shade of red you have acquired. There is not so much orange in it as to be carroty, but neither does it have the richness of auburn. You were right to cover it. I shouldn’t wonder if Anna might think you have burst into flame.”

Somewhat self-consciously, Cybelline adjusted her cap again. She smoothed the ruffle where it had crumpled against her ear. “It is merely henna. I admit I thought it would be darker, but I do not think Webb mixed it to the proportions suggested by the chemist. However, I do not blame her. She disapproved, though naturally she would not fail to assist me.”

“Undoubtedly because she determined you were set on the matter with or without her help.”

“I’m certain you’re right.”

“It’s a blessing, I suppose, that you did not go out like that last night. I cannot imagine what comments it would inspire—even at a masquerade. Forgive me for speaking frankly,” Lady Rivendale said as though it were not a common occurrence, “but it is a color more suited to a cyprian.”

“That is precisely why I wore a wig.”

“So you did do this yesterday?” Now the countess placed one hand over her heart and regarded Cybelline with astonishment. “Before you departed?”

“I certainly did not do it after I returned. You noted quite correctly that it was late when I arrived home.” Cybelline leaned forward in her chair and extended one arm toward the countess. “You must calm yourself. No harm has been done. I showed you the powdered wig, remember?”

“Yes, but not when you were wearing it. I was sleeping when you left, and you had not the good sense to wake me.” She let her hand drop away from her heart and took up Cybelline’s, squeezing it lightly. “Tell me, was your costume a great success?”

“I think that is fair to say. I was the only shepherdess there with green streamers on her crook.”

It took Lady Rivendale a moment to hear the meaning behind Cybelline’s words. She frowned. “The only shepherdess with green streamers? Pray, how many shepherdesses were there?”

“I counted seven. One blue, three pink, two yellow, and my green.”

“So you were one of seven. Oh, but that is unfair. They were not all cut from the same cloth, I hope.”

“Panniers. White leggings. Lace trim on the underskirts. Bows on every tier of fabric. Perfectly coiffed white wigs in the French fashion.”

“Beauty marks?”

“Yes. I suspect we took our inspiration from the same painting.”

The countess was having none of that explanation. “I suspect someone took their inspiration from me. I was the one who sat with the dressmaker while she put my ideas to paper. She said it was a complete original. I selected the fabric, the lace, the bows, and the streamers. Must I remind you that the painting hangs in my home?”

“And you have noted that it is oft admired by your friends. Perhaps you should be flattered that they considered it so worthy of imitation.”

“I cannot be flattered when I feel sorely abused.”

Cybelline gave her a disbelieving look. “Aunt Georgia, you are making rather too much of it. I would prefer it if you returned to scolding me for my hair. I certainly was delighted to be in such esteemed company. Mrs. Edward Branson was one of the shepherdesses. Blue ribbons, I believe. I had not made her acquaintance before last night. She was everything gracious.”

“Of course she was. She was wearing your costume.”

Cybelline ignored that. As a rule, Lady Rivendale was not given to being disagreeable. Some tolerance was in order. “She is Lady Gardner’s stepdaughter. I did not make that connection before.”

“I do not know her. She was married and gone from home when I made the acquaintance of Sir Geoffrey and Lady Gardner. She has a twin brother, I believe. I suppose he was present, given that the masque was in Miss Wynetta’s honor.”

“Yes, though I cannot say I met him. He was pointed out to me.”

“He was not also a shepherdess, I hope.”

Cybelline smiled. Lady Rivendale was recovering her sense of humor, albeit tinged with sarcasm. “One of the Knights Templar. There were enough of them present to mount a crusade, I can tell you that.”

“And Miss Wynetta?”

“An exotic-looking Cleopatra. Indeed, her admirers were thick around her, which was the point of it all, I suppose.”

“Then I was not wrong to insist you go without me?”

There was but one way Cybelline could respond to that poser. It was difficult not to look away as she spoke. “No, you were not wrong.”

“Does that mean you are prepared to rejoin society, Cybelline?” the countess asked gently. “I wish beyond everything that is so.”

Cybelline removed her hand from under Lady Rivendale’s and sat back in her chair. “I am prepared, I believe, to enter a smaller society, Aunt. You will scarcely credit it, but I have been considering your offer of the house at Penwyckham. I would like to accept it. Last night’s entertainment convinced me that I am not yet comfortable with the crush. I did not find the conversation easy, nor of particular interest. There was gossip, of course, but I could not restrain the thought that sooner or later I would hear Nicholas’s name.”

“Oh, my dear girl, that you should have suffered those thoughts. It has been over a year since…since his passing.”

“Since he killed himself,” Cybelline said firmly. “It is better to say it plainly, I think, than to speak of it as if he merely slipped away. Almost seventeen months, Aunt Georgia. Sometimes I mark the days since I held him in my arms. It was four hundred eighty when I recorded it last. I dream of him. I cannot seem to help myself.”

“I know,” Lady Rivendale said quietly. “It is why I thought it was time for you to leave this house and embrace the possibility of meeting someone.”

Cybelline flushed a little. “I should not have told you about that dream.”

“Stuff! Who better to confide in? I have not lived my life under a rock. I have experiences that make me the perfect confidante—and I am family. You can trust it will go no further.” She pitched her voice lower so there was no chance she could be heard beyond the breakfast room by a passing servant. “I believe it is quite unexceptional to dream of one’s husband after he has passed. Oh, shush, do not make me dwell on the fact that Mr. Caldwell killed himself. I am still out of patience with him for that.” She saw Cybelline’s mouth snap shut in surprise. “Good. Now, as I was saying, it is within the bounds of reason to suppose that from time to time those dreams would be about your most intimate moments. I cannot think how it could be otherwise. I thought the same when it happened to me—though I will say that Lord Rivendale was a better lover dead than he was alive—and I have not heard anything from you that persuades me your dreams are at all unusual. I am uncertain how I can be more clear that you are not at fault for the nature of your mind when it is in the throes of Morpheus.”

Cybelline required a moment to consider all that had been said. Putting aside the rather surprising revelation about Lord Rivendale’s lovemaking, the remainder of the countess’s speech was something Cybelline had heard before. She remained unconvinced.

There was something terribly wrong with her, something dark and lowering, something wholly reprehensible. It could not be in the nature of what was decent that of late her husband’s face was obscured by shadow so that she could only pretend he was the one coming to her bed. She had never told Lady Rivendale that she’d woken up to discover that she’d pleasured herself. It still shamed her when she thought of it.

But not so much, it seemed, that it hadn’t happened a second time. And a third.

So last night she had invited a man to do the same. It had been what she wished for above all things, to submit herself to a man’s touch again, to engage in an act of moral and carnal prostitution, selling what was left of her soul and all of her body to a man who would not ask why she had chosen him or why she despised herself.

The Earl of Ferrin had proved in the end that he was just such a man.

Thinking of him now, Cybelline felt another rush of heat flush her cheeks. She was aware that Lady Rivendale’s gaze had narrowed again and that she was the subject of further study. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking down for a moment. “You can appreciate, I think, that I am embarrassed to discuss these things. You believe my dreams to be unexceptional. They do not seem so to me. I agreed to attend last evening’s entertainment, but it has left me knowing that I want a different experience than parties and social circles and the ton during the Season. Sherry and Lily have invited me many times to Granville Hall, yet I cannot bring myself to spend more than a few days in their company when they are in town. They are so happy that my presence makes them feel guilty for it.”

“That is nonsense.”

“No, it’s not. They would deny it, of course, as you do, but I can feel there is always some strain. If it is not with them, then it is with me. The pretense of trying not to grieve openly is wearing, Aunt Georgia. It is enough for me that I must do it in Anna’s presence. I love my brother and do not wish him any unhappiness, so it is beyond everything I understand that I can resent him for having in his life what I no longer do. I do not think you can appreciate how deeply it hurts me to admit that aloud, or how it tears at my heart when it intrudes upon my thoughts and I remain silent. I cannot put Nicholas’s suicide in the past because I am as angry with him as I am sorry for myself. Sometimes I am frightened that it will never change. How shall I go on, then? What will I say to Anna that will ease her when I find no ease?”

Lady Rivendale used the serviette lying on her lap to dab at her damp eyes. “How I wish I could take this burden of yours upon my own shoulders. I have grieved, true, but little enough of it has been for Mr. Caldwell. I grieve for you, Cybelline, for the ache that has permanent residency in your heart.”

“I know you do,” Cybelline said quietly. “And I am sorry for that, though I do not know how it can be different. It is why I am prepared to accept your gracious offer. As you have remarked to me more than once, leaving London is just the thing. I should have done it months ago.” When the letters began to arrive, she told herself. She knew better than to share this last thought. It was odd that it was far easier to speak to her aunt about the dreams than it was to even hint at the letters. Removing herself from her momentary reverie, Cybelline added earnestly, “You have been everything patient to wait me out and not force my hand.”

Although the countess’s eyes no longer glistened with tears, her smile was a trifle watery. “I could hardly order you to go, now could I?”

“I trust that is a rhetorical question, because you certainly have been that managing before.”

“It has always worked better with your brother. He permits it, you know, to humor me. You do not.”

Cybelline nodded. “Sherry indulges me as well. He is the best of all of us, I think.” She took a small, steadying breath when tears threatened. “I will write to him, of course. I will even tell him what I have done to my hair. There was an invitation to spend Christmas at Granville. I did not know how I might graciously refuse it, but I think he will understand when I tell him that I mean to set up in your home at Penwyckham. If my explanation does not serve to allay his concerns for me, I hope you will help him understand.”

“I will do my best.”

“I have never doubted that, Aunt Georgia. You have always been our rock.”

“A pebble in your shoe, mayhap.”

“When you had to be.”

Lady Rivendale chuckled. “I should have expected that you would agree.” She replaced her serviette in her lap and absently smoothed the creases. “When will you want to leave?”

Cybelline wanted to tell her that tomorrow would not be soon enough, or even better, that she should have left before the masque. “It will not take long to arrange our departure. I was thinking that all could be made ready in three days.”

“Three days! That is no time at all. The house has been neglected, Cybelline. I thought I explained that. There is only Mr. and Mrs. Henley from the village who look after the property. I have not been there in four years. I cannot say that I even recall how many rooms you shall have use of.”

“More than enough, I should think,” Cybelline said confidently. “Can you not know that the home’s neglect is one of the attractions for me? Of course you do, you sly puss. That is why you suggested it and not one of your other properties. I will take such servants as I think I need and keep the Henleys on. There cannot be so much work in Penwyckham that I will have difficulty hiring gardeners and grooms should I have need of them.”

Lady Rivendale lifted one hand and massaged her temple with her fingertips. “This is not unfolding in quite the manner I had envisioned.” She raised her fingers and indicated the silver threads of hair. “Have I more? I do believe that I have more. It is astonishing to me that I will go to my bed tonight with more silver in my hair than I had upon rising from it this morning.”

“I highly recommend the henna.”

The countess’s humor asserted itself. She had a full-throated, husky laugh that filled the small breakfast room. Cybelline was immediately warmed by it.

“You are too clever by half,” Lady Rivendale said, still smiling. “You will always have the better of me. Very well. What is to be done, then? Shall I send a missive to the Henleys and hope it arrives before you do? It will give them perhaps as much as a day or two to prepare. The journey will require some three or four days of travel, much of it on roads that rarely do not cause a mishap. Penwyckham is not on the other side of the earth, but close enough.”

“Warning the Henleys of my imminent arrival is only fair to them. It is my experience that such surprises are generally unwelcome. I will be relying on them to assist my own servants and provide such information as I require about the village and the locals. They will be invaluable if I need to hire more help. You are satisfied, I collect, with their quarterly reports to you?”

“Yes. What repairs they have suggested have always seemed reasonable, though I have entertained fears they err on the side of doing too little. It was why you will be doing me a very great favor by going there.”

“Surely you’ve had your steward visit from time to time.”

The countess shook her head. “Matters at Rivendale keep him occupied. There is also the property at Trent and the one near Nottingham. I have stewards for each. The house at Penwyckham is not part of an estate that requires overseeing tenants and lands, collecting rents and the like. I hope I have not misled you in that regard. I have to trust that the Henleys were as they presented themselves to me when I engaged them. I encourage you to write to me and inform me if I was wrong.”

“I suspect I will write to you about all manner of things, though I doubt any one of them will be about your making an error of judgment.”

Lady Rivendale gave her a skeptical look. “Is it that you don’t think I can make such an error or that you shy from confronting me?”

“There is no answer to that poser that will not put me in Dutch with you.”

“Not if you tell the truth, there is not. Lying, however, will put you in my good graces.”

Cybelline laughed. She picked up a triangle of toast, now stone cold, and bit it delicately. “Why have you not visited Penwyckham yourself, Aunt?”

“The house was left to me by my own aunt, my father’s sister. I could scarcely abide her. Upon reflection, it is more truthful to say I was afraid of her. I spent summers with her as a child when my parents were abroad. Her heart was hard—that is what I remember thinking as a child. Bitter, I would say now. I conceived the notion that she didn’t like me. Certainly she had no use for me. I don’t think I saw her more than a score of times in all of the summers I resided there. She spent a great many hours in the drawing room reading from her Bible. She took her meals alone and suffered my presence only when a melancholia was upon her.”

“She was unmarried?”

“Yes. And childless. Friendless, too, I think. It should not have been so surprising that she named me the foremost beneficiary in her will. I was a logical choice since I was her closest blood relative, yet I remember being shocked when I learned of it. The Sharpe house was mine along with a tidy sum for its upkeep. I thought at first I would sell it, but upon going there, I found I could not. Whatever the source of melancholia, it was not reflected in the house she kept. The rooms were bright and cheerful, and I remember that she was never tightfisted with candles or wood for the fires. The furniture was in good order, polished and freshly upholstered. The linens were all of fine quality. Still, while I could not bring myself to sell, neither could I remain there overlong.”

Lady Rivendale sighed. “I have told you perhaps more than you wanted to know, but there you have it. I fear I have not been a good steward of the property by leaving it for so long in the hands of others. The Henleys are not the first to care for the house and grounds. There was a Mr. Younger and a Mrs. Ayres before them. They were excused from service when I last journeyed to Penwyckham. It is putting it too mildly to say that the home came to a sad state while in their care. I promised myself that I would not allow it to suffer neglect a second time, yet I have done little to ensure that hasn’t come to pass.”

“Anna and I will set your mind at ease. After we have settled and made ourselves happy there, you will come to the country and see for yourself that the Sharpe house has all the light and life one might wish for.”

Lady Rivendale looked at Cybelline with some surprise. “I believe you mean it.”

“You doubt me?”

The countess was long in responding. She finally waggled one hand to indicate that what she was going to say was no longer of any consequence. “I have been possessed by the oddest thought since you told me you are ready to quit London.”

“Oh?”

“You will think me ridiculous since I have been encouraging you to leave for the country for well on five months now. It is only that I cannot rid myself of the notion that you are bolting.”

Cybelline’s features remained perfectly unchanged until a small smile reshaped her mouth. “You are right once again, Aunt Georgia.”

“Then you are bolting?”

“No, you’re right that I think you are ridiculous.”

Viscount Sheridan set his quill aside as the door to his study opened. That this breach of his sanctuary occurred without a warning knock was enough to indicate who would be there when he lifted his eyes. He smiled warmly, inviting the interruption to continue.

“Forgive me, Sherry,” Lily said, “but the post has arrived and I knew you would want this immediately.” She held up a letter between her thumb and index finger, waving it gently. “And I knew you would want to share its contents with me, so I have saved you the bother of hunting for me.”

“That was very good of you, though I like the hunt well enough.”

“Do not raise that eyebrow at me, my lord. I am able to understand your meaning without having it underscored in that particular manner.”

Chuckling, he lowered the offending eyebrow. The last time he’d hunted for his wife, he had finally run her to ground in a hayrick. She’d burrowed deep, and he’d burrowed deeper. All things considered, it had been a lovely way to spend the afternoon. But that was yesterday. Apparently Lily had other thoughts to occupy her for the nonce.

“Allow me to see what you have there,” he said, extending his hand. “Is Rosie napping?”

Lily laid the letter in Sherry’s palm. “Rose,” she said deliberately, “was playing with her toes when last I looked, and Nurse Pinter was sleeping. It seemed to satisfy them both.”

Sherry nodded absently. He was already looking at the elegant copperplate handwriting. “It’s from Cybelline.”

“Yes.”

He took a knife from his desk and slit the seal. “Will you not sit, Lily? Or would you prefer to read over my shoulder?”

“Do not tempt me.” Her smile held a hint of mischief that was reflected in her green eyes. She sat, taking the delicate Queen Anne chair on the opposite side of Sherry’s desk. Sherry, she saw, was already skimming the letter. A crease had appeared between his dark eyebrows, and he was tapping the knife tip against the edge of the paper, rattling it. Her heart sank a little. “She is not coming to visit, is she? What does she say, Sherry? Pray, do not keep me on tenterhooks.”

“I have not gotten so far. She says first that she is well. Anna also. Aunt Georgia is enjoying better health, having recently recovered from a stomach ailment. It seems she—Aunt Georgia, that is—was unable to attend the masque given by Sir Geoffrey and Lady Gardner in honor of their daughter’s debut. You will not credit it, but Cybelline attended.”

Lily did not credit it. “Are you certain you have not mistaken what she’s written?”

Sherry read it again. “She is quite clear. She attended without Aunt Georgia.”

“Even more extraordinary.” Lily pointed to Sherry’s knife. “Do put that down. I am in fear that it will slip, and you will do me grievous injury.”

He frowned. “I am more likely to do injury to—” He stopped, glancing down to where the knife was certain to meet the sticking place squarely between his legs. “Oh, yes, I see. That would be too bad for you.” He carefully set the knife aside and ran one hand through his dark cocoa-colored hair. His attention returned to the missive. “She writes that Aunt Georgia was adamant that she should attend, and since it was a masquerade, Cybelline persuaded herself that she had the courage to do so.”

“It was her come-out, then,” Lily said. “After a fashion.”

“She writes the very same.” Sherry turned the first page over and continued to read. “A shepherdess. That was her costume. Again, Aunt Georgia’s fine hand at work. Cybelline was gratified to see so many other shepherdesses present, though when Aunt Georgia learned of it she was understandably less than pleased. Apparently Aunt thought her idea a complete original.”

Lily pressed three fingers to her lips to tamp her smile. She noticed that Sherry was smiling as well. It was not difficult for either of them to imagine Lady Rivendale being most put out to discover her original idea was so common. “Go on. What does she say about the evening? Did all go well?”

Sherry reported all of Lily’s observations about the masque, then mused aloud, “She seems to have enjoyed the anonymity. I wonder that no one recognized her.”

“She has rarely been about in society since Nicholas’s death. Perhaps if she had accompanied Lady Rivendale someone would have guessed her identity. Your aunt merely has to laugh, and she would make herself known to the assembly. Cybelline would be caught out for the company she keeps.”

Sherry considered that. “You are most likely right.”

“And then there was the costume. If Cybelline was the shepherdess from the Gainsborough hanging in your aunt’s London home, even you might have passed over her for all the flounces and furbelows.”

“I think I would know my own sister.”

“Do not underestimate your aunt’s design. The fact that there were so many there of a similar mode could have confused you.”

“I would know you in any manner of costume.”

“I think you flatter your powers of observation. I could fool you. In fact, you have forgotten that I did. On the occasion of our first meeting you mistook me for a lad.”

“I would not make the same error again.”

Lily did not argue the point. She indicated the letter. “Please go on. What has she to say about joining us for Christmas?”

“I am not come to that yet. She writes that she made an unfortunate decision before the masquerade to wash her hair with henna.” Sherry’s eyes widened, and he read the passage a second time. “Henna. That is what she says. What could she have been thinking?”

“Mayhap she did not wish to wear a powdered wig.” Lily fingered her own penny-copper hair. “Or mayhap she wished to copy my own coloring—and the disposition that accompanies it.”

“God’s truth, I hope not.”

Both of Lily’s eyebrows lifted. “It is just that sort of thinking that you will want to keep to yourself if you expect to find me in your bed this evening.”

Sherry was uncertain if he was being teased or warned. He decided to tread carefully. “I only meant that your sweet temperament cannot be forced by trying to capture the rare beauty of your hair. I would have thought Cybelline would know that.”

“Prettily said. You recover quickly from your missteps.”

“The scoundrels’ influence.”

Lily was certain there was some truth in that. She smiled. “Does Cybelline say how the henna worked?”

“Since she tells us at the outset that it was an unfortunate decision, I think it is safe to say it did not work well.” He read on. “The color, she says, prompted Anna to throw porridge at her, Webb to cluck her tongue many times over, and Aunt Georgia to make unflattering comparisons to a cyprian.”

“Oh my. It must have been ghastly.”

“She mentions here that it was the red-orange of a popping ember.”

“Goodness.”

Sherry withheld comment and continued to read. “I gather the henna is coming out with repeated scrubbing, and there will be a return to her honey-colored tresses within a sennight.”

“Then no permanent harm has been done.”

“Apparently, that is the case.” He began the second page of Cybelline’s letter, and it was here that his frown deepened. “She is going to Penwyckham. I cannot believe it.” Looking up, he saw that Lily was not following. “Penwyckham is several days’ journey northeast of London, still south of Norfolk. It’s a village—a hamlet, actually, if that is the smaller. Aunt Georgia inherited a home there years ago. It was her aunt’s, Lady Beatrice Sharpe. Aunt Georgia never spent any significant time there, though I’ve always understood her to care for it.”

“Care for it? How do you mean?”

“What? Oh, I see. I was ambiguous. She cared for it in the sense of hiring people to keep it in decent repair and tend the garden. She has never, I believe, had any special affection for the house. At least she has not intimated as much to me.”

“But why is Cybelline going there?”

Sherry regarded his sister’s handwriting again and read on quickly. “She writes that remaining in London gives her no peace. She wishes to retire to the country and set up a house for herself and Anna. She will stay the winter there, perhaps longer. Cybelline believes Penwyckham will offer what she has not had in town: solitude.”

“Solitude? But she is often alone there.”

“No,” Sherry said softly, shaking his head. “She lives with Nicholas. I do not think she is ever by herself.”

“Oh, Sherry.” Lily’s shoulders sagged. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“I don’t think so. It seems she is set on the matter. I have never been able to persuade her to do anything different than what she will. Once turned in a particular direction, Cybelline is single-minded to a fault.”

“Then there will be no inducement that will bring her to Granville at Christmas.”

“Not Rosie, not the scoundrels. Certainly not you or me.”

Lily heard something in her husband’s voice that gave her pause. How hard it was for him to accept that Cybelline did not come immediately to his side. Until her marriage, Sherry was the man his sister put before all others. She still asked for his opinion about a political interest or looked to him for guidance in matters of finance, but nothing was as it ever had been. Nicholas Caldwell had absorbed most of Sherry’s critical responsibilities when he married Cybelline, then abandoned them when he put a pistol to his head.

“She loves us, you know,” Lily said. “Her decision to go to Penwyckham is not because she does not love us, you above all.”

“I know.” He had to work the words past the lump in his throat. Sherry could not quite meet his wife’s eye. “God forgive me, Lily, but I find a measure of relief knowing she will not come here—and a greater measure of guilt because I am relieved. Will there ever be a time when any of us is unburdened with regret and pain and guilt?” His voice dropped to a strained whisper. “Cybelline most of all.”

“Yes, there will be such a time.” Lily felt Sherry’s gaze shift to her. He wanted to believe what she was saying; she could sense the hopefulness of his expression. “I don’t know when, Sherry, or how it will come about, but each of us will make peace with what happened. Perhaps you and I cannot do so because Cybelline has not found it yet. I know it is what we both wish for her.”

“Above everything.”

“Yes, above everything. If Nicholas’s death had been in the course of an illness, an accident, mayhap even foul play, all of us would not be at the loose ends that we are now. But it was a suicide, and we both know, Sherry, while Cybelline does not, what profound consequences that has had for you.”

Sherry laid his sister’s letter on the desktop. He stood and crossed the room to the small drinks cabinet, where he selected a decanter of whisky. “Will you take something with me?” he asked, pouring two fingers for himself. He glanced in Lily’s direction and saw her refusal. It was only when his first swallow settled in the pit of his stomach that he spoke.

“I know better than anyone how a man might be persuaded to kill himself. I also know how it can be arranged to look like one thing while the reality is quite another.”

Lily nodded, though she said nothing.

“I could find no evidence that either of these things was true, and I cannot say whether I would be better or worse for knowing. If I accept that Nicholas’s suicide was precisely as it appeared, then the why of it troubles me as it does Cybelline. You have reason to know that he was a most amiable fellow. He doted on Cybelline and was elated at the birth of his daughter. He was a man with varied interests and a true scholar of antiquities. He provided more than adequately for his family. He did not gamble, keep a mistress, or entertain himself with whores. How did it escape us, then, that he was possessed of demons?”

Sherry took another short swallow of whiskey. “I made a point to learn all I could about Mr. Caldwell before he married my sister. It is not something I would admit to anyone save you, but I am not ashamed of it, either.”

“Do you think Cybelline would really be surprised to learn you made inquiries about her betrothed? I am certain she knows how seriously you take your responsibilities toward her. And if she thought scruples would restrain you from doing such a thing, she would not acquit Lady Rivendale of having the same.”

Sherry returned to his desk but not his chair. He hitched one hip on the edge closest to Lily and rolled the tumbler of whisky between his palms as he considered what she’d said. “If you are right, then Cybelline depended on me not to allow her to make a mistake, and—”

Lily interrupted. “I did not say she depended on you. I said she would not be surprised by your actions. It is not the same thing at all.”

He went on as if she had not spoken. “And it does not relieve me from the knowledge that my inquiry failed to bring something dark in Nicholas’s past to light.”

“Why do you think it must have been in his past? Could circumstances not change after his marriage? It might have been something in his present that troubled him enough to kill himself. How can you expect that you should have known that? Or warned Cybelline? Or prevented it? I love you, Sherry, and have thought upon occasion that the sun rises and sets by your pocket watch, but you are not all knowing.” She paused and under her breath added, “Your pocket watch is not even always accurate.”

Sherry blinked. After a moment, one corner of his mouth twitched. “You are damnably good at taking me down a peg. Two pegs in this instance. To discover that I am no visionary and my pocket watch is off the mark, well, it is most definitely lowering.”

Lily stood and stepped into the vee made by Sherry’s splayed legs. She took the tumbler from him and finished it before setting it aside. Taking his wrists, she drew his arms around her waist in a loose embrace. She felt his hands lock behind her and his double fist rest against the small of her back. Lily leaned forward just enough to brush his lips with hers.

“Cybelline is fortunate, indeed, to have you for her brother. You are in every way a good man, no matter that you do not always believe it. This strain will not last. I think her journey to Penwyckham is a first step in ending it. When you favor her with a reply, tell her that we miss her and Anna, that we wish her peace and joy of the season, and that we understand her decision to leave London. Write to her of what is in your heart, Sherry. She will find relief there, not more pain. I have to trust that you will find the same.”

Sherry lifted his head just enough to rest his cheek against Lily’s hair. She fit herself more closely to him, and he closed his eyes. “It is good advice,” he said quietly.

“I have not overstepped?”

“No. No, not at all. I cannot tell Cybelline what is in my heart without telling her of you. There is no part of you that is separate from it.”

She placed her palm over his chest and felt the steady beat. “It is no different for me,” she said. “No different at all.”

Restell Gardner regarded his brother from his half recline on the chaise longue. “I say, Kit, you have been in a dark mood of late. I don’t believe you’ve been attending me at all.”

Ferrin did not turn away from the shelf of books he was studying. “Good for you, Restell. I am not attending you. In fact, I am ignoring you. I believe you are bright enough to understand it is of a purpose.”

“I stand corrected,” Restell said. “It is not a dark mood. It is a black one.”

Porter Wellsley, sitting in the wing chair turned toward the fire, chuckled appreciatively. “You would do better to relate all of the particulars of your adventure to me and not attempt to include Ferrin. He is lost to us, I’m afraid, when he is engaged in matters of scientific inquiry.”

“Is that what he’s doing? Science?”

“Just so, though I don’t pretend to understand it. He’s a deep one, is your brother. It was the same at Cambridge. The darling of the dons and the bane of all of us with less talented upperworks. He was at his most content in one of the fusty old laboratories or the library. I was not the only one who despaired he would come to a bad end, blow up some damn fool thing or another. That’s what was in the wagering books, with substantial winnings to be earned by predicting what part of his anatomy he would lose to his experiments.”

“He has all his fingers and toes.”

“More’s the pity,” Wellsley said. “I wagered on the left pinky. I was his friend, you see, and I felt that making money from the loss of a larger appendage was rather beyond the pale.”

Ferrin made his selection from among the titles he was perusing and finally turned. “You would have wagered on the loss of my left bullock, Wellsley, if you thought I would be that careless.”

Wellsley shrugged. The grin he cast in Restell’s direction was somewhat sheepish. “He’s right. It was not misgivings that prevented me from making the wager but some understanding of your brother’s meticulous work habits.”

Restell laughed outright. “I am glad that I was sent to Oxford, then. Under no circumstances could I be mistaken for the darling of the dons. It would have been too much to follow in Ferrin’s footsteps at Cambridge. It is deuced difficult now, and I am only trying to secure a reputation as a gentleman about town.”

Ferrin looked up from his book long enough to roll his eyes.

Wellsley scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Mayhap you are too determined in the matter. Ferrin is two and thirty and has been at it for a time. There are those—Lady Gardner, for one—who would say he’s been at it too long. If you want to cultivate a rep such as your brother enjoys, you must not be so quick to avoid the clutches of all those females with marriage on their mind. Ferrin has always been careful to allow those young things and their mamas to hope that he can be caught. At least that is what I have observed as the trick of it. He is fascinating to them because he permits them to think he might be changed. I fear it is more of a balancing feat than I am able to manage. I am quite ready to be changed, while your brother is peculiarly content to remain a rascal.”

“I want to be a rascal,” Restell said feelingly.

“What do you mean you are ready to be changed?” Ferrin asked at the same time.

Restell, realizing that in his self-absorption he had missed something of import, echoed his brother. “Yes, Wellsley, what do you mean by that?”

“It means what it means,” Wellsley explained stoutly, if inadequately. When he saw that this was not going to pass muster with either Ferrin or Restell, he reluctantly elaborated. “I am all for the comforts of a married state. I think I will like to share the breakfast table with my wife.”

“Yes, but will you share the newspaper?” asked Ferrin.

Ignoring that, Wellsley went on. The broad planes of his face softened and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes, while in no way remote, were certainly engaged in seeing something as if from a distance. “I will enjoy the tricks wives get up to: planning parties when their allowance is insufficient; buying parasols and ribbons for no reason except they are struck by a mood; flirting with other gentlemen to lead their husbands about by the nose. It has been on my mind lately that there is nothing at all disagreeable about it.”

Ferrin dropped his book. Although it was done of a purpose and fell only so far as his desktop, the thump was considerable and had the desired effect: Wellsley jumped as though shot through the heart.

“What?” he asked, glaring at Ferrin. “What was that in aid of?”

It was Restell who offered the explanation. “You were speaking such nonsense as to be perfectly objectionable.”

“Was I?” He looked to his friend for confirmation.

Ferrin’s mouth pulled slightly to one side, and he offered a nod reluctantly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, dear.” Wellsley sighed. “I am over the moon, then.”

“I think that might be understating it,” Ferrin said dryly. He skirted his desk until he came to stand in front of it, then he leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Might we inquire as to the name of the female who has put you there?”

The tips of Wellsley’s ears reddened. “I have not declared myself to her. You will understand, then, my reluctance to give you her name.”

Restell chose a small embroidered pillow from the chaise and pitched it at Wellsley’s head. “He might understand, but I do not. Are you afraid we will let it about? That’s not very trusting of you. I know how to keep a secret.”

“So do I,” Wellsley said, tossing the pillow back. “And that is by keeping it to myself. Is that not right, Ferrin?”

“That’s right.” Ferrin was prepared to say more on the subject for Restell’s benefit, but a commotion in the adjoining drawing room put a period to the half-formed moral lesson. Restell might have preferred it, Ferrin thought, to what surely was coming. “It is Mother,” he said unnecessarily. Restell was abandoning his negligent posture on the chaise for something more like a military bearing, while Wellsley was already on his feet.

Lady Gardner swept through the door thrown open to her by the butler and demanded, “Ferrin, is that rascal—. Never mind, I can see that he is.” Her eyes bored into her stepson.

“Take heart, Restell,” Ferrin said. “Mother thinks you are a rascal.” Ignoring Restell’s unamused glance, Ferrin pushed away from his desk and stepped forward to greet his mother. He took both her hands and kissed her cheek. “You are looking in the very pink of health, Mother.”

“Frankly, I am overset.”

“But you are in fine color.”

Lady Gardner removed her hands from Ferrin’s and patted her cheeks. “They are not too flushed?”

“No.”

“It is no thanks to Restell.”

“I am sure it is not.”

She looked around her son’s broad shoulders to dart a sharp glance at her stepson. He was standing stiffly beside the chaise. “He said he could not escort me to either Bond Street or the bookseller’s because he was calling upon Miss Martha Hopkins this afternoon. He knew I would approve of that. She is to have a dowry of six thousand pounds and shall come into a trust established by her late grandmother when she is twenty-five.”

“I am sure you do not mean to be mercenary.”

“Mercenary? Of course not. I mean to be practical. One must plan, you know, and I am credited with being able to see the long view. Restell’s prospects are not the same as yours, are they?”

“He will not be an earl,” Ferrin said cautiously.

She waved that aside. “That is the least of it. He will not have thirty thousand pounds a year. He will not have homes in town and in the country. He will not have lands in abundance nor tenants to work them. There will be no rents to collect or profits to be made from cattle and crops and investments.”

Restell’s weight shifted. He cleared his throat and made what he hoped was an acceptable offer. “I shall put a bullet to my head at once.”

Lady Gardner stepped around Ferrin and pointed a finger at Restell. “That is not at all amusing. Do you know with whom I spent the afternoon when you would not escort me?” She did not give him time to answer and neither Ferrin nor Wellsley—who thought himself well out of it—ventured a guess. “Lady Rivendale. I met her at Barkley’s and had tea with her. Mr. Nicholas Caldwell was her niece’s husband.” Restell’s blank look did not put him in her good graces. She speared Wellsley with her glance. “I suppose you do not know who that is, either?”

“I believe Mr. Caldwell killed himself with a pistol ball to the head,” Wellsley said. “That was the on-dit at the time, though I have never speculated as to the truth or falseness of the rumor.”

“You do not often impress me, Mr. Wellsley,” Lady Gardner said. “But it is excellent that you have done so now.” She smiled at him warmly, further evidence of her approbation. This evidence vanished when she returned her attention to Restell. “Mr. Wellsley is quite right not to engage in rumor. I know it from Lady Rivendale herself that what was alleged is true. I can assure you that no one in that family finds anything diverting about it. Mrs. Caldwell was at your sister’s masquerade. It was one of only a handful of public appearances that she’s made since her husband’s death. Imagine how she would have reacted to hearing you speak so cavalierly about putting a pistol to your head.”

Ferrin watched Restell take his mother’s harangue on the chin. A lock of pale yellow hair fell over his brother’s brow, but except to shake it back, he did not move. The lecture was undeserved, but it was good of Restell not to try to defend himself. He had to realize that if he had provided an escort rather than shirking the responsibility, she would not be put out with him now.

“In fairness to Restell,” Ferrin said, “the subject did not come up at the masque.”

She rounded on him. “The subject did not come up now, either. He plucked it out of the air.” She touched her cheeks again. “I will have a drop of sherry, Ferrin, to calm my nerves.” Accepting Wellsley’s escort, Lady Gardner took the chair he had previously occupied and fanned herself lightly. “How would any of us know if we had said something untoward?” she asked. “Mrs. Caldwell is unknown to me even when she is not dressed as a Gainsborough shepherdess.”

Ferrin paused in pouring his mother the drink she requested. “A shepherdess?” he asked with considerably more casualness than he felt. “That does not narrow it at all, does it? Pray, what color were the ribbons on her crook?”

“Green,” Lady Gardner said. “I asked Lady Rivendale the very same question. I was assured they were green.”