by Archer, Kate
The party had spent some pleasant hours in the sunshine and the dinner that evening had been a cozy affair, as it was only those staying in the house.
This evening, though, they were to entertain a few neighbors. Sybil had not thought much about it until she’d overheard her father and Lord Hugh discussing the matter in the great hall.
As she sat alone in the drawing room, having thought to practice on the pianoforte while nobody was about and thumbing through pieces of music, she heard talking just outside the doors.
Lord Hugh said, “It will be the Jennings and Lord and Lady Montague. Mr. and Mrs. Jennings are a pleasant couple, we dine with them often. As for the Montagues, well, duty and all that. We usually escape them as they generally have a standing engagement in Hertfordshire at this time of year, but they do not attend this time. Lady Hugh insisted we could not dodge them.”
“Lady Montague?” Lord Blanding had asked.
“Yes, do you know her?”
“Unfortunately,” her father had said. “She was instrumental in drumming up trouble for Lady Marksworth’s daughter and is therefore a sworn enemy to my family.”
Sybil heard Lord Hugh quietly sigh. “You have quite a lot of sworn enemies, Blanding.”
“I would not have any at all if these confounded people would not cross me.”
“Ah, well, I’ll see to it you do not take her into dinner. Though, this is rather bad news. I had thought to hold off as long as I could to avoid aggravating you, but another person you may not care for arrives. At least, I assume he will arrive at some point—Lord Lockwood.”
“Lockwood! That spawn of Gravesley’s!”
“That is precisely what I called him, though my wife did not appreciate the moniker. I did not invite him, you can be sure of that. The fellow invited himself.”
“All too typical, spoiled gentlemen generally have the manners of apes.”
“Well said, my friend.”
The two gentlemen’s conversation faded away as they went out the front doors to walk the grounds.
Sybil sat back. She had already been working to resign herself that Lord Lockwood would arrive, and now Lady Montague too! Was she to be surrounded on all sides by people she was sworn against? It was one thing to weigh the possibilities of forgiving Lord Lockwood, though in the end she’d had to come down against it as a matter of principle. But Lady Montague? Never!
The idea of that monstrous lady brought back all the horrors of the night of Cassandra’s ball. Lord Burke rushing in to inform Lady Marksworth that Lady Montague had threatened anybody who would dare attend. The realization that Cassandra’s ball would be an utter humiliation. Her poor friend’s flight from London.
Though it was true that it had been, in the end, Lady Montague who was forced to decamp from town and that must give Sybil some comfort, she did not see how she was to countenance such a person.
And then, Lord Lockwood’s arrival hanging over her head like the Sword of Damocles. She wished he would arrive, not because she so wished to see him, but to have done with it. She had promised her father and she would keep her promise—Lord Lockwood was to be nothing to her. And yet, their first meeting at a house party must be awkward. Rules must be left unspoken, and yet understood, on how they were to navigate around each other.
Sybil felt a queasiness in her stomach as she realized she would also have to view Lord Lockwood overcome by Poppy Mapleton’s beauty. Sybil had, she knew, grown rather used to Lord Lockwood putting her above all others. Had there been any ball they had both attended that he did not take her into supper? Only a few, and that had been because some other gentleman had put his name down first. At those moments, Lord Lockwood’s disappointment had always been in evidence, which she’d felt at the time was just as good as him finding success. He’d shown her marked attention, everybody with eyes knew it.
Then, she’d informed him that her father would no longer allow such interactions.
She’d thought he looked so struck by it! If she were to be honest with herself, and only herself as she’d never breathe a word of it to anybody else, she had even spent some pleasant moments wondering what sort of bold action Lord Lockwood might take. Might he do something daring to overcome her father’s directive? Might he not charge into the card room and demand to plead his case?
Those wonderings came to an end when he’d carried on as if he’d never laid eyes on her.
Was that not just like a gentleman of the pact? It was all a merry game to them. They had no real feelings, no real inclinations. Well, perhaps exempting Lord Hampton, as he had gone and got himself married. The rest of them, though. Sybil had vowed in the beginning of the season that she would have nothing to do with them. She’d vowed it with a clear head and she should have stuck to it.
It was just as well that she’d determined to have done with him. It would have been all the more painful if she remained under the illusion that he admired her, only to see him conquered by Poppy Mapleton.
Of course, it had all been an illusion from the beginning. Every time Sybil looked at Poppy, she could not help but reflect on her own person. Short, dark, nothing in particular to tempt. She had flattered herself, or she had allowed herself to be flattered. It mattered not which; she had been a fool.
Sybil knew it was time to gird her resolve. She must have resolve; she was a Hayworth. The family was swimming in resolve, built from generations of iron will.
She thought she had never missed Cornwall so much. She’d been eager to get out of the county, but now it would be a comfort to be home. There, she had a comfortable place in the society of the neighborhood, and she was sure of that place. Cornwall was not built on illusions. London had been nothing but an illusion—a faerie’s veil that might cloud the eyes, only to be lifted in a trice.
*
Despite his friend’s doubts about his ability to get on the mail coach, Richard had muscled his way on by way of threats and bribes. The journey itself had, as he had expected, been an uncomfortable one. The carriage was badly sprung, went at a breakneck pace regardless of the condition of the road, and they were jostled this way and that for hours together. The physical discomfort was somewhat less disturbing than the glares and lectures from the middle-aged lady seated across from him. It had been her husband that Richard had bribed a seat from and Mrs. Clay, as she said her name was, claimed her no-good spouse would drink every last pence of the payment in a local tavern.
Richard thought he should have felt more sympathetic to the lady’s plight than he did. In truth, if he was married to the lady, he’d be drinking away every last pence in his pocket too.
Richard shut his eyes and shut his ears. No journey, he knew, could last forever. Mrs. Clay must eventually march off to whatever abode she called home and trouble him no more. That he could not claim the same for Mr. Clay was not his problem to contemplate.
Twenty hours after he’d ousted Mr. Clay from the company of his charming wife, the mail had careened into the town of York. It would have been no trouble at all to hire a carriage directly to carry him to Dartsfell Hall, but there was the matter of his clothes and his person. He’d been traveling for days and he was not at all presentable in his current state. Further, it might be another day or two before his valet turned up with new clothes.
He took himself off to the Boar’s Head Inn and ordered a bath, a shave, his shirt to be laundered, and a tailor sent to him. Dalton’s coat was first rate and the shoulders were perfect, but the sleeves were a half-inch too long and the length of it slightly too much. He would have it sized, and Dalton could make what he liked about it. As his shirt dried on a line under the afternoon sun and a tailor worked on his coat by the light of the window, he ordered chops and ale to pass the time.
He’d finally got his clothes back and hurried out to find a driver. It was dark by the time he’d made his way out of York.
As the carriage trotted down country lanes with the lamps swinging on either side and casting ghostly shadows, Richard w
as well-satisfied with himself. He’d said he’d attend Lord Hugh’s house party in Yorkshire, and he was on his way.
Of course, he understood his friends’ concerns, and would not even hold it against Dalton for keeping him prisoner. They were all terrified of waking up to find themselves saddled with a wife and discovering that their fathers’ bizarre pact had succeeded. Hampton had already fallen prey to a lady’s charms, and naturally they were afraid he was intent on traveling down the same path.
It was not at all the truth. It was only that he did not like to be told what he could and could not do. Lord Blanding had ordered his daughter to cut him, so it was the most natural thing in the world to rail against it. Had he not made it the habit of his life to rail against injustice? Particularly any injustice against himself? Even Wellington had felt the sting of his ire.
Reprimanded for taking too many risks, in particular risks that had been approved by nobody but himself, Richard had defied the general and taken another one as soon as he saw an opportunity. He’d slipped through the enemy’s line and started a fire that had swept through their camp, burning their tents and exploding their ammunition. That he’d only escaped the flames himself by taking off his coat, dousing it in a bucket of water, and holding it over his face was beside the point.
Wellington had thrown up his hands in despair and so would Lord Blanding.
He was certain it would prove to be a simple matter to change Lord Blanding’s opinion, dance with Lady Sybil, reestablish his good name, and then that was an end to it.
Richard felt the slightest shade settle over him as he recalled Ashworth’s comment when he’d claimed that would be an end to it. Aside from Hampton, Ashworth knew him better than anybody. Ashworth most definitely did not think that would be an end to it.
But then, Ashworth was so often wrong, was he not? Had it not been Ashworth who had refused to follow him behind the enemy’s line to set it afire, claiming it was suicide? It had not been suicide; he had only been singed and he was still walking round the earth as proof.
No, Ashworth was not to be the arbiter of his intentions. He knew what he was about.
“It’s just ahead, my lord,” the coachman said, interrupting his thoughts.
Richard leaned out the window to get a glimpse of the house. It was lit up like blazes and there were several carriages on the drive.
“I’ve been behind enemy lines before,” he said to himself, “and so I will shortly be again.”
*
It had been a struggle for Sybil to go down to the drawing room. In her bedchamber, Betty had laid out a lovely pale blue satin dress. The shine of the material would have made it feel almost gaudy, and yet the cut was so simple as to make it only elegant.
Sybil had nearly exhausted herself listening for the carriage wheels that would signal Lord Lockwood poised to descend upon them and contemplating how she was to coolly greet Lady Montague without being so cool as to offend Lady Hugh. She did not care a fig for offending Lady Montague, and rather hoped she might, but she would not for the world inconvenience Lord and Lady Hugh.
“I suppose I look exceedingly tired, Betty,” Sybil said, still not having got up from her chair to be dressed.
“You don’t look tired, yet I can see in your manner that you’re under the weather spirit-wise. If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, my lady,” Betty said, “you ought to be abed.”
It often surprised Sybil how perceptive Betty could be. Her maid always seemed to sense her changing moods.
“Taking to my bed is a pleasant thought,” she said, “but I cannot wish to alarm my mother and father without reason, nor displease Lady Hugh. One has one’s duties, you know.”
“Do I ever know!” Betty said. “As if the downstairs don’t keep pounding on the subject of duties one don’t care for. It’d be impossible not to know about it.”
“What do they say downstairs, of duties they do not care for?”
Betty picked up a brush from the dressing table, then laid it back down, then heavily sighed.
“I already know, you hate to tell of gossip,” Sybil said, smiling. “Let us dispense with that little nicety and leap ahead to what you have heard.”
Betty looked exceedingly encouraged, as evidenced by her instantly perching herself on a corner of the bed.
“They all keep complaining about that picnic at the lake. There’s footmen that say they’ll never recover from draggin’ it all there and draggin’ it all home again. One of them says he’ll not do it again, though that strikes me as a bit of folderol. I’d like to see him say it, I would.”
Sybil nodded. She had thought as much about the elaborate picnic.
“They’re in an uproar ’cause they got to drag so much back there again for the regatta and it strikes them as harsh. Then a-course there’s all kinds of talk about Lady Montague comin’ tonight. Nobody likes her, down to a man.”
“Very sensible,” Sybil said. “I do not like her either.”
“The one bright spot down there is that there’s speculation that the unwelcome visitor might not come at all,” Betty said.
Sybil sat up. What did she mean, not come at all?
“They say, if he were a-comin,’ he’d be here already. They say they since discovered he’s a muckety-muck sort of lord going to be a duke someday and probably says he’s going to all sorts of places he don’t turn up to. Them kind do what they like and the rest of us can just lump it.”
Sybil could not quite decipher her feelings on being apprised that Lord Lockwood was not to come at all. She should have felt a vast relief. After all, she had been fretting over it for days. Though, it was not quite relief. It was more of an empty sort of feeling.
The first gong had rung.
“Now you’ll be late, my lady, unless we step to it.” Betty had looked down at her hands twisting the bed linen and leapt to her feet. “Extraordinary how that happens,” she whispered.
*
Sybil stood with Poppy in the drawing room, them both pretending to examine some pieces of music next to the pianoforte, but neither very interested in it. Poppy had already admitted to being a lackadaisical student of the instrument and had expressed her deep sorrow for Mr. Rankin, her old music master. As Poppy told it, his eyes watered every time she played for him.
They had since moved on to discuss the guests who would arrive for dinner.
“I only say, the woman treated Cassandra abominably,” Sybil said.
“Of course, she did,” Poppy said merrily. “Lady Montague treats everybody abominably.”
“My challenge is how to cut her without offending Lady Hugh. I would wish Lady Montague to know that I see her for what she is, and yet I cannot be outright rude to a guest of our hostess.”
Poppy was thoughtful for a moment. “I do not see why you should bother with it. Everybody already knows what Lady Montague is, at least everybody in this neighborhood. You cannot imagine the glee when it was realized that she’d had to quit the season. People thought it was just payment for all her barbs and stings over the years. You ought not give her another thought.”
Sybil thumbed through the pages of music, considering Poppy’s words. Here was another person counseling a sort of amnesia, regardless of the circumstances. Did nobody stick to their principles outside of Cornwall? Was convenience to outweigh everything?
The butler came to the door and announced, “Lord and Lady Montague.”
Sybil turned. There was the loathed lady herself, looking not quite as imposing as she remembered. She laid down her music and joined her parents.
The Montagues acknowledged the Jennings, Sir John, and Poppy, who they already were well-acquainted with. Lady Hugh led the couple to Sybil and her parents. “Have you previously met Lord and Lady Blanding and their daughter, Lady Sybil?”
Sybil curtsied. Before Lady Montague could acknowledge the acquaintance, Sybil’s mother said, “We have not met as often as we’d like. We had hoped to encounter the Montagues at Lady Marksworth’s ba
ll, but we did not see them there.”
Lord Montague shuffled his feet. Lord Blanding looked delighted and proud. Sybil bit her lip as Lady Montague’s face paled. It was her mother’s own particular style of genius to mention the ball that Lady Montague had worked to ruin.
“And then,” Lady Blanding said pleasantly, “we were sorry to hear you had left London so suddenly. In any case, here you are.”
“Indeed,” Lady Montague said.
Sybil smiled at Lady Montague and thought, And that is how a Hayworth vanquishes the enemy. Brava, Mama.
Lord and Lady Montague moved off.
Just as Sybil thought to congratulate her mother over so skillfully taking down Lady Montague, the butler intoned, “The Marquess of Lockwood.”
Chapter Six
Sybil looked over her mother’s shoulder and felt momentarily frozen. It was as if she stood on an iced-over pond and the cold had seeped up through her shoes. Lord Lockwood, having just arrived, was not as perfectly dressed as she had been used to seeing him. His hair had been blown about by the wind and his coat, while fine, was not perfectly chosen for a dinner. She thought he looked as he must have done in the war—a man with pressing things to do, a man on the move who could not stop to dandy himself up. He was rather magnificent.
“Spawn,” her father said quietly.
That one word from her father was enough to bring her back to her duty. Lord Lockwood might appear dashing at this moment, but he was their sworn enemy.
Lady Hugh hurried over to Lord Lockwood, though Sybil noticed Lord Hugh was rather slow about it.
