by Archer, Kate
Sybil heard Lord Lockwood apologize for his dress and claim his valet flagged behind him somewhere. Lady Hugh said he was to think nothing of it, they were to be a simple country party and nobody need stand on ceremony.
Lady Montague greeted the lord at once stiffly and with a marked deference. She no doubt thought to get back into the gentleman’s good graces. Lockwood, himself, was rather perfunctory, as if he hardly noticed the lady.
Lord Lockwood met Sir John and the Jennings, and then he was led to Poppy.
Sybil felt it almost hard to breathe as she watched Lord Lockwood’s introduction to Poppy Mapleton. This certainly was why he’d come. He could not fail to be overcome by her beauty. Who would not? Poppy would stun in a potato sack, and here she was, dressed in a crème silk that was a magnificent frame for her vibrant coloring. Others might require bits and bobs to shore up their looks, Sybil counted herself among them, but Poppy had no need of anything. She was as if God intended to create the most lovely person living.
Lord Lockwood bowed and whatever he said, Sybil did not catch it. Poppy laughed, so it had been amusing. Of course, he would seek to amuse. He would put his best foot forward, seeking to impress as the eldest son of a duke. He sought to conquer the beauty of the season before she’d ever set foot in London. What a feather in his cap it would be. She supposed he was very proud of his bold incursion into the Hughs’ house party.
Lord Lockwood moved on and approached her, as of course Sybil knew he must. He would make some vague greeting and then be back at Poppy’s side as soon as he decently could.
“Lord and Lady Blanding, Lady Sybil,” Lord Lockwood said. “I am delighted to find you here.”
“Delighted, are you?” Lord Blanding asked stiffly.
“Very,” Lord Lockwood replied.
“Harumph,” Lord Blanding said in answer. Sybil knew this to be one of her father’s expressions of deep disdain. He had often “harumphed” in Mr. Hurst’s direction with great success. She wondered, though, if Lord Lockwood felt its full condemnation. He was looking rather too cheerful to have comprehended it.
“We do hope, Lord Lockwood,” Lady Blanding said, “that your friend Lord Hampton takes every care of our Cassandra. After all she went through.”
Sybil smiled. Now, he would feel the sting of the Hayworths.
“Indeed,” Lord Lockwood said, cheerful as ever, “I’ve had a letter from Hampton, they are both deliriously happy. He says they might never return from their wedding trip as the Italian sun suits them both.”
Both of Sybil’s parents seemed rather nonplussed at that news.
“Lady Sybil,” Lord Lockwood said. “How do you fare since I saw you last at the Hathaway’s ball?”
This, Sybil knew, was her opportunity to show him what the Hayworths were made of. He was to feel the Cornish bludgeon.
“I find the air far less sullied than what I experienced in London, my lord.”
“Yes, of course, the fog can be terrible in town. Though I venture one hardly notices it until one departs for the country,” Lord Lockwood said.
Sybil was filled with consternation. Had she been too subtle? Had they all been too subtle? He did not look in the least offended by their hints. Lady Montague had perceived the insult instantly, why did not Lord Lockwood?
A bell rang in the hall and Lady Hugh approached. “Dinner is served. Lord Lockwood, would you take in Miss Mapleton? Sybil, Sir John will take you in, dear.”
Sybil was both relieved and annoyed. Of course, Lady Hugh would be well aware that Lord Lockwood was their enemy, and so very considerate to not force her to be led to dinner by him. But on the other hand, it did not suit that he was to take in Poppy.
She scolded herself for it. She had no interest in the man and even if she did, no amount of maneuvering at dinner could keep a determined gentleman from a beautiful lady’s side. She must resign herself to be outshone. Poppy was a brilliant sun and Sybil Hayworth was some far-off star, barely blinking.
Still, it was very frustrating that he did not at least perceive the insults her family had hurled upon him.
They were a small enough party round the Hughs’ table that conversation was not constrained only to one’s neighbors. Sir John spoke of his horse Caesar more than once, though it had been a better subject to be discussed after the ladies had retired. From across the table, Poppy confirmed that Sir John’s horse was magnificent. Lord Lockwood claimed a wish to see the horse for himself, which appeared to endear him to both Sir John and Poppy.
Sybil fumed over it. It was an all too apparent bid to arrange for Poppy to escort him to the stables. Conversations could be had on such excursions. She thought it would be very pleasant if the lord were not so obvious in his schemes.
Lady Montague asked Lord Lockwood some very vague questions about London, all of which Sybil assumed were meant to gauge the temperature of feelings either for or against her. The lord gave her equally vague answers and did not provide her with much to go on.
Lady Hugh was like a juggler, keeping those that were not fond of one another from skirmishing too much. That was, until Sybil’s father would insist on throwing down a challenge.
“We are very keen on lawn bowling here,” Lord Blanding said to Lord Lockwood. “We wager large sums on the outcomes. But then, I suppose you won’t have the stomach for that sort of thing. Considering your situation.”
Sybil knew this to be the bait it was meant to be. No gentleman would acknowledge not having the stomach for a bet. Most certainly, no gentleman of Lord Lockwood’s temperament would own to it, regardless of the Dukes’ Pact and his currently reduced circumstances.
“I should like very much to try it out,” Lord Lockwood said.
Sybil’s father appeared delighted. Not only would the lord wager, but it seemed he had little experience with the sport. It would be, in Lord Blanding’s view, a very winning combination.
“We meet on the green at one sharp on the morrow,” Lord Blanding said, attacking his beef as if it were Lord Lockwood himself on the plate.
After dinner, both Poppy and Sybil were pressed to play the pianoforte. This, at least, was an activity where Sybil could shine. She had a penchant for playing and had practiced diligently for years. She could read music as easily as she could read a book, but perhaps more importantly, she had a good feel for a piece of music’s intent. She understood what the composer meant by it, what the soul of it was. It was true that she had to reach for the keys rather further than those ladies graced with longer fingers attached to longer arms, but she had never let that be an impediment.
Poppy was not so skilled and hit no end of wrong keys, though Sybil supposed a lady like Poppy Mapleton might pound the keys with her fists and be no worse for it.
When she could decently do it, Sybil looked around at the gathering. Sir John sat with a book on architecture, ever planning what he would do to his house. Lord and Lady Montague played cards with the Hughs for a few rounds, but left early, Lady Montague claiming a headache. Sybil was not sorry to see them go, nor did they appear sorry to leave.
The Jennings took the Montagues’ place and the card game went on long after that. Lord Lockwood spent the evening near to harassing her father. If Lord Blanding would sit at one end of the room, Lord Lockwood would place himself in the vicinity. If he would move, Lord Lockwood would move in his direction. If he picked up a book, Lord Lockwood would ask what it was about. The gentleman even followed Lord Blanding onto the balcony to get some air.
Lady Blanding and Lady Hugh were helpless watchers. Lady Hugh had no wish to see a disagreement erupt. Lady Blanding did not care a fig how Lord Lockwood was to be insulted, but she knew her husband well. If the harassment went on too long, Lord Blanding’s temper might just erupt and lead to a throwing down of the gauntlet. That was a situation she did not care to see unfold.
For herself, Sybil was both annoyed and confused. Annoyed that Lord Lockwood did not pay the least attention to her playing, though she knew it to be
exceptional. Confused over the lord’s attention to her father. She had expected all attention to be firmly focused on Poppy. Why should Lord Lockwood insist on hanging about her father? It must be clear enough that Lord Blanding did not prefer his company.
Why did he go on with it?
She supposed it was some sort of game he played, with himself the only person who saw any amusement in it.
Finally, Lady Hugh dropped all sorts of hints that the party should retire. Most notably, candles burned down and were not replaced, and even a gently stifled yawn was heard from the lady.
*
“He appears to be as dumb as an ox,” Lord Blanding said to his wife as he paced their bedchamber. “He would insist on talking to me, despite the insults I threw at him, right and left.”
Lady Blanding sat at her dressing table while her lady’s maid unwound her curls and brushed out her hair. “I do not believe I understand Lord Lockwood at all,” she said. “Why does he push in here and why does he follow you about?”
“As I said, dumb as an ox. Though, his idiocy will cost him. I challenged him to every game on the property. He’ll leave here as poor as a church mouse.”
“Just see that it is not us who leave as poor as church mice, my dear.”
“He wanted to know about dancing,” Lord Blanding said, ignoring his good wife’s worry. “How should I know if there is a ball planned?”
“Of course you know it,” Lady Blanding said, laughing. “There is always the regatta ball at the end of our visit here.”
“I told him I knew nothing about it. Why should any reasonable man be so wholly focused on parading around a ballroom floor, I should like to know.”
“Perhaps he is intent on parading around with Miss Mapleton?”
“Yes. Of course, that would be it,” Lord Blanding said, pulling on his nightcap. “He’ll want to make his claim on her before the season. Sir John says she’s considered a great beauty—I suppose he is right, and that stupid young buck looks for some sort of bragging rights. Well, that’s a shame. She seems a nice enough girl, I should not like to see her involved with that rotter.”
Lady Blanding said to her maid, “That is all, Smith.”
The lady’s maid straightened the brushes and combs on the dressing table, curtsied, and let herself out of the room. Lady Blanding turned to her husband. “My darling, we cannot take on every family’s fights. It was all well and good to stand for Cassandra, but I fear Miss Mapleton must go forward on her own in this matter. After all, she is under the supervision of her godparents.”
“I suppose you know best, my dear. Still, it is a shame she should be saddled with such a creature as Lockwood. On the bright side, I’ve arranged a card game with that idiot at the end of the visit. It must be at the end, you see, as it will afford me the greatest poetic justice and he’ll have no chance to win any of it back. I shall take whatever I have not already taken off him and leave him penniless, just as his father attempted to do to me all those years ago.”
Lord Blanding tented his fingers. “The scales will have finally been tipped my way, and that damned duke will know it.”
*
Sybil paced her room for some time. It had been a most unsatisfactory evening.
It was so unfair! She was meant to be enjoying her time in this house, she was meant to be forgetting all about the season and London and everybody in it.
First, Lady Montague must appear. Though, as Sybil reflected on it, she could not say she was wholly dissatisfied with that encounter. Lady Montague had acted badly in town, and her parents had made it clear they had not forgotten.
Had it been only Lady Montague to contend with, Sybil might not find herself so out of sorts. But Lord Lockwood! He must come and discompose her.
There had been London parties at which she had played on the pianoforte and he had stayed nearby, and turned her pages, and gone out of his way to compliment her on her skill. This night, it was if she had not played at all.
She supposed he did not wish to comment, as he would no doubt wish to laud Poppy’s playing and had not seen his way clear to do it. Her turns at the pianoforte had been, at times, nearing awful. The girl was a darling, but she had a tin ear.
Perhaps he would not stay. After all, he must only wish to claim an acquaintance with Miss Mapleton before the next season had begun and now he’d done it.
Sybil began to get the idea that Lord Lockwood might even have arrived as a result of a bet. It really would make sense. Those gentlemen of the pact might be counted on to do anything. She could just imagine them sitting around in some club or other, discussing the reports of Miss Mapleton’s looks. She was acclaimed as the beauty of the north, after all. They could not have failed to hear of it. They would have had some low conversation about it, and then one of them would have proposed a wager. Of course, Lord Lockwood would have taken it up at once.
It would be all a joke to the gentleman. He would no doubt laugh all the way back to London.
She wished he would go. He should go as soon as possible.
*
The sun shone brightly in Lord Lockwood’s bedchamber, he having been up at dawn and thrown the curtains open.
Richard stretched himself out in bed, drinking the coffee he’d convinced a footman to bring up to him. It had been a most satisfactory evening.
Lord Blanding had tried every which way to insult him, but Richard had only blithely smiled and pretended at ignorance. He had followed Blanding this way and that, knowing that the thing was to keep him talking. It hardly mattered what came out of the old fellow’s mouth, as long as he was still talking.
Anybody who’d led a regiment knew that arguments between soldiers never got anywhere without talking. Settle it with an order that one side thought was unfair, and one side would always consider it unfair, and that fellow would seethe over it forever. How often had he forced two hardheaded soldiers into a tent with instructions to keep talking until they could come to him with a solution? Whether it was a fight over a camp follower, or recriminations over who did not move fast enough in battle, or accusations of who took more than their fair share of the pot, he never bothered to deliver a judgment. All he need do was to keep them talking until they were too exhausted to go on with it. That was precisely his plan with Lord Blanding. The man despised him, but Richard would eventually wear him down to a gentle dislike.
Though Lord Blanding claimed to know nothing about it, Richard was certain that at some point, there would be dancing—it was a house party, there was always dancing. By then, Lord Blanding would have thrown his hands up in defeat. He would dance with Lady Sybil, and then ride away with his head held high, having accomplished what he set out to do.
The only aspect of the previous night that had been less than satisfactory had been the number of wagers Lord Blanding had thrown at his feet. It seemed that part of the wearing down would consist of endless bets with the gentleman. Richard would be more comfortable in considering it, had his funds not recently been halved. Worse, one of the gauntlets thrown at him had been a regatta. A regatta! He was a soldier, not a sailor. He’d already determined to write a friend in the Navy for advice, hoping the fellow was in port and that, somehow, such a thing could be taught by letter.
A knock on the door interrupted his ruminations. Expecting Freddie, the footman who acted as his valet until Kingston turned up, he said, “Enter.”
Rather than Freddie, Kingston, himself, entered the room. More astonishingly, the London street urchin to whom he’d consigned his note to Kingston all those days ago, the boy who called himself King Charles the second if he remembered rightly, followed on his valet’s heels. The young fellow dragged in his trunk.
Richard sat up in his bed. He pointed at the boy and said, “What on earth does he do here?”
Kingston was momentarily still, then staggered back. “What does he do here?” he sputtered. The valet turned and stared down at the boy. “You said my lord specially asked that you accompany me!”
Charlie, or Charles as he liked to be called, laid down the trunk and said smoothly, “Ah, I can see where the confusion is.” To Richard he said, “Your man here understood that you said I ought to come. I should have been all specific-like and pointed out that you would have said I ought to come, if you’d thought of it.”
“Which I did not,” Richard said drily.
“You did not,” Charlie said, nodding. “And more’s the pity.”
“You little scoundrel,” Kingston said. “I’ll run you to the road this instant and you can make your way back to London however you might. If you starve on the way, it’ll be one less delinquent in the world.”
“That might be a bit harsh, Kingston,” Richard said.
“Harsh! My lord, this reprobate has eaten his way here, he is never full, all on your money. Then, he complains at the inn, because he has to sleep on the floor. He’s spent a life sleeping out of doors, now he complains about the floor!”
“One does like one’s comfort when one can get it,” Charlie said gravely. “And, that bed was big enough for two, you know it was.”
“I do not care if it was big enough for ten,” Kingston said huffily, “I have no wish to share in your fleas. Now, out with you and speak to nobody. Do not dare go to the kitchens and beg for your bread, you ate enough chops this morning to hold you until Michaelmas. Out the servant’s entrance and to the road before the house rises and do not look back.”
“Kingston,” Richard said, becoming amused by the enterprising little villain who had attached himself to his valet. “I hardly think that is necessary.”
“Don’t come down too hard on the fella,” Charlie said, hooking a thumb toward Kingston. “He do all sorts of things that ain’t necessary. You would not believe the care he takes for his person, you’d think he was off to meet the king.”
“I never!” Kingston cried.
“I ain’t surprised you never,” Charlie said with a smirk.
“Enough,” Richard said. “We’ll not throw him to the road just yet. But, you make a point about the fleas, Kingston. He’s to have a bath and his clothes boiled while we consider what to do with him. Go down to the kitchens and arrange it.”
