Julia began to weep. “I am sorry. I did not mean to make things worse. Shall I send her back, Sebastian? Please do not make me. It was ever so difficult to convince her to come. And she has been given the whole month to stay here. Pray let her, Sebastian. It is the only holiday poor Miss Stafford has had in two years!”
For once, Sebastian did not trust his hearing. “Miss Stafford?”
“Certainly Miss Stafford! Whom did you think I meant? Oh, dear! You have not become confused, have you? Is it from the pain? Or is it—”
Milsom cleared his throat. “If I may interject, my lady. You’ve given the impression that Miss Stafford is married to a Mr. Dinwiddy—”
“I never did! I said she was a governess to the Dinwiddy family.” Julia paused, her brow creasing. “Didn’t I?”
“A governess,” Sebastian repeated. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, but it is true! That is where I found her. At a quaint little house in Cheapside. She had no idea who I was at first, but after I explained…Well…She did not want to come—”
“No doubt,” he said acidly, taking another swallow of his brandy.
“Not because of your injury. I think…That is…She said that I was mistaken. That you did not care for her. Though I do not know how that can be since you have kept her lock of hair with you all this time. And so I told her!”
“You what?”
Julia drew back. “I know I should not have said so, but she would not have believed you wanted to see her otherwise, would she? I daresay she is disappointed you did not come to her aid after her father died.”
Anger, mortification, and deep, overwhelming misery warred within his breast. He scarcely knew what his sister said anymore. Miss Stafford was not married? Miss Stafford was a governess? Her father was dead?
He had been home nearly a year, secluded in the country and, most of the time, very nearly off his head with pain and anguish. He had not been able to bear the daily papers. Indeed, the British Army, the sepoy rebellion, and the entire continent of India had been topics on which no one at Pershing Hall dared utter a word. As a result, he had missed the news of marriages, births, and deaths. He had grown entirely disconnected from the world he once inhabited. And he preferred it that way.
But now…
“So,” he said, “Sir Roderick Stafford is dead.”
“Oh yes. These last two years since.” Julia sunk her voice, “A suicide, I fear.”
Good God! Could it be? He had met the man only once and been treated rather shabbily. Sir Roderick was an inveterate gamester, a gentleman always looking ahead toward the greater prize. And so he had with his only daughter. A second son of an earl—a mere soldier—would never have been good enough for Miss Stafford. Not when she was being courted by a baron, a viscount, and the independently wealthy third son of a marquis.
“Such a scandal, you know,” Julia went on. “Miss Cavendish wrote me that most of Miss Stafford’s friends cut her acquaintance. Though I do not know why she must become a governess. Surely she had relatives who might have taken her in.”
Why the devil had she agreed to come here? Had she learned he was the earl now? Assumed that she might ensnare him as easily as she had before? A rush of soul-crushing bitterness surged through him. Of course she must have done. Julia had told her about the lock of hair. No doubt she believed he was still in love with her. Had assumed that he would be grateful for any crumbs of attention she scattered his way.
It would serve her right if he did marry her.
The mere thought of it stirred something deep inside of him. Something that had lain dormant for years.
Would such a bloodless marriage be so terrible? He was two and thirty. It was past time he settled down to the business of producing an heir. And Sylvia Stafford was surely as good a candidate for the next Countess of Radcliffe as any woman. Did it matter that she had cruelly shunned him once? That any interest she might have in him now was purely mercenary? It should not matter in the least. Marriage was a business transaction, nothing more. And he had wealth enough now to provide her with anything she wanted. Fine gowns, servants, even a carriage and cattle of her own if she wished it. In exchange, she would bear his children. And he would have her near. To look at. To admire. To listen to. Perhaps, in time, he might even persuade her to care for him.
Persuade her? Hell and damnation! How pathetic had he become? He stroked his thumb reflexively over the lock of hair in his hand. It would be better to send them both away. And so he would have done if Miss Stafford had not seen him. But she had seen him. At his very worst, too. Not only scarred and disfigured, but unshaven and in his shirtsleeves.
He recalled how carefully he had once dressed whenever he knew that he was to see her. Polished boots, pressed trousers, and an impeccably cut coat. He had always known he was not handsome, especially when compared to her other beaux, but he had never allowed himself to appear before her in less than immaculate attire.
And now, for her to have seen him like this! He clenched his fist in silent anguish. Granted, it had only been one second. Two at the most. Hardly enough time for her to have made a thorough inventory of all his faults.
But she had not screamed, he reminded himself. And she had not swooned. She had merely stood there, clutching her bonnet in her hands and staring at him.
“I daresay Miss Stafford wants to wash and change from our journey,” Julia said. “And then afterward we shall take tea in the drawing room. Unless you will join us. In which case I shall have it brought to the library. It is darker there at this time of day and perhaps you will not feel so much on display.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “You will join us, won’t you Sebastian? I know Miss Stafford is simply longing to see you.”
Sebastian caught Milsom looking at him with an expression of poorly disguised encouragement. He cursed bitterly. “The library, then,” he growled. “In half an hour.”
Legs trembling beneath her, Sylvia sank down on the edge of the bed as the housekeeper withdrew from the guest chamber, shutting the door behind her. She felt breathless and ever so slightly terrified. The sight of Sebastian Conrad had shaken her to the core. He was so vastly different from in her memory. And it was not just the scars, as terrible as they were. There was something feral about him now. Something primitive and dangerous. Had war done that to him? She supposed so. Both that and excruciating physical pain.
She fully expected Lady Harker to come to her room and tell her that they were departing immediately. Before the door to Sebastian’s apartments had closed, she had had a glimpse of something very like rage transforming his features. Instead, only a short time later, Lady Harker entered Sylvia’s room and cheerfully informed her that Sebastian would be joining them for tea downstairs in the library in just half an hour.
“I should not have surprised him in such a way,” she admitted. “He absolutely detests surprises and he will lose his temper. But he is not truly angry, I promise you. Indeed, he is so very pleased that you have come, Miss Stafford.”
“He did not look very pleased,” Sylvia said frankly.
Lady Harker gave an overbright smile. “Oh, you cannot judge my brother on his appearance. He always looks as if he is about to throttle someone.” She backed toward the door. “Now I must dash if I am to be washed and changed in time for tea. But you needn’t wait for me, Miss Stafford. When you are ready, go on ahead to the library. I shall meet you there directly.”
Before Sylvia could think to ask where the library was located, Lady Harker was gone.
She sighed, forcing herself to rise and begin her own ablutions. Not that there was any way to adequately prepare for seeing Sebastian Conrad again after all of these years. Indeed, there was a small part of her that would rather have heard Lady Harker say that they were returning at once to London. That Sebastian had refused to see her at all.
It was not only that he had looked so alar
ming, both disheveled and in a scandalous state of undress. It was that in spite of his appearance—in spite of the way he had glared at her so ferociously—she had had the unreasonable urge to go to him, to cradle his face in her hands as she had done once before, and to cover him with kisses.
It had struck her then that she must still be in love with him.
It was a lowering thought. She had fought so hard to rid herself of the painful emotion. But perhaps such feelings never truly died? Or perhaps they could not be properly put to rest until she confronted him? Until she finally found out why he had abandoned her so heartlessly?
She had a suspicion, of course. Indeed, she very much feared his disappearance from her life had been her own fault.
“The marriage mart is a sport for gentlemen,” Penelope Mainwaring had told her three years ago. “The more elusive the prey, the more doggedly they pursue it. But if you are one of those ridiculous females who declares herself after only one dance or who allows herself to be ravished in a closed carriage—well!—what sport is there in that? Only look at Miss Caterham’s conduct last season. She told Baron Waitley that she adored him. The silly cow! Why, Waitley could not run far enough or fast enough.”
Penelope had been her best friend since her come out and Sylvia had always endeavored to heed her advice. On this occasion, however, she had doubted. “But surely there must be some gentlemen for whom it is not a sport,” she had argued. “Reticent gentlemen who desire a word or a sign from the lady they admire. Some sort of reassurance that their feelings are returned.”
“Try it and see,” Penelope had warned.
Sylvia’s cheeks burned to think of how spectacularly she had disregarded her former friend’s advice.
But all of that was in the past, she reminded herself as she poured a ewer of water into the washbasin. She was no longer the same foolish girl who had kissed Sebastian Conrad in the Mainwaring’s garden. She was a sober, levelheaded woman of the world. A woman more than capable of dealing with a little unpleasantness.
After washing and drying her hands and face, she changed into a simple, silk and woolen day dress with a narrow, white cambric collar and long, cambric-cuffed sleeves. She brushed the tangles from her thick hair, twisting it back at the nape of her neck and securing it with a handful of pins. The effect was very different from the beribboned frocks and upswept curls she had often worn in London so long ago. She looked like a governess now, she thought.
She was a governess.
Stiffening her spine, she left her room, making her way down the richly carpeted hall and two flights of marble stairs. A nervous housemaid directed her to the first floor library. Sylvia took a deep breath and entered.
Sebastian was there.
Alone.
He stood facing the cold fireplace, his large frame cast half in shadow. At the sound of her approach, he went unnaturally still. And then he turned around.
Sylvia clasped her hands tightly in front of her to stop their trembling.
He had shaved and combed his hair, she saw. And he was now quite properly attired in a black frock coat and trousers with a patterned waistcoat, a clean, white linen shirt, and a perfectly knotted black cravat. Except for his heavy scars and the white cast to his right eye, he looked very like the Sebastian of her memory. Tall, dark, and powerfully made. A bit intimidating, in fact.
“Miss Stafford,” he said, bowing.
His voice sounded different to her ears. It was low-pitched and hoarse. And it was completely devoid of warmth. “Lord Radcliffe.”
He looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said at last. “I am Radcliffe now.” He motioned to a leather-upholstered armchair near the fireplace. It was oversized and unwelcoming like everything else in the dark, cavernous room.
She crossed the short distance to it, her slow, measured steps belying the frantic beating of her heart. It was difficult to see entirely clearly. The heavy curtains were drawn and not a single gas lamp or candle burned to dispel the shadows that clung to the wood-paneled walls and carved, mahogany furnishings. But Sebastian did not seem inclined to open the curtains or to light a lamp. Quite the contrary. He appeared at home in the darkness. Or, at least, reluctant to emerge from it.
Sylvia’s throat tightened with emotion, as she sat down, straightening her skirts and folding her hands primly into her lap. Sebastian took the seat across from her. He was so close that she could smell the faint, masculine scent of his shaving soap. It was spiced bergamot, she realized. The same fragrance he had favored three years before. Her already quivering stomach performed a disconcerting little somersault.
“You are well?” he asked.
“Quite well, thank you,” she said. “And you…?”
His voice was cold as hoarfrost. “As you see.”
Sylvia’s brow creased with sympathy. Oh, Sebastian.
Three years ago, she would have reached out to him. She would have told him that everything was going to be all right. That it did not matter how he looked.
But now…
Now, he was a stranger. She did not know quite how to respond to him and Sebastian made no effort to put her at her ease. He merely continued to look at her in that same fathomless way.
After several moments of very strained silence, she could bear it no longer. She leaned forward in her chair, her blue eyes softly earnest, and said, “I was very sorry to hear about the death of your father and brother.”
A long pause preceded his reply. “Were you?”
“Very much.”
“And yet I am the earl now.”
There was an underlying hint of sarcasm in his tone. She could not imagine why. She had certainly done nothing to deserve it. “A title seems poor compensation for losing two members of your family, my lord.”
“A worthy sentiment.”
“It is how I feel, sir. It is how anyone who cared about their family would feel.”
He fixed her with a cold, faintly derisive stare—a stare made all the more unsettling because of his sightless eye. “Is that a reprimand, Miss Stafford?”
She had the grace to redden. “Forgive me, I did not intend—”
“Your own father is dead now, I understand.”
“He is.”
“A suicide, was it?”
Sylvia’s polite expression slipped for an instant. It was only through sheer force of will that she was able to keep her countenance. “Yes,” she said. “He shot himself two years ago. In a London gaming club, as you must know.”
If she had thought to shame Sebastian with her candor, she was sorely disappointed. He betrayed not a flicker of remorse for having mentioned the scandalous death of her father. “Not the noblest course of action,” he remarked.
“He had just lost everything we had on a hand of cards, my lord. I am sure he felt he had no choice.”
Sebastian continued to stare at her, broodingly. “And now you are a governess.”
“I am, sir.”
“A rather clever governess,” he continued in that same raspy, vaguely sarcastic drawl, “who has somehow managed to secure an invitation to my home.”
Sylvia blinked. Good gracious! Is that what he thought? Her color heightened. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but cleverness had nothing to do with it. Lady Harker sought me out in London. She insisted I accompany her here.”
“You might have refused her.”
“I did refuse her.”
“Yet, here you are.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. She did not like what he was insinuating, but she refused to rise to the bait. Lady Harker had said that Sebastian was not himself. That he was temperamental and moody. Suicidal, in fact. Is that not why Sylvia had come to Hertfordshire? To lift his spirits and help to make him well?
She was no ministering angel, not by any stretch of the imagination. And she ha
d precious little experience handling a gentleman with the temperament of a wounded wild beast. Nevertheless, she resolved to treat him with as much kindness and courtesy as she could muster. She would even humble herself, if need be. Lord knew she had had plenty of practice at it these last two years.
“Would you prefer I go?” she asked. “I will, if that is what you wish.”
Sebastian was silent for another long moment. At last, he shrugged one broad shoulder. “You are my sister’s guest. Stay, by all means.”
Sylvia exhaled a quiet breath. She could not help but feel like a servant who had just been granted a trial period of employment.
“No doubt it will be a welcome change from whatever it is that you do in London.”
“I am a governess,” she reminded him. “I teach reading, writing, drawing and music to two very young ladies.”
He made a dismissive sound, indicating that this was not at all what he had meant. She waited for him to elaborate. “Whatever it is that you do when you are not teaching,” he said gruffly. “Surely you do not spend every hour in the schoolroom.”
“It sometimes feels like it.”
“You have no time of your own?”
“Very little outside of the house.”
“Even scullery maids are given a half-day on Sunday.”
“So they are,” Sylvia said, endeavoring not to be offended by the comparison. “But a governess is not a scullery maid, my lord. Besides which, on Sundays, I attend church with the family.” She hesitated before adding, “My half-day is on Wednesday.”
Sebastian absorbed this information in enigmatic silence.
“I generally do my shopping,” she told him. “Or go for a walk.”
His good eye was a rich, sable brown—almost black in appearance. For an instant, something flickered there. “Alone, I presume.”
Sylvia had the unsettling feeling that he was asking whether or not she was presently walking out with a sweetheart. The answer was an emphatic no, but she was reluctant to own it. Least of all to the man who had rejected her. She chose her next words with care. “It is the lot of every governess to lead a solitary existence.”
The Lost Letter Page 3
