The Lost Letter

by Mimi Matthews

  Sebastian turned away from the window in disgust. Why the devil was he even considering any of this? He was not going to marry Miss Stafford. She was not going to be his countess. Milsom and Julia’s suggestion was a ridiculous fantasy, not worthy of a first thought, let alone a second.

  Besides, he thought bitterly as he sat down at his desk, how the devil did they expect him to convince Miss Stafford to marry him? And even if he could—even if she was as mercenary as he suspected—what in blazes did they think would happen next? That she would miraculously cease to be horrified by his scarred face? That she would willingly allow him to kiss her? To bed her? It was pure madness. If he had an ounce of sense, he would put it directly out of his mind.

  He uncapped the inkwell and ruthlessly dipped the steel nib of his pen into the black fluid within. He had a paper to write for a new philosophical journal in Edinburgh. There were books to read. Notes to organize. More than enough work to keep him busy for the rest of the day and into the evening, too. He had wasted enough time brooding over Sylvia Stafford. He resolved to think on her no more.

  It was a resolution that lasted only as long as the next morning.

  After three days at Pershing Hall with no sign of Sebastian, Sylvia came to a decision. She informed Lady Harker of it that evening at dinner after the liveried footman who had served their first course had withdrawn. The two of them were left alone, seated with relative intimacy at one end of the long, polished mahogany table that dominated Pershing Hall’s cavernous dining room. “I do think it would be best,” she said.

  Lady Harker regarded her with an expression of bewilderment. “But I still don’t understand, Miss Stafford. Is it because of me? Is it something I have done? I know I have been rather managing, but—”

  “It is not that.”

  “Then why must you consider returning to London so soon? Are you not enjoying your stay here?”

  Sylvia sighed. She was enjoying her stay. A little too much, in fact. There were no balls or parties at Pershing Hall, of course, and no visits to the neighboring estates, but every morning she had gone riding with Lady Harker, mounted on the most divine bay gelding she had ever had the privilege to ride. She had breakfasted in bed, spent quiet evenings stitching at an embroidery frame in the drawing room, and even taken a long, hot bath in a full-sized tub.

  It was luxury of the sort she had not experienced in years. She would have had to be made of stone not to appreciate it. But she had not come to Pershing Hall to please herself. She had come to help Sebastian.

  “I am having a wonderful time,” she said. “But I have been here three days and I have only seen Lord Radcliffe once.”

  Lady Harker’s soupspoon paused in the air midway between her bowl and her mouth. “Is that all that’s troubling you?” She laughed. “Three days is nothing, Miss Stafford. Why, it is not uncommon for my brother to avoid me for an entire visit. If I did not seek him out in his apartments, I daresay I would not see him at all.”

  “But you are his sister, ma’am. I am only a houseguest. And a female one at that. I can hardly disturb him in his rooms.”

  “Naturally not. It would be most improper.” Lady Harker swallowed her spoonful of soup. “I shall have to contrive a way to lure him out.”

  Sylvia considered this as she applied herself to her own soup. It was a rich, creamy asparagus that had been cooked to perfection. Another luxury, she thought grimly. It really would not do to become used to such things.

  “Lady Harker,” she attempted again, “if Lord Radcliffe truly does not wish to see me, then perhaps it would be best for me to return to London. I honestly don’t see how I can be of any help if I remain. My arrival seems to have done nothing but aggravate him and, if you are concerned for his state of mind, surely it would not do to upset him further.”

  “He is always aggravated. Indeed, I do not believe he has spoken a civil word to me since his return from India.” Lady Harker laughed once more. The sound was a trifle strained. “My brother Edmund was used to say that Sebastian had spent too many years at war. That he had forgotten how to talk to civilized people and knew only how to order other soldiers about. But I think he must not have been so uncivil to you, Miss Stafford.”

  Sylvia smiled dryly. “He was quite uncivil to me when I arrived here.”

  “Not then.” Lady Harker gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Though I do wish he had behaved better. Indeed, I thought he would. Why else would he have agreed to come downstairs and join us? He never comes downstairs when I am staying at Pershing. I hoped he would have…”

  Sylvia raised her brows in polite enquiry. “Would have what?”

  “I don’t know, really.” Lady Harker frowned. “But I thought he would do something.” She fingered the stem of her wineglass. “What was he like when you knew him before?”

  Sylvia felt a distinct pang of sadness. She ignored it. It was not the first time since her arrival she had been struck with melancholy. She supposed it was only natural given the circumstances. “Oh…He was much the same, if I recall.”

  “The same as he is now?” Lady Harker was aghast. “Surely not!”

  “Well, perhaps he was a bit kinder then,” Sylvia conceded. She did not expound on the subject. Lady Harker was pleasant company and had made her very welcome at Pershing Hall, but she was a talebearer, however well intentioned, and the last thing Sylvia wanted was to have her thoughts and feelings about the Earl of Radcliffe bandied about the fashionable world.

  “I cannot think what you saw in him,” Lady Harker said. “Unless…Was he in uniform when first you met him?”

  Sylvia’s mouth lifted in a bemused half-smile. “I believe he was. Yes.”

  “Ah, that explains it. Lucinda Cavendish says that no lady can resist a man in uniform, try as she might. And if the gentleman is a cavalry officer, so much the worse!”

  Lady Harker finished her soup, laying her spoon down beside her empty bowl. Almost immediately two footmen entered the dining room. They removed the asparagus soup with vol-au-vents of chicken, lamb cutlets with cucumbers, and side dishes of spinach, broccoli, and stewed mushrooms.

  Sylvia helped herself to a little of each, wondering how in the world she was going to resign herself to the simple fare that she dined on at the Dinwiddy’s after having enjoyed so much rich cuisine at Pershing Hall. She very much feared that when she returned to Cheapside she would experience once again the feelings of gloom and discontent which had so plagued her when she had first entered service two years before.

  She was accustomed to it now, of course. But when she had arrived at the Dinwiddy’s, still dressed in black after the death of her father, the period of adjustment had been difficult indeed. The small attic bedroom to which the housekeeper, Mrs. Poole, had consigned her had been quite a shock after her luxurious rooms at Newell Park. So too had been the slice of cold mutton pie which had comprised her dinner that first evening. The Dinwiddy’s were very kind—she was the first to admit it—but that kindness did not extend to offering their governess the choice cuts of meat. And it certainly did not allow for housing her in one of their best bedrooms.

  “Will you work on your embroidery again after dinner, Miss Stafford?” Lady Harker asked.

  Sylvia dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Yes, I think so. Unless you have something else you would like me to do?”

  “No, no, I have promised a letter to Harker. It is really quite tedious. I do so loathe writing letters.” She raised her wine glass to her lips. “You will want to write to your friends as well. When you do, you must give your letters to me and I will have Craddock post them along with mine.”

  “I am obliged to you, but it is not necessary.”

  “Not necessary? Why ever not?”

  “I have no one with whom I correspond anymore.”

  Lady Harker’s eyes filled with sudden sympathy. “Oh, don’t you?”

 
; Sylvia felt again that same twinge of sadness. This time, it was not so easy to dismiss. “It is of little matter,” she said, forcing another smile. “I much prefer to work at the embroidery frame while I can. If I am very industrious, I may even complete the pattern that you gave me before I return to London.”

  This seemed to placate Lady Harker—and to distract her, too. She instantly went off into rhapsodies about the lovely pattern she had found in an issue of the Ladies’ Treasury several months before. By the time she paused to draw breath, she seemed to have forgotten Sylvia’s pathetic situation entirely.

  Sylvia believed herself to have forgotten it, too. It was only later, after several hours spent in the drawing room, stitching in silence while Lady Harker attended to her correspondence, that she began to feel the full effects of her unhappiness. She excused herself to bed and, as she climbed the sweeping staircase, a single beeswax candle lighting her way, she remembered how it had felt to do the same at Newell Park.

  Her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of her silk dinner dress. She was cold and tired. She wanted to go home. Not to Cheapside. Not to her attic room at the Dinwiddy’s. She wanted to go home. She wanted to wake up tomorrow in her familiar bed with its familiar rose silk hangings and discover that the last two years had all been nothing but a terrible dream. And as for Papa…

  She swallowed back a sudden swell of tears.

  Papa was gone forever.

  She had no one but herself now.

  Which was exactly why it would not do to indulge in an episode of hysterics, she told herself firmly. She dashed away a tear that trickled down her cheek, straightened her spine, and proceeded down the dark corridor to her room.

  Too late she heard the creak of a floorboard and felt the subtle shift in the atmosphere that could only be caused by the presence of another person. She raised her candle higher. The flame flickered wildly. “Is someone there?”

  Sebastian stepped out of the darkness.

  Sylvia caught her breath. “Oh,” she whispered. “It’s you.”

  He loomed over her, his black hair disheveled and his cravat untied. He did not look happy to see her. Indeed, he looked as grim and forbidding as ever. But in her present state of mind, he was the dearest sight in the whole world. Her heart gave a mad leap and, for several weighted seconds, it was all she could do not to fling herself into his arms and weep out all of her troubles against one of his broad shoulders.

  “Are you lost, Miss Stafford?” he asked.

  “No, my lord.”

  “You have been standing here for some time.”

  “Have I?” She lowered her candle, mortified to think that he had been observing her. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize—” She flushed. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid.”

  “Were you indeed.”

  “Yes, I…I am on my way to bed,” she confessed. “But Lady Harker has not yet retired. She is in the drawing room if you are looking for her.”

  “I am not looking for my sister.”

  “No?” Sylvia wondered if he was in the habit of prowling the dark corridors of Pershing Hall at night. If so, she felt sorry for any hapless servants who might encounter him. Sebastian could really be quite intimidating when he chose.

  Is that why he ventured out in the evening? To avoid interaction? Or was he merely restless after spending so much time confined to his apartments?

  He did not look restless. In his rumpled black trousers and half-buttoned waistcoat, he looked exhausted. As if he were a man who had not slept for three days straight.

  She searched his face. “You are not unwell, I hope?”

  Sebastian stared down at her, his heavy scars appearing less severe in the soft glow from her candle. It occurred to her quite suddenly that she had yet to see him in full light. “Unwell,” he repeated flatly.

  His deep, emotionless voice sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine. She was on dangerous ground, she knew. “I meant…You are not in any pain, are you?”

  He frowned. “I think not, Miss Stafford. Should I be?”

  Sylvia looked up at him helplessly. What in heaven could she say? That Lady Harker had confided in her about his unhappy state upon returning from India? That she knew all about the pistol that he kept near his bedside? This was not the time or place, clearly, but if she was expected to do him any good during her brief stay at Pershing, at some point she would have to broach the subject of his injuries. One could not always speak in euphemisms and riddles, after all.

  “No, of course not. I did not mean—” She broke off. “Forgive me. It is only that I have not seen you since the day of my arrival and I thought—”

  His frown deepened. “You are my sister’s guest, Miss Stafford, not mine.”

  “Yes, I know, but you might have at least joined us for dinner on occasion.”

  “To what purpose?”

  She made a soft sound of exasperation. “Why, to eat, naturally. And to…to be around other people.”

  “Such as yourself.”

  She felt her color rising, but did not lower her gaze from his. “Such as myself.”

  “I see.” He looked at her for a moment as if she were a frustrating puzzle that he could not solve. “My sister must be a poor hostess if you are pining for my company after only three days.”

  Sylvia stiffened at his choice of words. “Hardly pining, my lord.”

  Her displeasure only seemed to amuse him. A faintly ironic smile edged the scarred side of his mouth. “Tell me, Miss Stafford, how do you like Pershing Hall?”

  “Very well, thank you,” she replied, still very much on her dignity.

  “I trust that my sister has made you comfortable here.”

  “Quite comfortable, my lord.”

  “And…everything is to your satisfaction?”

  There was no mistaking the hesitation in his question. Sylvia’s blue eyes briefly filled with confusion. Did it truly matter to him what she of all people thought of his ancestral home? Once she would have readily believed that it did. But she was no longer that same foolish girl. Sentiment had long since been replaced with hard common sense.

  And common sense told her that Sebastian was merely seeking some sort of reassurance. Something to convince him that he could, indeed, find contentment at Pershing Hall. That there was no need to resort to drastic measures to alleviate his unhappiness.

  “How could it not be?” she asked. “It is beautiful here, my lord. If it were my home, I would never wish to leave it.”

  Sebastian appeared rather startled for an instant. And then his expression hardened. “It is late, Miss Stafford,” he said abruptly. “I have importuned you long enough.”

  “Oh, but you haven’t—”

  Before she could finish, he was gone, disappearing back into the darkness of the corridor without so much as a bow or a by your leave. Sylvia stared after him, utterly bewildered. What in the world could she possibly have said to offend him?

  Sebastian was not proud of himself for spying on Miss Stafford. It was a weakness. And he despised weakness, especially in himself. Even so, he could not resist the chance to look at her. Especially while remaining unseen himself. So, every morning on the way to his desk in his private sitting room, he stopped at the window overlooking the path where she had first ridden Ares so many days before. He leaned against the window frame, half-obscured by the heavy curtains, and he watched her.

  Would that he could have left it at that.

  Instead, he had been so monumentally stupid as to leave his apartments two nights before. It was then that he had seen Miss Stafford coming up the stairs. He had stepped back into the shadows, intending only to look at her, but she had stopped in the center of the hall, visibly upset. He had gone to her then, damned fool that he was, only to have his every suspicion about her confirmed.

  “If it were my home,” she
had said, “I would never wish to leave it.”

  From anyone else, he would have taken it as a compliment of sorts, but from Miss Stafford it was something else entirely. It was, he believed, an invitation for him to make Pershing Hall her home. To make her the next Countess of Radcliffe.

  Did she think he would so easily forget how cruelly she had discarded him when he was a mere second son? That he would simply succumb to her wiles? That he had no pride left at all?

  And perhaps she was right, Sebastian thought grimly. For if he had any pride to speak of, he would not be gazing out the sitting room window now, waiting for Miss Stafford to appear on her morning ride.

  It was stupid really. Nothing ever changed from day to day. She was always in the same blue riding habit, her figure set off to magnificent effect. She was always grave and quiet. As if she knew he watched her and was purposely denying him the pleasure of seeing her smile.

  He dropped his gaze briefly to the lock of hair in his hand. The ribbon was faded and frayed along the edges, but the bound chestnut tresses still gleamed. He ran his thumb over them, almost meditatively, as he resumed his brooding vigil at the window.

  Right on schedule, his sister’s gray mare appeared in the distance. Beside her was Ares, the morning sun turning his bay coat to a shining copper.

  But that was not all.

  There was another horse with them this morning.

  Sebastian stiffened. He had not been at Pershing Hall much over the last fifteen years, but one did not have to be a permanent resident of Hertfordshire to recognize Thomas Rotherham. He was the son of the Viscount Rotherham, the second largest landowner in the district. He was also reckoned a veritable Adonis around these parts. Tall, bronzed, and golden-haired. The village girls in Apsley Heath had been swooning over him for as long as Sebastian could remember.