by Jo Goodman
Although he had arrived at the Pembroke cottage without servants, he had not neglected to bring essays and journals to read. He had recently reacquainted himself with an investigation published a few years earlier by Berzelius, The Theory of Chemical Proportions and the Chemical Action of Electricity. Fascinating, really. The applications of such knowledge were extraordinary. Here was an understanding of molecules that the alchemists of the Dark Ages had hoped to conquer and never had. Not that Berzelius, or Ferrin for that matter, was interested in the transmutation of base metals into gold, but the introduction of electricity to molecules might permit one to understand the whole as well as the sum of its parts.
Ferrin turned on his back again and cradled his head in his hands. He considered some of the finer points of Berzelius’s theory and wondered if the man might be engaged in correspondence regarding his work. Ferrin had been contemplating mapping the molecular weights of chemical compounds for some time. The Swedish chemist might be interested in his work thus far. Excited by this prospect, and gratified to be temporarily relieved of all uncharitable thoughts pertaining to Mrs. Caldwell, Ferrin rose from the bed and shrugged into his robe and leather slippers.
Berzelius’s account, he remembered of a sudden, was on the table in the drawing room. He’d been warmly situated in one of the wing chairs reading it when Mrs. Caldwell had arrived. It was yet another reason to be out of sorts with her.
Ferrin opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He had not yet removed his fingers from the handle when Mrs. Caldwell joined him. The candlestick she was carrying almost flew from her hand when she realized she was not alone. Hot wax fell on the ball of her thumb. She winced but did not make a sound.
Leaning one shoulder against the door frame, looking for all the world as if finding her here was not in any way remarkable, Ferrin showed her he intended to stay his ground.
“You are in want of an explanation, I collect,” Cybelline said.
“Did I say so?” Ferrin observed that she was not dressed to leave the cottage, though he did not acquit her of attempting to go below stairs to retrieve her clothes. He judged the nightgown she was wearing to be one belonging to Mrs. Lowell, as it barely reached the midway point of her calves and seemed to be half again as wide as she was. The shawl thrown around her shoulders was one he recognized that Mrs. Lowell had been wearing earlier in the day.
“I heard you stirring,” she told him. Her free hand closed around the knot in the shawl just above her breasts. The candle cast her features in pale golden light. “I wanted to speak to you when you returned, but I fell asleep. I was going to wait until morning, but when I realized you were up, I thought I—” One of Ferrin’s dark eyebrows lifted, and her throat tightened. With some difficulty, she pressed on. “I thought I would ask if we might talk.”
“Talk, Mrs. Caldwell?”
“You must know that I have questions.”
“Must I?”
“Well, yes, Mr. Wellsley. How can you doubt it?”
Although he did not flinch, Ferrin felt as if he’d taken a blow to his midsection. He had very much mistaken the matter. Seeing her so unexpectedly caused his thoughts to veer off course. He’d allowed himself to believe she meant to confide that she knew very well he was Kit Hollings, Earl of Ferrin. It would be the same as confessing that she was Boudicca.
That was not the way of it, though. She was apparently determined to go on as she had and not surrender so much as an inch to him.
Ferrin straightened and indicated his room by raising one hand in that direction. “Shall we?”
Cybelline pressed her lips together, revealing her uncertainty.
“Or would you prefer your room?” he asked. When she made no immediate response, he explained, “We cannot speak here. We will wake the Lowells, who are sleeping below.” At precisely that moment, an eardrum-crushing snore vibrated the very air around them. “We would not want to disturb that slumber. It seems he has found his rhythm.”
Still doubtful, but amused in spite of it, Cybelline felt the corners of her mouth lift ever so slightly. “Very well.”
Since she had not indicated a preference, Ferrin opened the door to his room. He stepped aside to allow her to precede him. She went directly to the fireplace while he remained near the door. He observed her shivering but could manage no sympathy. She might have comfortably remained deep under the covers in her own bedchamber, yet she had chosen this course. He watched her inch her bare toes as close to the fire as she dared.
“Have a care,” he said. “You will singe that shift. I cannot imagine that Mrs. Lowell has many like it.”
Nodding somewhat jerkily, Cybelline set her candlestick on the mantel and backed away. She turned toward Ferrin and hugged herself for warmth. The action was not sufficient to keep her teeth from chattering.
“Wait here,” Ferrin said abruptly. Without offering any explanation, he quit the room.
Cybelline stared after him, wondering at his game now. She had been able to discover precious little from Mrs. Lowell after Ferrin departed for the Sharpe house. Nothing the housekeeper told her pointed to any comprehension that Mr. Wellsley was not precisely as he presented himself. Cybelline learned a great deal about the Viscountess Bellingham’s grandson, and nothing at all about the Earl of Ferrin.
Upon his return, Ferrin saw that she was exactly as he’d left her. He set the valise on a table just inside the door and opened it. Rummaging through the articles that Mrs. Henley had packed, he found a pair of slippers. “These will help,” he said, holding them out to her.
Cybelline hurried closer and accepted them gratefully. “I didn’t know you’d brought me anything. It was good of you to think of it. Mrs. Lowell seemed to believe you would, but I was—” She stopped, consciously suppressing the unkind thought.
“Uncertain?” Ferrin said, finishing the sentence she would not. “Have I given you some reason to judge that I am uncaring of your welfare?”
“No. Oh, no. Not in any measure.” She flushed lightly as he continued to regard her, clearly wanting more in the way of justification. “It is only that my own husband, a man accounted to be among the most solicitous of gentleman, would not have thought to ask for my belongings.”
Ferrin kept his expression carefully neutral. “Then you are married,” he said. “I was given to understand from Mrs. Lowell that you are a widow.”
All color left Cybelline’s face. “I am a widow,” she said quietly. “Sometimes I—”
This time Ferrin did not attempt to finish her sentence. He had only a glimpse of her pain before her expression was shuttered, yet it was enough to know that it was deep and abiding. She made herself vulnerable by permitting him to see, if only for a moment, her open wound. His gaze dropped to the slippers she was still clutching to her chest. “Will you not put those on?” he asked. “You are trembling with cold.”
Cybelline followed the path of his eyes. Her knuckles were white against the dark red leather slippers. Nodding faintly, she eased her fists open and set the slippers on the floor. She did not resist the hand he placed under her elbow to steady her as she stepped into them. “Thank you,” she said, her voice not much above a whisper.
Ferrin’s hand dropped away. He gestured toward the twin chairs in front of the fire. “Won’t you sit? There is no robe in the valise, but there is a rug in the chest at the foot of the bed that will serve.”
Cybelline did as he encouraged her. She drew her feet up and smoothed Mrs. Lowell’s shift over her knees, then permitted Ferrin to tuck a heavy blanket around her.
“It would be wrong of me,” Ferrin said, “not to inform you that your instincts were correct.”
Watching him take the wing chair opposite her, Cybelline frowned ever so slightly.
Ferrin continued. “Left to my own devices, I would not have asked your housekeeper for any articles of clothing or personal items. She is the one who thought of it. I merely had sense enough to know it was a good idea.”
Cybell
ine’s frown faded. “There is something to be said for having sense enough.”
He smiled. “Yes. I am gratified, however, that Mrs. Lowell credited me with more foresight. I was not certain she could be persuaded that I have any sound judgment. It seems she has occasionally been privy to certain confidences and is of the opinion that I have not yet amounted to much.”
“Scapegrace is the word she used, I believe.”
“So you have heard it, too.” He sighed. “Do you think it is at all affectionately meant, or am I being upbraided?”
Had they been speaking of the Earl of Ferrin, Cybelline knew the answer. But Mr. Wellsley? She suspected that if such a man truly existed, then “scapegrace” was a grandmother’s term of endearment. “It is most likely the former, though I strongly advise that you make an apology for all slights, real or imagined. Mrs. Lowell will approve and your grandmother will be heartened.”
Ferrin saw that she was more at her ease now. A bit of color had returned to her cheeks and the shivering had subsided. “I believe you have some questions, Mrs. Caldwell?”
She nodded. “I am anxious to learn how everyone fares at the Sharpe house.”
“Your housekeeper indicated they were all well.”
“All?”
“Yes, I believe that her meaning was to include everyone in the household. You are perhaps inquiring after someone in particular?” He waited to see if she would take the opportunity presented to tell him about her daughter.
Cybelline merely said, “It is good to know there have been no mishaps. No one left the house in search of me, then.”
“Mr. Henley reported that it was a narrow thing. The servant you mentioned before…your driver, I believe—”
“Mr. Kins.”
“Yes. Mr. Kins. Apparently it was difficult to persuade him to remain at the house when you did not return.”
“He has been in my employ for many years.”
“You make it sound nothing short of a lifetime. You cannot be so old.”
“I am four and twenty. Mr. Kins has been with me since before my parents died. Sherry retained his services, and when I married, he joined my staff.”
“Sherry?” Ferrin asked without indicating any alarm. In truth, the hairs at the back of his neck were standing at attention. “Are you speaking of the Viscount Sheridan?”
“Yes. Sherry is my brother. Do you know him?”
Ferrin tried to remember if Lady Rivendale had spoken of Sherry. He recalled some mention of a brother in the country, but nothing else. He hadn’t thought to make further inquiries. There was a rumor that had circulated the ton perhaps two years back that Sheridan was connected in some fashion to a murder. Ferrin rarely paid attention to the gossipmongers, but even he could not avoid hearing the talk. The details of it, though, were not fixed in his mind. He had gone out of his way not to learn them.
“I have had the pleasure of being introduced to him,” Ferrin said, speaking for Wellsley. That was true enough. Ferrin had been the one to make the introductions. Sheridan was no more than an acquaintance, but they had been paired at cards one evening years ago and struck an easy discourse. It was rare that they saw each other following that occasion. They belonged to different clubs, had no friends in common, and pursued different interests, yet that evening at the card table had stayed in Ferrin’s mind. He’d thought many times about Sheridan’s well-ordered life, his partiality for manner and method, his disposition for routine. Ferrin found much to admire in the viscount’s ease with himself. His public face and his private demeanor did not seem at all incongruous.
This last was what made the rumor about Sheridan so unsettling and kept it in circulation long past the usual nine days’ wonder.
“He no longer frequents town, I believe,” Ferrin said. “Do I recall correctly that he married?”
“Yes. I can scarcely credit that it has been two years. He is often in the country, which he vastly prefers to London.”
It was another point he had in common with the viscount, Ferrin thought, though he had little enough opportunity to act on it. He could now recollect Lady Rivendale mentioning an estate at Granville. He wished he would have connected the pieces then, although he could not say how things might have been changed for it. What he knew with certainty was that if Boudicca had identified herself as the sister of Viscount Sheridan, he would have joined Restell in the wine cellar.
“The country has much to recommend it,” Ferrin said politely. He managed to suggest that his thoughts were exactly the opposite of his words.
“You do not believe that,” she said. “Mrs. Lowell says you are in the thick of society.”
“That would be my grandmother’s opinion. Mrs. Lowell cannot know the truth of it herself. Tell me, Mrs. Caldwell, are you acquainted with my grandmother?”
“I have never met her, but I believe she is a friend to Lady Rivendale.”
“Yes, that is my understanding also. I have heard her speak of the countess. She is the owner of the Sharpe house, isn’t that so?”
Cybelline nodded. It was her sense that this conversation had more traps than a poacher with six mouths to feed might set in the woods, yet she could not recognize each one of them. It was still unclear to her whether he knew her to be Boudicca and was merely enjoying playing cat to her mouse, or whether he was still in want of confirmation. “Lady Rivendale is my aunt,” she said. “It is a relationship defined by great affection, not blood. She was my mother’s best friend and is godmother to my brother. I have been fortunate that she assumed responsibility for me as well.”
Ferrin thought he could have been forgiven if he had howled with derisive laughter. There was much that was lacking in Lady Rivendale’s manner of assuming responsibility. Mrs. Caldwell might be a woman full grown but clearly she required a keeper more vigilant than the countess. He offered none of what he was thinking and stifled his scornful snort by clearing his throat.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, indicating the base of his throat.
“I hope you are not sickening for something.”
He thought it was good of her to evince so much in the way of concern when she probably wished he would contract the plague. “It is nothing.”
“You were gone a long time.”
“You were outside far longer with much less protection, and I did not fall in the brook. I am fine.” He noted that if she was disappointed, she hid it well. “So Lady Rivendale has given you the Sharpe house.”
“She has let me have the use of it.” Cybelline wanted no further questions regarding the house. They would inevitably lead to why she left London. Instead, she baldly put that question to Ferrin. “I am curious as to why you have come to Penwyckham, Mr. Wellsley, though I will not be offended if you tell me I have overstepped myself.”
“It is no secret,” he said, “at least in light of all the other things that are known about me. I am surprised Mrs. Lowell did not inform you.”
“She didn’t know.” It was an admission that she had inquired, but Cybelline did not apologize for it.
“My grandmother and I are at loggerheads. We had words. I am banished, you see, and fallen so far from her good graces that I have landed in Penwyckham.”
“It is not one of the circles of hell, you know.”
“I didn’t know, but thank you. It is a relief to learn.”
Cybelline did not wish to encourage him, but she could not help herself: She smiled. “There must have been other places you could have stayed.”
“London seemed very small of a sudden,” he told her. “Grandmother has conceived the notion that I must be leg-shackled, and she has chosen the young lady. It seemed infinitely more prudent to leave town than try to avoid my grandmother and the young lady.”
Ferrin had no reservations about sharing Wellsley’s plight. His grandmother did indeed think he was in Suffolk for the nonce, as he had informed her it was his intention to seek sanctuary in the country and consider his future. The Viscountess Bellingham had not b
een entirely pleased with the notion of him running off. She was anxious to have the matter of his engagement settled but allowed that distance from his social obligations might improve his perspective on marriage, or Miss Clementina Fordham, or both. Wellsley believed he was up to the task of such subterfuge as was necessary to send Ferrin to Penwyckham while he worked up the courage to make himself known to the young woman he loved.
Of course Wellsley was also still possessed of the corkbrained conviction that his problems might be solved by Ferrin proposing marriage to Boudicca. Even when he’d sobered, Wellsley could not be persuaded otherwise. There was nothing for it but that Ferrin drink to excess.
“You are hiding,” Cybelline said. His story amused her. Ferrin had given a great deal of thought to his portrayal of Mr. Wellsley. It made her curious about the other man. She decided he must indeed exist, else it meant that Mr. and Mrs. Lowell were engaged in the ruse. It was not outside the realm of possibility, she supposed, but it was also a simple matter to uncover. Lady Rivendale could be induced to inquire of her friend Lady Bellingham and all would be answered. “I did not think gentlemen were so afraid of their grandmothers that they must hide themselves away.”
“We are. Our mothers also. Our sisters. All females unnerve us.”
“I hadn’t realized.”
“You might ask your brother.”
“Sherry is not afraid of anyone.” The corners of her mouth lifted, and she added, “Save for Aunt Georgia, his wife, his daughter, and me.”
Ferrin chuckled. “My point precisely.”
“Although it might be more accurate that he is afraid for us.”
“I understand that also.”
“What of your mother? And sisters?”
Ferrin came within a hairsbreadth of answering for himself, not Wellsley. She was clever, was Mrs. Caldwell. Like a siren she had lulled, then lured him dangerously close to rocky shores. “My mother died in childbirth. I have no sisters. No brothers, either. Grandmother took me in after my father accepted a commission and departed for India. He remarried that same year and has never returned.”
